“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.
CHAPTER 39
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 Scarlatt 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 AS THE 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 FALKE HAUS
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 attaché. 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 can not 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.