The Scarlatti Inheritance(113)
“I find it interesting that you haven’t answered my question.” Poole was exasperated. “Did he know something the men in Munich might consider dangerous?”
“If he did, I have no idea what it might be!”
But Poole knew. Perhaps he was the only one who did know. If he could only be sure.
“I’d like another drink, please. Forgive my temper.” He smiled.
Rheinhart laughed. “You’re impossible. Give me your glass.… You’re satisfied?” The German crossed to the liquor cabinet and poured. “You travel three thousand miles for nothing. It’s been a bad trip for you.”
Poole shrugged. He was used to the trips—some good, some bad. Bertholde and his odd friend, the misshapen Heinrich Kroeger, had ordered him over barely six months ago. His orders had been simple then. Pick up the girl, find out what she had learned from old Scarlatti. He’d failed. The Canfield man had stopped him. The solicitous lackey, the salesman-cum-escort had prevented it. But he hadn’t failed his other orders. He’d followed the banker named Cartwright. He’d killed him and broken into the railroad station locker and gotten the banker’s agreement with Elizabeth Scarlatti.
It was then that he had learned the truth of Heinrich Kroeger’s identity. Elizabeth Scarlatti’s son had needed an ally and Jacques Bertholde was that ally. And in return for that precious friendship, Ulster Scarlett had ordered Bertholde’s death. The fanatic had commanded the death of the man who had made everything possible for him.
He, Poole, would avenge that terrible murder. But before he did, he had to confirm what he suspected was the truth. That neither the Nazi leaders nor the men in Zurich knew who Kroeger was. If that was the case, then Kroeger had murdered Bertholde to keep that identity secret.
The revelation might cost the movement millions. The Munich Nazis would know this, if they knew anything.
Erich Rheinhart stood over Poole. “A penny for your thoughts, my dear fellow? Here, a bourbon. You do not speak to me.”
“Oh?… Yes, it’s been a bad trip, Erich. You were right.” Poole bent his neck back, closed his eyes, and rubbed his forehead. Rheinhart returned to his chair.
“You need a rest.… Do you know what I think? I think you’re right. I think some damned fool did issue that order.” Poole opened his eyes, startled by Erich Rheinhart’s words. “Ja! In my opinion you are correct. And it must stop!… Strasser fights Hitler and Ludendorff. Ekhart rambles on like a madman. Attacking! Attacking! Kindorf screams in the Ruhr. Jodl betrays the Black Wehrmacht in Bavaria. Graefe makes a mess in the north. Even my own uncle, the illustrious Wilhelm Rheinhart, makes an idiot of himself. He speaks, and I hear the laughter behind my back in America. I tell you we are split in ten factions. Wolves at each other’s throats. We will accomplish nothing! Nothing, if this does not stop!” Erich Rheinhart’s anger was undisguised. He didn’t care. He rose again from his chair. “What is most asinine is the most obvious! We can lose the men in Zurich. If we can not agree among ourselves, how long do you think they will stay with us? I tell you, these men are not interested in who has next week’s power base in the Reichstag—not for its own sake. They don’t care a Deutschemark for the glories of the new Germany. Or the ambitions of any nation. Their wealth puts them above political boundaries. They are with us for one reason alone—their own power. If we give them a single doubt that we are not what we claim to be, that we are not the emerging order of Germany, they will abandon us. They will leave us with nothing! Even the Germans among them!”
Rheinhart’s fury abated. He tried to smile but instead drained his glass quickly and crossed to the cabinet.
If Poole could only be sure. “I understand,” he said quietly.
“Ja. I think you do. You’ve worked long and hard with Bertholde. You’ve accomplished a great deal …” He turned around facing Poole. “That’s what I mean. Everything that all of us have worked for can be lost by these internal frictions. The achievements of Funke, Bertholde, von Schnitzler, Thyssen, even Kroeger, will be wiped out if we can not come together. We must unite behind one, possibly two, acceptable leaders …”
That was it! That was the sign. Poole was now sure. Rheinhart had said the name! Kroeger!
“Maybe, Erich, but who?” Would Rheinhart say the name again? It was not possible, for Kroeger was no German. But could he get Rheinhart to use the name, just the name, once more without the slightest betrayal of concern.
“Strasser, perhaps. He’s strong, attractive. Ludendorff naturally has the aura of national fame, but he’s too old now. But mark me, Poole, watch this Hitler! Have you read the transcripts of the Munich trial?”