“Don’t threaten me, old woman.” Kroeger’s voice was low, confident. He sat back in his chair and glared at his mother at the opposite end of the long table. “Don’t make charges unless you can substantiate them. If you’re prepared to attempt that, I’m ready to counter.… If you or your colleagues were outnegotiated, this is no place to cry. You won’t get sympathy here! I might even go so far as to say you’re on treacherous ground. Remember that!” He kept staring until Elizabeth could no longer stand the sight of his eyes. She looked away.
She was not prepared to do anything—not with him, not with Heinrich Kroeger. She would not gamble the lives of her family more than she had already. She would not wager at this table the name of Scarlatti. Not that way. Not now. There was another way.
Kroeger had won the point. It was obvious to all, and Elizabeth had to rush headlong on so that none would dwell upon her loss.
“Keep your assets. They are quite immaterial.”
Around the table the phrase “quite immaterial” when applied to such millions was impressive. Elizabeth knew it would be.
“Gentlemen. Before we were interrupted, I gave you all, by national groupings, the personal assets calculated to the nearest five million for each contingent. I felt it was more courteous than breaking down each individual’s specific worth—some things are sacred, after all. However, I was quite unfair, as several of you know. I alluded to a number of—shall we say, delicate negotiations, I’m sure you believed were inviolate. Treacherous to you—to use Mr. Kroeger’s words—if they were known within your own countries.”
Seven of the Zurich twelve were silent. Five were curious.
“I refer to my cocitizens, Mr. Gibson and Mr. Landor. To Monsieur D’Almeida, Sydney Masterson, and of course, to the brilliant Herr Myrdal. I should also include two-thirds of Germany’s investors—Herr von Schnitzler and Herr Kindorf, but for different reasons, as I’m sure they realize.”
No one spoke. No one turned to his aides. All eyes were upon Elizabeth.
“I don’t intend to remain unfair in this fashion, gentlemen. I have something for each of you.”
A voice other than Kroeger’s spoke up. It was the Englishman, Sydney Masterson.
“May I ask the point of all this? All this … incidental intelligence? I’m sure you’ve been most industrious—highly accurate, too, speaking for myself. But none of us here have entered the race for a Jesus medal. Surely, you know that.”
“I do, indeed. If it were otherwise, I wouldn’t be here tonight.”
“Then why? Why this?” The accent was German. The voice belonged to the blustering baron of the Ruhr Valley, Kindorf.
Masterson continued. “Your cablegram, madame—we all received the same—specifically alluded to areas of mutual interest. I believe you went so far as to say the Scarlatti assets might be at our joint disposal. Most generous, indeed.… But now I must agree with Mr. Kroeger. You sound as though you’re threatening us, and I’m not at all sure I like it.”
“Oh, come, Mr. Masterson! You’ve never held out promises of English gold to half the minor potentates in the backwaters of India? Herr Kindorf has not openly bribed his unions to strike with pledges of increased wages once the French are out of the Ruhr? Please! You insult all of us! Of course, I’m here to threaten you! And I can assure you, you’ll like it less as I go on!”
Masterson rose from the table. Several others moved their chairs. The air was hostile. “I shall not listen further,” said Masterson.
“Then tomorrow at noon the Foreign Office, the British Stock Exchange, and the board of directors of the English Importers Collective will receive detailed specifics of your highly illegal agreements in Ceylon! Your commitments are enormous! The news might just initiate a considerable run on your holdings!”
Masterson stood by his chair. “Be damned!” were the only words he uttered as he returned to his chair. The table once again fell silent. Elizabeth opened her briefcase.
“I have here an envelope for each of you. Your names are typed on the front. Inside each envelope is an accounting of your individual worths. Your strengths. Your weaknesses.… There is one envelope missing. The … influential, very important Mr. Kroeger does not have one. Frankly, it’s insignificant.”
“I warn you!”
“So very sorry, Mr. Kroeger.” Again the words were rapidly spoken, but this time no one was listening. Each one’s concentration was on Elizabeth Scarlatti and her briefcase. “Some envelopes are thicker than others, but none should place too great an emphasis on this factor. We all know the negligibility of wide diversification after a certain point.” Elizabeth reached into her leather case.
“You are a witch!” Kindorf’s heavy accent was now guttural, the veins stood out in his temples.
“Here. I shall pass them out. And as each of you peruse your miniature portfolios I shall continue talking, which, I know, will please you.”
The envelopes were passed down both sides of the table. Some were torn open immediately, hungrily. Others, like the cards of experienced poker players, were handled carefully, cautiously.
Matthew Canfield stood by the wall, his left arm smarting badly in the sling, his right hand in his pocket, sweatily clutching his revolver. Since Elizabeth had identified Ulster Scarlett with the 270 million, he could not take his eyes off him. This man called Heinrich Kroeger. This hideous, arrogant son of a bitch was the man he wanted! This was the filthy bastard who had done it all! This was Janet’s personal hell.
“I see you all have your envelopes. Except, of course, the ubiquitous Mr. Kroeger. Gentlemen, I promised you I would not be unfair and I shan’t be. There are five of you who can not begin to appreciate the influence of Scarlatti unless you have, as they say in cheap merchandising, samples applicable to you alone. Therefore, as you read the contents of your envelopes, I shall briefly touch on these sensitive areas.”
Several of the men who had been reading shifted their eyes toward Elizabeth without moving their heads. Others put the papers down defiantly. Some handed the pages to aides and stared at the old woman. Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder at Matthew Canfield. She was worried about him. She knew he, at last, faced Ulster Scarlett, and the pressure on him was immense. She tried to catch his eye. She tried to reassure him with a look, a confident smile.
He would not look at her. She saw only the hatred in his eyes as he stared at the man called Heinrich Kroeger.
“I shall delineate alphabetically, gentlemen.… Monsieur Daudet, the Republic of France would be reluctant to continue awarding franchises to your fleet if they were aware of those ships under Paraguayan flag which carried supplies to France’s enemies in time of war.” Daudet remained motionless, but Elizabeth was amused to see the three Englishmen bristle at the Frenchman. The predictable, contradictory British!
“Oh, come, Mr. Innes-Bowen. You may not have run ammunition, but how many neutral ships were loaded off how many piers in India with textile cargoes bound for Bremerhaven and Cuxhaven during the same period?… And Mr. Leacock. You can’t really forget your fine Irish heritage, can you? The Sinn Féin has prospered well under your tutelage. Monies funneled through you to the Irish rebellion cost the lives of thousands of British soldiers at a time when England could least afford them! And quiet, calm Herr Olaffsen. The crown prince of Swedish steel. Or is he the king now? He might well be, for the Swedish government paid him several fortunes for untold hundreds of tons of low-carbon ingot. However, they didn’t come from his own superior factories. They were shipped from inferior mills half a world away—from Japan!”
Elizabeth reached into her briefcase once again. The men around the table were like corpses, immobile, only their minds were working. For Heinrich Kroeger, Elizabeth Scarlatti had placed the seal of approval on her own death warrant. He sat back and relaxed. Elizabeth withdrew a thin booklet from her briefcase.
“Lastly we come to Herr Thyssen. He emerges with the least pain. No grand fraud, no treason, only minor illegality and m
ajor embarrassment. Hardly a fitting tribute to the house of August Thyssen.” She threw the booklet into the center of the table. “Filth, gentlemen, just plain filth. Fritz Thyssen, pornographer! Purveyor of obscenity. Books, pamphlets, even motion pictures. Printed and filmed in Thyssen warehouses in Cairo. Every government on the Continent has condemned the unknown source. There he is, gentlemen. Your associate.”
For a long moment no one spoke. Each man was concerned with himself. Each calculated the damage that could result from old Scarlatti’s disclosures. In every instance the loss was accompanied by degrees of disgrace. Reputations could hang in balance. The old woman had
issued twelve indictments and personally returned twelve verdicts of guilty. Somehow, no one considered the thirteenth, Heinrich Kroeger.
Sydney Masterson pierced the belligerent air with a loud, manufactured cough. “Very well, Madame Scarlatti, you’ve made the point I referred to earlier. However, I think I should remind you that we are not impotent men. Charges and countercharges are parts of our lives. Solicitors can refute every accusation you’ve made, and I can assure you that lawsuits for unmitigated slander would be in the forefront.… After all, when gutter tactics are employed, there are expedient replies.… If you think we fear disdain, believe me when I tell you that public opinion has been molded by far less money than is represented at this table!”
The gentlemen of Zurich took confidence in Masterson’s words. There were nods of agreement.
“I don’t for one second doubt you, Mr. Masterson. Any of you.… Missing personnel files, opportunistic executives—sacrificial goats. Please, gentlemen! I only contend that you wouldn’t welcome the trouble. Or the anxiety which goes with such distasteful matters.”
“Non, madame.” Claude Daudet was outwardly cool but inwardly petrified. Perhaps his Zurich associates did not know the French people. A firing squad was not out of the question. “You are correct. Such troubles are to be avoided. So, then what is next? What is it you prepare for us, eh?”
Elizabeth paused. She wasn’t quite sure why. It was an instinct, an intuitive need to turn around and look at the field accountant.
Matthew Canfield had not budged from his position by the wall. He was a pathetic sight. His jacket had fallen away from his left shoulder revealing the dark black sling, his right hand still plunged in his pocket. He seemed to be swallowing continuously, trying to keep himself aware of his surroundings. Elizabeth noticed that he now avoided looking at Ulster Scarlett. He seemed, in essence, to be trying to bang on to his sanity.
“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Elizabeth rose from her chair and crossed to Canfield. She whispered quietly to him. “Take hold of yourself. I demand it! There’s nothing to fear. Not in this room!”
Canfield spoke slowly, without moving his lips. She could barely hear him, but what she heard startled her. Not for its content, but for the way in which he said it. Matthew Canfield was now among the ranks in this room in Zurich. He had joined them; he had become a killer, too.
“Say what you have to say and get it over with.… I want him. I’m sorry, but I want him. Look at him now, lady, because he’s a dead man.”
“Control yourself! Such talk will serve neither of us.” She turned and walked back to her chair. She stood behind it while she spoke. “As you may have noticed, gentlemen, my young friend has been seriously wounded. Thanks to all of you … or one of you, in an attempt to prevent my reaching Zurich. The act was cowardly and provocative in the extreme.”
The men looked at each other.
Daudet, whose imagination would not stop conjuring pictures of national disgrace or the firing squad, answered quickly. “Why would any here take such action, Madame Scarlatti? We are not maniacs. We are businessmen. No one sought to prevent your coming to Zurich. Witness, madame, we are all here.”
Elizabeth looked at the man called Kroeger.
“One of you violently opposed this conference. We were fired upon less than a half hour ago.”
The men looked at Heinrich Kroeger. Some were becoming angry. This Kroeger was, perhaps, too reckless.
“No.” He answered simply and emphatically, returning their stares. “I agreed to your coming. If I’d wanted to stop you, I’d have stopped you.”
For the first time since the meeting began, Heinrich Kroeger looked at the sporting goods salesman at the far end of the room, half concealed in the poor light. He had reacted with only moderate surprise when he realized Elizabeth Scarlatti had brought him to Zurich. Moderate because he knew Elizabeth’s penchant for employing the unusual, both in methods and personnel, and because she probably had no one else around she could browbeat into silence as easily as this money-hungry social gadfly. He’d be a convenient chauffeur, a manservant. Kroeger hated the type.
Or was he anything else?
Why had the salesman stared at him? Had Elizabeth told him anything? She wouldn’t be that big a fool. The man was the sort who’d blackmail in a minute.
One thing was sure. He’d have to be killed.
But who had tried to kill him previously? Who had tried to stop Elizabeth? And why?
The same question was being considered by Elizabeth Scarlatti. For she believed Kroeger when he disavowed the attempts on their lives.
“Please continue, Madame Scarlatti.” It was Fritz Thyssen, his cherubic face still flushed with anger over Elizabeth’s disclosure of his Cairo trade. He had removed the booklet from the center of the table.
“I shall.” She approached the side of her chair but did not sit down. Instead, she reached once more into her briefcase. “I have one thing further, gentlemen. With it we can conclude our business, and decisions can be made. There is a copy for each of the twelve remaining investors. Those with aides will have to share them. My apologies, Mr. Kroeger, I find I haven’t one for you.” From her position at the end of the table she distributed twelve slender manila envelopes. They were sealed, and as the men passed them down, the investors taking one apiece, it was apparent that each found it difficult not to rip open the top and withdraw the contents at once. But none wished to betray such obvious anxiety.
Finally, as each of the twelve held his envelope in front of him, one by one the men began to open them.
For nearly two minutes the only sound was the rustling of pages. Otherwise, silence. Even breathing was seemingly suspended. The men from Zurich were mesmerized by what they saw. Elizabeth spoke.
“Yes, gentlemen. What you hold in your hands is the scheduled liquidation of the Scarlatti Industries.… So that you have no illusions of doubt concerning the validity of this document, you will note that after each sub-division of holdings is typed the names of the individuals, corporations, or syndicates who are the purchasers.… Every one of those mentioned, the individuals as well as the organizations, are known to each of you. If not personally, then certainly by reputation. You know their capabilities, and I’m sure you’re not unaware of their ambitions. Within the next twenty-four hours they will own Scarlatti.”
For most of the Zurich men Elizabeth’s sealed information was the confirmation of the whispered rumors. Word had reached them that something unusual was taking place at Scarlatti. Some sort of unloading under strange circumstances.
So this was it. The head of Scarlatti was getting out.
“A massive operation, Madame Scarlatti.” Olaffsen’s low Swedish voice vibrated throughout the room. “But to repeat Daudet’s question, what is it you prepare us for?”
“Please take note of the bottom figure on the last page, gentlemen. Although I’m quite sure you all have.” The rustle of pages. Each man had turned swiftly to the final page. “It reads seven hundred and fifteen million dollars.… The combined, immediately convertible assets of this table, placed at the highest figure is one billion, one hundred and ten million.… Therefore, a disparity of three hundred and ninety-five million exists between us.… Another way to approach this difference is to calculate it from the opposite direction. The Scarlatti liquidation will reali
ze sixty-four point four percent of this table’s holdings—if, indeed, you gentlemen could convert your personal assets in such a manner as to preclude financial panics.”
Silence.
A number of the Zurich men reached for their first envelopes. The breakdowns of their own worth.
One of these was Sydney Masterson, who turned to Elizabeth with an unamused smile. “And what you’re saying, I presume, Madame Scarlatti, is that this sixty-four point plus percent is the club you hold over our heads?”
“Precisely, Mr. Masterson.”
“My dear lady, I really must question your sanity …”
“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”
“Then I shall, Frau Scarlatti” I. G. Farben’s von Schnitzler spoke in a disagreeable manner, lounging back in his chair as if toying verbally with an imbecile. “To accomplish what you have must have been a costly sacrifice.… I wonder to what purpose? You can not buy what there is not to sell.… We are not a public corporation. You can not force into defeat something which does not exist!” His German lisp was pronounced, his arrogance every bit as unattractive as reputed. Elizabeth disliked him intensely.
“Quite correct, von Schnitzler.”
“Then, perhaps”—the German laughed—“you have been a foolish woman. I would not wish to absorb your losses. I mean, really, you can not go to some mythical Baumeister and tell him you have more funds than we—therefore, he must drive us out into the streets!”
Several of the Zurich men laughed.
“That, of course, would be the simplest, would it not? The appeal to one entity, negotiating with one power. It’s a shame that I can’t do that. It would be so much easier, so much less costly.… But I’m forced to take another road, an expensive one.… I should put that another way. I have taken it, gentlemen. It has been accomplished. The time is running out for its execution.”
Elizabeth looked at the men at Zurich. Some had their eyes riveted on her—watching for the slightest waver of confidence, the smallest sign of bluff. Others fixed their stares on inanimate objects—caring only to filter the words, the tone of her voice, for a false statement or a lapse of judgment. These were men who moved nations with a single gesture, a solitary word.
The Scarlatti Inheritance Page 33