The Scarlatti Inheritance (40 page)

He had pushed the car up to eighty-five miles an hour, and he had stopped at sixty within the space of fifty feet without causing a dislocation of the seats. The Geneva
Geheimpolizist
had done his job well. But then he was well paid. Damn near two years’ wages at the going Swiss rate of Civil Service. And the car was licensed with the numbers no one would stop—for any reason—the Zurich
police. How he had done it, Canfield didn’t ask. Elizabeth suggested that it might have been the money.

“Is that all?” asked Canfield as he led Elizabeth Scarlatti toward the car. He referred to her single briefcase.

“It’s enough,” said the old woman as she followed him down the path.

“You had a couple of thousand pages, a hundred thousand figures!”

“They’re meaningless now.” Elizabeth held the briefcase on her lap as Canfield shut the car door.

“Suppose they ask you questions?” The field accountant inserted the key in the ignition.

“No doubt they will. And if they do, I’ll answer.” She didn’t wish to talk.

They drove for twenty minutes and the roads were coming out right. Canfield was pleased with himself. He was a satisfied navigator. Suddenly Elizabeth spoke.

“There is one thing I haven’t told you, nor have you seen fit to bring it up. It’s only fair that I mention it now.”

“What?”

“It’s conceivable that neither of us will emerge from this conference alive. Have you considered that?”

Canfield had, of course, considered it. He had assumed the risk, if that was the justifiable word, since the Boothroyd incident. It had escalated to pronounced danger when he realized that Janet was possibly his for life. He became committed when he knew what her husband had done to her.

With the bullet through his shoulder, two inches from death, Matthew Canfield in his own way had become a gladiator in much the same manner as Elizabeth. His anger was paramount now.

“You worry about your problems, I’ll worry about mine, okay?”

“Okay.… May I say that you’ve become quite dear to me.… Oh, stop that little-boy look! Save it for the ladies! I’m hardly one of them! Drive on!”

On Winterthurstrasse, three-tenths of a mile from Falke Haus there is a stretch of straight road paralleled on
both sides by towering pine trees. Matthew Canfield pushed the accelerator down and drove the automobile as fast as it would go. It was five minutes to nine and he was determined that his passenger meet her appointment on time.

Suddenly in the far-off illumination of the head lamps, a man was signaling. He waved his hands, crisscrossing above his head, standing in the middle of the road. He was violently making the universal sign, stop—emergency. He did not move from the middle of the road in spite of Canfield’s speed.

“Hold on!” Canfield rushed on, oblivious to the human being in his path.

As he did so, there were bursts of gunfire from both sides of the road. “Get down!” shouted Canfield. He continued to push the gas pedal, ducking as he did so, bobbing his head, watching the straight road as best he could. There was a piercing scream—pitched in a death note—from the far side of the road. One of the ambushers had been caught in the crossfire.

They passed the area, pieces of glass and metal scattered all over the seats.

“You okay?” Canfield had no time for sympathy.

“Yes. I’m all right. How much longer?”

“Not much. If we can make it. They may have gotten a tire.”

“Even if they did, we can still drive?”

“Don’t you worry! I’m not about to stop and ask for a jack!”

The gates of Falke Haus appeared and Canfield turned sharply into the road. It was a descending grade leading gently into a huge circle in front of an enormous flagstone porch with statuary placed every several feet. The front entrance, a large wooden door, was situated twenty feet beyond the center steps. Canfield could not get near it.

For there were at least a dozen long, black limousines lined up around the circle. Chauffeurs stood near them, idly chatting.

Canfield checked his revolver, placed it in his right-hand pocket, and ordered Elizabeth out of the car. He insisted that she slide across the seat and emerge from his side of the automobile.

He walked slightly behind her, nodding to the chauffeurs.

It was one minute after nine when a servant, formally dressed, opened the large wooden door.

They entered the great hall, a massive tabernacle of architectural indulgence. A second servant, also formally attired, gestured them toward another door. He opened it.

Inside was the longest table Matthew Canfield thought possible to build. It must have been fifty feet from end to end. And a good six to seven feet wide.

Seated around the massive table were fifteen or twenty men. All ages, from forty to seventy. All dressed in expensive suits. All looking toward Elizabeth Scarlatti. At the head of the table, half a room away, was an empty chair. It cried out to be filled, and Canfield wondered for a moment whether Elizabeth was to fill it. Then he realized that was not so. Her chair was at the foot of the table closest to them.

Who was to fill the empty chair?

No matter. There was no chair for him. He would stay by the wall and watch.

Elizabeth approached the table.

“Good evening, gentlemen. A number of us have met before. The rest of you I know by reputation, I can assure you.”

The entire complement around the table rose as one body.

The man to the left of Elizabeth’s chair circled and held it for her.

She sat down, and the men returned to their seats.

“I thank you.… But there seems to be one of us missing.” Elizabeth stared at the chair fifty feet away directly in front of her eyes.

At that moment a door at the far end of the room opened and a tall man strutted in. He was dressed in the crisp, cold uniform of the German revolutionary. The dark brown shirt, the shining black belt across his chest and around his waist, the starched tan jodhpurs above the thick, heavy boots that came just below his knees.

The man’s head was shaven, his face a distorted replica of itself.

“The chair is now taken. Does that satisfy you?”

“Not entirely.… Since I know, through one means or another, every person of consequence at this table, I should like to know who you are, sir.”

“Kroeger. Heinrich Kroeger! Anything else, Madame Scarlatti?”

“Not a thing. Not a single thing … Herr Kroeger.”

“Against my wishes and my better judgment, Madame Scarlatti, my associates are determined to hear what you have to say.” The grotesque shaven-headed Heinrich Kroeger spoke. “My position has been made clear to you. I trust your memory serves you well about it.”

There were whispers around the table. Looks were exchanged. None of the men were prepared for the news that Heinrich Kroeger had had prior contact with Elizabeth Scarlatti.

“My memory serves me very well. Your associates represent an aggregate of much wisdom and several centuries of experience. I suspect far in excess of your own on both counts—collectively and individually.”

Most of the men simply lowered their eyes, some pressing their lips in slight smiles. Elizabeth slowly looked at each face around the table.

“We have an interesting board here, I see. Well represented. Well diversified. Some of us were enemies in war a few short years ago, but such memories, by necessity, are short.… Let’s see.” Without singling out any one individual, Elizabeth Scarlatti spoke rapidly, almost in a cadence. “My own country has lost two members, I’m sad to note. But I don’t believe prayers are in order for Messrs. Boothroyd and Thornton. If they are, I’m not the one to deliver them. But still, the United States is splendidly represented by Mr. Gibson and Mr. Landor. Between them, they account for nearly twenty percent of the vast oil interests in the American Southwest. To say nothing of a joint expansion in the Canadian Northwest
Territories. Combined personal assets—two hundred and twenty-five million.… Our recent adversary, Germany, brings us Herr von Schnitzler, Herr Kindorf, and Herr Thyssen. I. G. Farben; the baron of Ruhr coal; the great steel companies. Personal assets? Who can really tell these days in the Weimar? Perhaps one hundred and seventy-five million, at the outside.… But someone’s missing from this group. I trust he’s successfully being recruited. I speak of Gustave Krupp. He would raise the ante considerably.… England sends us Messrs. Masterson, Leacock, and Innes-Bowen. As powerful a triumvirate as can be found in the British Empire. Mr. Masterson with half of the India imports, also Ceylon now, I understand; Mr. Leacock’s major portion of the British Stock Exchange; and Mr. Innes-Bowen. He owns the largest single textile industry throughout Scotland and the Hebrides. Personal assets I place at three hundred million.… France has been generous, too. Monsieur D’Almeida; I now realize that he is the true owner of the Franco-Italian rail system, partially due to his Italian lineage, I’m sure. And Monsieur Daudet. Is there any among us who have not used some part of his merchant fleet? Personal assets, one hundred and fifty million.… And lastly, our neighbors to the north, Sweden. Herr Myrdal and Herr Olaffsen. Understandably”—here Elizabeth looked pointedly at the strange-faced man, her son, at the head of the table—“one of these gentlemen, Herr Myrdal, has controlling interest in Donnenfeld, the most impressive firm on the Stockholm exchange. While Herr Olaffsen’s many companies merely control the export of Swedish iron and steel. Personal assets are calculated at one hundred and twenty-five million.… Incidentally, gentlemen, the term
personal assets
denotes those holdings which can be converted easily, quickly, and without endangering your markets.… Otherwise, I would not insult you by placing such meager limits on your fortunes.”

Elizabeth paused to place her briefcase directly in front of her. The men around the table were aroused, apprehensive. Several were shocked at the casual mention of what they believed was highly confidential information. The Americans, Gibson and Landor, had quietly gone into the Canadian venture unannounced, without legal sanction, violating the U.S.–Canadian treaties. The Germans,
von Schnitzler and Kindorf, had held secret conferences with Gustave Krupp—who was fighting desperately to remain neutral for fear of a Weimar takeover. If these conferences were made known, Krupp had sworn to expose them. The Frenchman, Louis François D’Almeida, guarded with his very life the extent of his ownership of the Franco-Italian rails. If it were known, it might well be confiscated by the republic. He had purchased the majority shares from the Italian government through plain bribery.

And Myrdal, the heavyset Swede, bulged his eyes in disbelief when Elizabeth Scarlatti spoke so knowingly about the Stockholm exchange. His own company had covertly absorbed Donnenfeld in one of the most complicated mergers imaginable, made possible by the illegal transaction of the American securities. If it became public knowledge, the Swedish law would step in, and he’d be ruined. Only the Englishmen seemed totally poised, totally proud of their achievements. But even this measure of equanimity was misleading. For Sydney Masterson, undisputed heir to the merchant domain of Sir Robert Clive, had only recently concluded the Ceylon arrangements. They were unknown in the import-export world and there were certain agreements subject to question. Some might even say they constituted fraud.

Huddled, quiet-toned conferences took place around the table in the four languages. Elizabeth raised her voice sufficiently to be heard.

“I gather some of you are conferring with your aides—I assume they are your aides. If I’d realized this meeting made provisions for second-level negotiators, I’d have brought along my attorneys. They could have gossiped among themselves while we continue. The decisions we reach tonight, gentlemen, must be our own!”

Heinrich Kroeger sat on the edge of his chair. He spoke harshly, unpleasantly. “I wouldn’t be so sure of any decisions. There are none to be made! You’ve told us nothing which couldn’t be learned by any major accounting firm!”

A number of the men around the table—specifically the two Germans, D’Almeida, Gibson, Landor, Myrdal, and Masterson—avoided looking at him. For Kroeger was wrong.

“You think so? Perhaps. But then I’ve overlooked you,
haven’t I?… I shouldn’t do that, you’re obviously terribly important.” Again, a number of the men around the table—excluding those mentioned—had traces of smiles on their lips.

“Your wit is as dull as you are.” Elizabeth was pleased with herself. She was succeeding in this most important aspect of her appearance. She was reaching, provoking Ulster Stewart Scarlett. She continued without acknowledging his remark.

“Strangely obtained assets of two hundred and seventy million sold under the most questionable circumstances would necessitate a loss of at least fifty percent, possibly sixty percent of market value. I’ll grant you the least, so I shall hazard an estimate of one hundred and thirty-five million dollars at the current rates of exchange. One hundred and eight, if you’ve been weak.”

Matthew Canfield lurched from the wall, then held his place.

The men around the table were astonished. The hum of voices increased perceptibly. Aides were shaking their heads, nodding in agreement, raising their eyebrows unable to answer. Each participant thought he knew something of the others. Obviously, none were this knowledgeable of Heinrich Kroeger. They had not even been sure of his status at this table. Elizabeth interrupted the commotion.

“However, Mister Kroeger, surely you know that theft, when eminently provable, is merely subject to proper identification before steps can be taken. There are international courts of extradition. Therefore, it is conceivable that your assets might be calculated at … zero!”

A silence fell over the table as the gentlemen, along with their assistants, gave Heinrich Kroeger their full attention. The words
theft, courts
, and
extradition
were words they could not accept at this table. They were dangerous words. Kroeger, the man many of them vaguely feared for reasons solely associated with his enormous influence within both camps, was now warned.