“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 a 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 attaché 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.
CHAPTER 40
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, attaché 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 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 put. He would have to press nearer the truth, yet not disclose it.
“Did Bertholde know something the rest of you didn’t want him to know?”
“Now, you’re preposterous.”
“Did he?”
“Jacques Bertholde was our London contact! He enjoyed a unique position in England that approached diplomatic immunity. His influence was felt in a dozen countries among scores of the industrial elite. His death is a great loss to us! How dare you imply that any of us was responsible!”