“No commitments bind Scarlatti. Until I die, there is only one voice. I am Scarlatti.”
“What about the rest of it? The decisions, the panics, the ruin?”
“As always my decisions will be executed with precision and foresight. Panic will be avoided.”
“And so will financial ruin, huh?… You are the God damnedest, self-confident old lady!”
“Again you fail to understand. At this juncture I anticipate the collapse of Scarlatti as inevitable should I be called. There will be no quarter given.”
Matthew Canfield now understood. “I’ll be damned.”
“I must have vast sums. Amounts inconceivable to you, which can be allocated by a single command. Money which can purchase massive holdings, inflate or depress entire markets. Once that kind of manipulation has been exercised, I doubt that all the capital on earth could put Scarlatti back together. It would never be trusted again.”
“Then you’d be finished.”
“Irrevocably.”
The old woman moved in front of Canfield. She looked at him but not in the manner to which he was accustomed. She might have been a worried grandmother from the dry plains of Kansas asking the preacher if the Lord would allow the rains to come.
“I have no arguments left. Please allow me my last battle. My final gesture, as it were.”
“You’re asking an awful lot.”
“Not when you think of it. If you return, it’ll take you a week to reach Washington. Another week to compile everything we’ve been through. Days before you reach those in government who should listen to you, if you can get them to listen to you at all. By my calculations that would be at least three or four weeks. Do you agree?”
Canfield felt foolish standing in front of Elizabeth. For no reason other than to increase the distance between them, he walked to the center of the room. “God damn it, I don’t know what I agree with!”
“Give me four weeks. Just four weeks from today.… If I fail we’ll do as you wish.… More than that I’ll come to Washington with you. I’ll testify, if need be, in front of one of those committees. I’ll do whatever you and your associates think necessary. Further, I’ll settle our personal account three times above that agreed upon.”
“Suppose you fail?”
“What possible difference can it make to anyone but myself? There’s little sympathy in this world for fallen millionaires.”
“What about your family then? They can’t spend the rest of their lives in some remote lake in Canada?”
“That won’t be necessary. Regardless of the larger outcome, I’ll destroy my son. I shall expose Ulster Scarlett for what he is. I’ll sentence him to death at Zurich.”
The field accountant fell silent for a moment and looked at Elizabeth. “Have you considered the fact that you might be killed?”
“I have.”
“You’d risk that … Sell out Scarlatti Industries. Destroy everything you’ve built. Is it worth that to you? Do you hate him that much?”
“Yes. As one hates a disease. Magnified because I’m responsible for its flourishing.”
Canfield put his glass down, tempted to pour himself another drink. “That’s going a little far.”
“I didn’t say I invented the disease. I said that I’m responsible for spreading it. Not simply because I provided the money but infinitely more important, because I implanted an idea. An idea which has become warped in the process of maturing.”
“I don’t believe that. You’re no saint, but you don’t think like that.” He pointed toward the papers on the couch.
The old woman’s weary eyes closed.
“There’s a little of … that in each of us. It’s all part of the idea.… The twisted idea. My husband and I devoted years to the building of an industrial empire. Since his death, I’ve fought in the marketplace—doubling, redoubling, adding, building—always acquiring.… It’s been a stimulating, all-consuming game.… I’ve played it well. And sometime during all those years, my son learned what many observers failed to learn—that it was never the acquisition of profits or material gain that mattered—they were merely the by-products. It was the acquisition of power.… I wanted that power because I sincerely believed that I was equipped for the responsibility. The more convinced I became, it had to follow that others were not equipped.… The quest for power becomes a personal crusade, I think. The more success one has, the more personal it becomes. Whether he understood it or not, that’s what my son saw happening.… There may be similarities of purpose, even of motive. But a great gulf divides us—my son and me.”
“I’ll give you the four weeks. Jesus Christ only knows why. But you still haven’t made it clear to me why you want to risk all this. Throw away everything.”
“I’ve tried to.… You’re slow at times. If I offend, it’s because I think you do understand. You’re deliberately asking me to spell out an unpleasant reality.” She carried her notes to the table by her bedroom door. As the light had grown dim, she turned on the lamp, causing the fringe on the shade to shimmy. She seemed fascinated by the movement. “I imagine that all of us—the Bible calls us the rich and mighty—wish to leave this world somewhat different from the way it was before us. As the years go by, this vague, ill-defined instinct becomes really quite important. How many of us have toyed with the phrases of our own obituaries?” She turned from the lamp and looked at the field accountant. “Considering everything we now know, would you care to speculate on my not-too-distant obituary?”
“No deal. That’s another question.”
“It’s a snap, you know.… The wealth is taken for granted. Every agonizing decision, every nerve-racking gamble—they become simple, expected accomplishments. Accomplishments more to be scorned than admired because I’m both a woman and a highly competitive speculator. An unattractive combination.… One son lost in the Great War. Another rapidly emerging as a pompous incompetent, sought after for every wrong reason, discarded and laughed at whenever feasible. And now this. A madman leading or at least a part of a growing band of psychopathic malcontents.… This is what I bequeath. What Scarlatti bequeaths, Mr. Canfield.… Not a very enviable sum, is it?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Consequently, I’ll stop at nothing to prevent this final madness …” She picked up her notes and went into the bedroom. She closed the door behind her, leaving Canfield in the large sitting room by himself. He thought for a moment that the old woman was on the verge of tears.
CHAPTER 35
The monoplane’s flight over the channel had been uneventful—the wind calm, the visibility excellent. It was fortunate for Scarlett that such was the case, for the stinging irritation of his unhealed surgery coupled with the pitch of his fury would have made a difficult trip a disastrous one. He was hardly capable of keeping his mind on the compass bearings and when he first saw the Normandy coast, it looked unfamiliar to him. Yet he had made these very same sightings a dozen times.
He was met at the small airfield outside of Lisieux by the Paris contingent, consisting of two Germans and a French Gascon, whose guttural dialect nearly matched that of his associates.
The three Europeans anticipated that the man—they did not know his name—would instruct them to return to Paris. To await further orders.
The man had other intentions, insisting that they all sit uncomfortably together in the front seat while he occupied the entire space in the back. He ordered the car to Vernon, where two got out and were told to make their own way back to Paris. The driver was to remain.
The driver vaguely protested when Scarlett ordered him to proceed west to Montbéliard, a small town near the Swiss border.
“Mein Herr! That’s a four-hundred-kilometer trip! It will take ten hours or more on these abysmal roads!”
“Then we should be there by dinner time. And be quiet!”
“It might have been simpler for mein Herr to refuel and fly …”
“I do not fly when I am tired. Relax. I’ll find yo
u some ‘seafood’ in Montbéliard. Vary your diet, Kircher. It excites the palate.”
“Jawohl, mein Herr!” Kircher grinned, knowing the man was really a fine Oberführer.
Scarlett reflected. The misfits! One day they’d be rid of the misfits.
Montbéliard was not much more complex than an oversized village. The principal livelihood of its citizens was farm produce, much of which was shipped into Switzerland and Germany. Its currency, as in many towns on the border, was a mixture of francs, marks, and Swiss francs.
Scarlett and his driver reached it a little after nine in the evening. However, except for several stops for petrol and a midafternoon lunch, they had pushed forward with no conversation between them. This quiet acted as a sedative to Scarlett’s anxiety. He was able to think without anger, although his anger was ever present. The driver had been right when he had pointed out that a flight from Lisieux to Montbéliard would have been simpler and less arduous, but Scarlett could not risk any explosions of temper brought on by exhaustion.
Sometime that day or evening—the time was left open—he was meeting with the Prussian, the all-important man who could deliver what few others could. He had to be up to that meeting, every brain cell working. He couldn’t allow recent problems to distort his concentration. The conference with the Prussian was the culmination of months, years of work. From the first macabre meeting with Gregor Strasser to the conversion of his millions to Swiss capital. He, Heinrich Kroeger, possessed the finances so desperately needed by the National Socialists. His importance to the party was now acknowledged.
The problems. Irritating problems! But he’d made his decisions. He’d have Howard Thornton isolated, perhaps killed. The San Franciscan had betrayed them. If the Stockholm manipulation had been uncovered, it had to be laid at Thornton’s feet. They’d used his Swedish contacts and obviously he maneuvered large blocks of securities back into his own hands at the depressed price.
Thornton would be taken care of.
As was the French dandy, Jacques Bertholde.
Thornton and Bertholde! Both misfits! Greedy, stupid misfits!
What had happened to Boothroyd? Obviously killed on the Calpurnia. But how? Why? Regardless, he deserved to die! So did his father-in-law. Rawlins’ order to kill Elizabeth Scarlatti was stupid! The timing had been insane! Couldn’t Rawlins understand that she would have left letters behind, documents? She was far more dangerous dead than alive. At least until she’d been reached—as he had reached her, threatened her precious Scarlattis. Now, she could die! Now it wouldn’t matter. And with Bertholde gone, Rawlins gone, and Thornton about to be killed, there’d be no one left who knew who he was. No one! He was Heinrich Kroeger, a leader of the new order!
They pulled up at L’Auberge des Moineaux, a small restaurant with a buvette and lodgings for the traveler or for those desiring privacy for other reasons. For Scarlett it was the appointed meeting place.
“Take the car down the road and park it,” he told Kircher. “I’ll be in one of the rooms. Have dinner. I’ll call for you later.… I haven’t forgotten my promise.” Kircher grinned.
Ulster Scarlett got out of the car and stretched. He felt better, his skin bothered him less, and the impending conference filled him with a sense of anticipation. This was the kind of work he should always do! Matters of vast consequences. Matters of power.
He waited until the car was far enough down the street to obscure Kircher’s rear-mirror view of him. He then walked back, away from the door, to the cobblestone path and turned into it. Misfits were never to be told anything that wasn’t essential to their specific usefulness.
He reached an unlighted door and knocked several times.
The door opened and a moderately tall man with thick, wavy black hair and prominent, dark eyebrows stood in the center of the frame as if guarding an entrance, not welcoming a guest. He was dressed in a Bavarian-cut gray coat and brown knickers. The face was darkly cherubic, the eyes wide and staring. His name was Rudolf Hess.
“Where have you been?” Hess motioned Scarlett to enter and close the door. The room was small; there was a table with chairs around it, a sideboard, and two floor lamps, which gave the room its light. Another man who had been looking out the window, obviously to identify the one outside, nodded to Scarlett. He was a tiny, ugly man with birdlike features, even to the hawknose. He walked with a limp.
“Joseph?” said Scarlett to him. “I didn’t expect you here.”
Joseph Goebbels looked over at Hess. His knowledge of English was poor. Hess translated Scarlett’s words rapidly and Goebbels shrugged his shoulders.
“I asked you where you have been!”
“I had trouble in Lisieux. I couldn’t get another plane so I had to drive. It’s been a long day so don’t aggravate me, please.”
“Ach! From Lisieux? A long trip. I’ll order you some food, but you’ll have to be quick. Rheinhart’s been waiting since noon.”
Scarlett took off his flying jacket and threw it on the sideboard shelf. “How is he?”
Goebbels understood just enough to interrupt. “Rheinhart?… Im-pa-tient!” He mispronounced the word, and Scarlett grinned. Goebbels thought to himself that this giant was a horrible-looking creature. The opinion was mutual.
“Never mind the food. Rheinhart’s been waiting too long.… Where is he?”
“In his room. Number two, down the corridor. He went for a walk this afternoon but he keeps thinking someone will recognize him so he came back in ten minutes. I think he’s upset.”
“Go get him.… And bring back some whiskey.” He looked at Goebbels wishing that this unattractive little man would leave. It wasn’t good that Goebbels be there while Hess and he talked with the Prussian aristocrat. Goebbels looked like an insignificant Jewish accountant.
But Scarlett knew he could do nothing. Hitler was taken with Goebbels.
Joseph Goebbels seemed to be reading the tall man’s thoughts.
“Ich werde dabei sitzen während Sie sprechen.” He pulled a chair back to the wall and sat down.
Hess had gone out the corridor door and the two men were in the room alone. Neither spoke.
Four minutes later Hess returned. Following him was an aging, overweight German several inches shorter than Hess, dressed in a black double-breasted suit and a high collar. His face was puffed with excess fat, his white hair cropped short. He stood perfectly erect and in spite of his imposing appearance, Scarlett thought there was something soft about him, not associated with his bulk. He strutted into the room. Hess closed the door and locked it.
“Gentlemen. General Rheinhart.” Hess stood at attention.
Goebbels rose from the chair and bowed, clicking his heels.
Rheinhart looked at him unimpressed.
Scarlett noticed Rheinhart’s expression. He approached the elderly general and held out his hand.
“Herr General.”
Rheinhart faced Scarlett, and although he concealed it well, his reaction to Scarlett’s appearance was obvious. The two men shook hands perfunctorily.
“Please sit down, Herr General.” Hess was enormously impressed with their company and did not hide the fact. Rheinhart sat in a chair at the end of the table. Scarlett was momentarily upset. He had wanted to sit in that particular chair for it was the commanding position.
Hess asked Rheinhart if he preferred whiskey, gin, or wine. The general waved his hand, refusing.
“Nothing for me, either,” added Ulster Scarlett as he sat in the chair to the left of Rheinhart. Hess ignored the tray and also took his seat. Goebbels retreated with his limp to the chair by the wall.
Scarlett spoke. “I apologize for the delay. Unforgivable but, I’m afraid, unavoidable. There was pressing business with our associates in London.”
“Your name, please?” Rheinhart interrupted, speaking English with a thick Teutonic accent.
Scarlett looked briefly at Hess before replying. “Kroeger, Herr General. Heinrich Kroeger.”
Rhein
hart did not take his eyes off Scarlett. “I do not think that is your name, sir. You are not German.” His voice was flat.
“My sympathies are German. So much so that Heinrich Kroeger is the name I have chosen to be known by.”
Hess interrupted. “Herr Kroeger has been invaluable to us all. Without him we would never have made the progress we have, sir.”
“Amerikaner. … He is the reason we do not speak German?”
“That will be corrected in time,” Scarlett said. In fact, he spoke nearly flawless German, but still felt at a disadvantage in the language.
“I am not an American, General.…” Scarlett returned Rheinhart’s stare and gave no quarter. “I am a citizen of the new order!… I have given as much, if not more than anyone else alive or dead to see it come to pass.… Please remember that in our conversation.”
Rheinhart shrugged. “I’m sure you have your reasons, as I have, for being at this table.”
“You may be assured of that.” Scarlett relaxed and pulled his chair up.
“Very well, gentlemen, to business. If it is possible, I should like to leave Montbéliard tonight.” Rheinhart reached into his jacket pocket and took out a page of folded stationery. “Your party has made certain not inconsequential strides in the Reichstag. After your Munich fiasco, one might even say remarkable progress …”
Hess broke in enthusiastically. “We have only begun! From the ignominy of treacherous defeat, Germany will rise! We will be masters of all Europe!”
Rheinhart held the folded paper in his hand and watched Hess. He replied quietly, authoritatively. “To be masters of but Germany itself would be sufficient for us. To be able to defend our country is all we ask.”
“That will be the least of your guarantees from us, General.” Scarlett’s voice rose no higher than Rheinhart’s.
“It is the only guarantee we wish. We are not interested in the excesses your Adolf Hitler preaches.”
At the mention of Hitler’s name, Goebbels sat forward in his chair. He was angered by the fact that he could not comprehend.
“Was gibt’s mit Hitler? Was sagen sie über ihn?”
The Scarlatti Inheritance Page 27