The Scarletti Inheritance

by Ludlum, Robert

  ‘That’s it! A skilled machine capable of moving fast, hitting hard, and regrouping swiftly and secretly.’

  As Kroeger spoke, it was Ludendorff who now turned his phrases into the German language for the benefit of Hitler and Goebbels.

  But Goebbels was bothered. He spoke quietly, as if this Kroeger might somehow catch the shaded meaning of his observations. Goebbels was still suspicious. This huge, strange American was too glib, too casual in spite of his fervor. In spite of the power of his money. Adolf Hitler nodded his head in agreement.

  Hess spoke. ‘Quite rightly, Heinrich, Herr Goebbels is concerned. These men in Zurich, their demands are so… nebulous.’

  ‘Not to them they’re not. They’re very specific. These men are businessmen—And besides, they’re sympathetic.’

  ‘Kroeger is correct.’ Ludendorff looked at Ulster Scarlett, knowing that Hess would use the German tongue for the others. He was thinking as he spoke, not wishing Kroeger to have any time to formulate answers or comments. This Kroeger, although he did not speak their language fluently, understood far more than he let on, Ludendorff believed. ‘We have gone so far as to sign agreements, have we not?… Pacts, if you like, that with the emergence of our power on the political scene in Germany, our friends in Zurich will be given… certain priorities… Economic priorities—We are committed, are we not.’ There was no hint of a question in Ludendorff’s last remark.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What happens, Herr Kroeger, if we do not honor those commitments?’

  Ulster Scarlett paused, returning Ludendorff’s now questioning gaze. They’d yell like sons of bitches and try to ruin us.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Any means they could, Ludendorff. And their means are considerable.’

  ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘Only if they succeeded—Thornton’s not the only one.

  They’re all thieves. The difference is that the rest of them are smart. They know we’re right. We’ll win! Everyone likes to do business with the winner! They know what they’re doing. They want to work with us!’

  ‘I believe you’re convinced.’

  ‘You’re damn right I am. Between us we’ll run things our way. The right way! The way we want to. We’ll get rid of the garbage! The Jews, the Reds, the stinking little bourgeois bootlickers!’

  Ludendorff watched the confident American closely. He was right, Kroeger was stupid. His description of the lesser breeds was emotional, not based upon the sound principles of racial integrity. Hitler and Goebbels had similar blind spots but theirs was a pyramid logic in spite of themselves—they knew because they saw; they had studied as had Rosenberg and himself. This Kroeger had a child’s mentality. He was actually a bigot.

  ‘There is much in what you say. Everyone who thinks will support his own kind… Do business with his own kind.’ Ludendorff would watch Heinrich Kroeger’s actions carefully. Such a high-strung man could do great damage. He was a fever-ridden clown.

  But then, their court had need of such a jester. And his money.

  As usual, Hitler was right. They dare not lose him now.

  ‘I’m going to Madrid in the morning. I’ve already sent out the orders concerning Thornton. The whole business shouldn’t take any longer than two or three weeks, and then I’ll be in Zurich.’

  Hess told Hitler and Goebbels what Kroeger had said. Der Führer barked out a sharp question.

  ‘Where can you be reached in Zurich?’ interpreted Ludendorff. ‘Your schedule, if it proceeds as it has, will require communication with you.’

  Heinrich Kroeger paused before giving his answer. He knew the question would be asked again. It was always asked whenever he went to Zurich. Yet he was always evasive. He realized that part of his mystique, his charisma within the party, was due to his obscuring the specific individuals or firms with which he did business. In the past he had left a single phone number or a post office box, or perhaps even the name of one of the fourteen men in Zurich with instructions to ask him for a code name.

  Never direct and open.

  They did not understand that identities, addresses, phone numbers were unimportant. Only the ability to deliver was essential.

  Zurich understood.

  These Goliaths of the world’s great fortunes understood. The international financiers with their tangled labyrinths of manipulations understood perfectly.

  He had delivered.

  Their agreements with Germany’s emerging new order insured markets and controls beyond belief.

  And none cared who he was or where he came from.

  But now, at this moment, Ulster Stewart Scarlett realized that these titans of the new order needed to be reminded of Heinrich Kroeger’s importance.

  He would tell them the truth.

  He would say the name of the one man in Germany sought by all who drove for power. The one man who refused to talk, refused to be involved, refused to meet with any faction.

  The only man in Germany who lived behind a wall of total secrecy. Complete political isolation.

  The most feared and revered man in all Europe.

  ‘I’ll be with Krupp. Essen will know where to reach us.’

  The Scarletti Inheritance

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Elizabeth Scarlatti sat up in her bed. A card table had been placed at her side, and papers were strewn all over the immediate vicinity—the bed, the table, the entire walking area of the room. Some were in neat piles, others scattered. Some were clipped together and labeled by index cards; others discarded, ready for the trash basket.

  It was four o’clock in the afternoon and she had left her room only once. That was to let in Janet and Matthew. She noted that they looked terrible; exhausted, ill, perhaps. She knew what had happened. The pressure had become too much for the government man. He had to break out, get relief. Now that he had, he would be better prepared for her proposal.

  Elizabeth gave a final look at the pages she held in her hand.

  So this was it! The picture was now clear, the background filled in.

  She had said that the men of Zurich might have created an extraordinary strategy. She knew now that they had.

  Had it not been so grotesquely evil she might have agreed with her son. She might have been proud of his part in it. Under the circumstances, she could only be terrified.

  She wondered if Matthew Canfield would understand. No matter. It was now time for Zurich.

  She got up from the bed, taking the pages with her, and went to the door.

  Janet was at the desk writing letters. Canfield sat in a chair nervously reading a newspaper. Both were startled when Elizabeth walked into the room.

  ‘Do you have any knowledge of the Versailles treaty?’ she asked him. The restrictions, the reparations payments?’

  ‘As much as the average guy, I guess.’

  ‘Are you aware of the Dawes Plan? That wholly imperfect document?’

  ‘I thought it made the reparations livable with.’

  ‘Only temporarily. It was grasped at by the politicians who needed temporary solutions. Economically it’s a disaster. Nowhere does it give a final figure. If, at any time, a final figure is given, German industry—who pays the bill—might collapse.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘Bear with me a minute. I want you to understand… Do you realize who executes the Versailles treaty? Do you know whose voice is strongest in the decisions under the Dawes Plan? Who ultimately controls the internal economics of Germany?’

  Canfield put the newspaper down on the floor. ‘Yes. Some committee.’

  The Allied Controls Commission.’

  ‘What are you driving at?’ Canfield got out of his chair.

  ‘Just what you’re beginning to suspect. Three of the Zurich contingent are members of the Allied Controls Commission. The Versailles treaty is being executed by these men. Working together, the men of Zurich can literally manipulate the German economy. Leading industrialists fr
om the major powers to the north, the west, and the south-west. Completed by the most powerful financiers within Germany itself. A wolf pack. They’ll make sure that the forces at work in Germany remain on a collision course. When the explosion takes place—as surely it must—they’ll be there to pick up the pieces. To complete this… master plan, they need only a political base of operation. Believe me when I tell you they’ve found it. With Adolf Hitler and his Nazis—With my son, Ulster Stewart Scarlett.’

  ‘My God!’ Canfield spoke quietly, staring at Elizabeth. He had not fully understood the details of her recital, but he recognized the implications.

  ‘It’s time for Switzerland, Mr. Canfield.’

  He would ask his questions on the way.

  The Scarletti Inheritance

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The cablegrams were all in English and except for the names and addresses of the designees, the words were identical. Each was sent to the company or corporation in which the person specified held the highest position. Time zones were respected, each cable was to arrive at its destination at twelve noon, on Monday, and each was to be hand-delivered to the individual addressee upon a signed receipt of acceptance.

  Elizabeth Scarlatti wanted those illustrious corporations identified in writing. She wanted those receiving her cables to know that this was, above all, business.

  Each cable read as follows:

  THROUGH THE LATE MARQUIS DE BERTHOLDE THE SCARLATTI INDUSTRIES THROUGH THE UNDERSIGNED ALONE HAVE BEEN INFORMED OF YOUR CONSOLIDATION STOP ASTHE SINGLE SPOKESMAN FOR SCARLATTI THE UNDERSIGNED BELIEVES THERE EXIST AREAS OF MUTUAL INTEREST STOP THE ASSETS OF SCARLATTI COULD BE AT YOUR DISPOSAL UNDER PROPER CIRCUMSTANCES STOP THE UNDERSIGNED WILL ARRIVE IN ZURICH TWO WEEKS HENCE ON THE EVENING OF NOVEMBER 3 AT THE HOUR OF NINE O’CLOCK STOP THE CONFERENCE WILL TAKE PLACE AT PALKEHAUS

  ELIZABETH WYCKHAM SCARLATTI

  There were thirteen reactions, all separate, in many different languages, but each with a single ingredient common to all.

  Fear.

  There was a fourteenth reaction, and it took place in the suite of rooms reserved for Heinrich Kroeger at Madrid’s Hotel Emperador. The reaction was fury.

  ‘I won’t have it! It can’t take place! They’re all dead! Dead! Dead! Dead! She was warned! They’re dead! Every God damned one of them! Dead. My orders go out tonight! Now!’

  Charles Pennington, sent by Ludendorff to act as Kroeger’s bodyguard, stood across the room looking out the balcony at the reddish, fan-shaped rays of the Spanish sun.

  ‘Glorious! Simply glorious!… Don’t be an ass.’ He didn’t like to look at Heinrich Kroeger. In repose that tissued, patched face was bad enough. Angered, it was repulsive. It was now crimson with rage.

  ‘Don’t you tell me…’

  ‘Oh, stop it!’ Pennington saw that Kroeger continued to crush in his fist the telegram from Howard Thornton, which spelled out the Scarlatti conference in Zurich. ‘What bloody difference does it make to you? To any of us?’ Pennington had opened the envelope and read the message because, as he told Kroeger, he had no idea when Kroeger would return from his meeting with the papal attache. It might have been urgent. What he did not tell Kroeger was that Ludendorff had instructed him to screen all letters, phone calls—whatever—received by this animal. It was a pleasure.

  ‘We don’t want anyone else involved. We can’t have anyone else! We can’t! Zurich will panic! They’ll run out on us!’

  ‘They’ve all got the cables. If Zurich’s going to run, you won’t stop them now. Besides, this Scarlatti’s the cat’s whiskers if it’s the same one I’m thinking of. She has millions… Damned fortunate for us she wants to come in. I didn’t think much of Bertholde—probably less than you did, smelly French Jew—but if he pulled this off, I doff my hat. Anyway, I repeat, ‘What’s it to you?’

  Heinrich Kroeger glared at the stylish, effeminate Englishman who pulled at his cuffs, making sure they fell just below his jacket sleeve. The red and black cuff links were surrounded by the soft linen of his light blue shirt. Kroeger knew this appearance was deceptive. Like the social Boothroyd, Pennington was a killer who took emotional sustenance from his work. He also was held in high esteem by Hitler, even more so by Joseph Goebbels. Nevertheless, Kroeger had made up his mind. He could not risk it!

  This meeting won’t take place! She’ll be killed. I’ll have her killed’

  ‘Then I’ll have to remind you that such a decision must be multilateral. You cannot make it yourself… And I don’t think you’ll find anyone else consenting.’

  ‘You’re not here to tell me what to do!’

  ‘Oh, but I am… My instructions come from Ludendorff.

  And, of course, he knows about your message from Thornton. I wired him several hours ago.’ Pennington casually looked at his wristwatch. ‘I’m going out for dinner—-Frankly, I’d prefer eating alone but if you insist upon joining me, I’ll tolerate your company.’

  ‘You little prick! I could break your God damn neck!’

  Pennington bristled. He knew that Kroeger was unarmed, his revolver lay on the bureau in his bedroom, and the temptation was there. He could kill him, use the telegram as proof, and say that Kroeger had disobeyed. But then there were the Spanish authorities and a hasty retreat. And Kroeger did have a job to do. Strange that it involved Howard Thornton so completely.

  That’s possible, of course. But then we could, no doubt, do each other in any number of ways, couldn’t we?’ Pennington withdrew a thin pistol from his chest holster. ‘For instance, I might fire a single bullet directly into your mouth right now… But I wouldn’t do it in spite of your provocation because the order is larger than either of us. I’d have to answer for my action—no doubt be executed for it. You’ll be shot if you take matters into your own hands.’

  ‘You don’t know this Scarlatti, Pennington. I do!’

  How could she have known about Bertholde? What could she have learned from him?

  ‘Of course, you’re old friends!’ The Englishman put away his pistol and laughed.

  How! How? She wouldn’t dare challenge him! The only thing she valued was the Scarlatti name, its heritage, its future. She knew beyond doubt that he would stamp it out! How! Why?

  ‘That woman can’t be trusted! She can’t be trusted!’

  Charles Pennington pulled down his blazer so the shoulders fell correctly, the jacket cloth concealing the slight bulge of his holster. He walked to the door in calm anticipation of chorizo. ‘Really, Heinrich?… Can any of us?’

  The Englishman closed the door leaving only a faint aroma of Yardley’s.

  Heinrich Kroeger uncrumpled the telegram in his palm.

  Thornton was panic-stricken. Each of the remaining thirteen in Zurich had received identical cablegrams from Elizabeth Scarlatti. But none save Thornton knew who he was.

  Kroeger had to move quickly. Pennington hadn’t lied. He would be shot if he ordered Elizabeth Scarlatti’s death. That did not, however, preclude such an order after Zurich. Indeed, after Zurich it would be mandatory.

  But first the Thornton land. He had instructed Thornton for his own safety to let it go. The frightened Thornton had not argued, and the idiot attache was playing right into his hands. For the glory of Jesus and another blow against atheistic communism.

  The money and title would be transferred within a week. Thornton was sending his attorney from San Francisco to conclude the negotiations by signature.

  As soon as the land was his, Heinrich Kroeger would issue a warrant for death that no one could deny.

  And when that misfit life was snuffed out, Heinrich Kroeger was free. He would be a true light of the new order. None would know that Ulster Scarlett existed.

  Except one.

  He would confront her at Zurich.

  He would kill her at Zurich.

  The Scarletti Inheritance

  Chapter Forty

  The embassy limousine climbed the small hill to the front of the Georgian house in
Fairfax, Virginia. It was the elegant residence of Erich Rheinhart, attache of the Weimar Republic, nephew of the sole imperial general who had thrown his support to the German radical movement given the name of Nazi, by philosophy, a full-fledged Nazi himself.

  The well-tailored man with the waxed moustache got out of the back seat and stepped onto the driveway. He looked up at the ornate facade.

  ‘A lovely home.’

  ‘I’m pleased, Poole,’ said Rheinhart, smiling at the man from Bertholde et Fils.

  The two men walked into the house and Erich Rheinhart led his guest to a book-lined study off the living room. He indicated a chair for Poole and went to a cabinet, taking out two glasses and a bottle of whiskey.

  ‘To business. You come three thousand miles at a loathsome time of the year for ocean travel. You tell me I am the object of your visit. I’m flattered, of course, but what can…’

  ‘Who ordered Bertholde’s death?’ Poole said harshly.

  Erich Rheinhart was astonished. He hunched his padded shoulders, placed his glass on the small table, and extended his hands, palms up. He spoke slowly, in consternation.

  ‘My dear man, why do you think it concerns me? I mean—in all candor—you are either deluded as to my influence or you need a long rest.’

  ‘Labishe wouldn’t have killed him without having been ordered to do it. Some one of enormous authority had to issue that order.’

  ‘Well, to begin with I have no such authority, and secondly I would have no reason. I was fond of that Frenchman.’

  ‘You hardly knew him.’

  Rheinhart laughed. ‘Very well—All the less reason…’

  ‘I didn’t say you personally. I’m asking who did and why.’ Poole was betraying his normal calm. He had good reason. This arrogant Prussian held the key if Poole was right, and he wasn’t going to let him go until he found out. He would have to press nearer the truth, yet not disclose it.