The Scarlatti Inheritance(114)

“No. Should I?”

“Yes! He’s electric! Positively eloquent! And sound.”

“He has a lot of enemies. He’s banned from speaking in almost every grafshaft in Germany.”

“The necessary excesses in a march to power. The bans on him are being removed. We’re seeing to that.”

Poole now watched Rheinhart carefully as he spoke.

“Hitler’s a friend of Kroeger, isn’t he?”

“Ach! Wouldn’t you be? Kroeger has millions! It is through Kroeger that Hitler gets his automobiles, his chauffeur, the castle at Berchtesgaden, God knows what else. You don’t think he buys them with his royalties, do you? Most amusing. Last year Herr Hitler declared an income which could not possibly purchase two tires for his Mercedes.” Rheinhart laughed. “We managed to have the inquiry suspended in Munich, fortunately. Ja, Kroeger is good to Hitler.

Poole was now absolutely sure. The men in Zurich did not know who Heinrich Kroeger was!

“Erich, I must go. Can you have your man drive me back to Washington?”

“But of course, my dear fellow.”


Poole opened the door of his room at the Ambassador Hotel. Upon hearing the sound of the key, the man inside stood up, practically at attention.

“Oh, it’s you, Bush.”

“Cable from London, Mr. Poole. I thought it best that I take the train down rather than using the telephone.” He handed Poole the cable.

Poole opened the envelope and extracted the message. He read it.

DUCHESS HAS LEFT LONDON STOP DESTINATION ASCERTAINED GENEVA STOP RUMORS OF ZURICH CONFERENCE STOP CABLE INSTRUCTIONS PARIS OFFICE




Poole pinched his aristocratic lips together, nearly biting into his own flesh in an attempt to suppress his anger.

“Duchess” was the code name of Elizabeth Scarlatti. So she headed for Geneva. A hundred and ten miles from Zurich. This was no pleasure trip. It was not another leg on her journey of mourning.

Whatever Jacques Bertholde had feared—plot or counterplot—it was happening now. Elizabeth Scarlatti and her son “Heinrich Kroeger” were making their moves. Separately or together, who could know.

Poole made his decision.

“Send the following to the Paris office. ‘Eliminate Duchess from the market. Her bid is to be taken off our lists at once. Repeat, eliminate Duchess’.”

Poole dismissed the courier and went to the telephone. He had to make reservations immediately. He had to get to Zurich.

There’d be no conference. He’d stop it. He’d kill the mother, expose the killer son! Kroeger’s death would follow quickly!

It was the least he could do for Bertholde.





PART THREE





CHAPTER 41


The train clanged over the antiquated bridge spanning the Rhone River, into the Geneva station. Elizabeth Scarlatti sat in her compartment looking first down at the river barges, then at the rising banks and into the large railroad yard. Geneva was clean. There was a scrubbed look about it, which helped to hide the fact that scores of nations and a thousand score of business giants used this neutral city to further intensify conflicting interests. As the train neared the city, she thought that someone like herself belonged in Geneva. Or, perhaps, Geneva belonged to someone like herself.

She eyed the luggage piled on the seat facing her. One suitcase contained the clothes she needed, and three smaller bags were jammed with papers. Papers that contained a thousand conclusions, totaling up to a battery of weapons. The data included figures on the complete worth of every man in the Zurich group. Every resource each possessed. Additional information awaited her in Geneva. But that was a different sort of musketry. It was not unlike the Domesday Book. For what awaited her in Geneva was the complete breakdown of the Scarlatti interests. The legally assessed value of every asset controlled by the Scarlatti Industries. What made it deadly was her maneuverability. And opposite each block of wealth was a commitment to purchase. These commitments were spelled out, and they could be executed instantaneously by a cable to her attorneys.

And well they should be.

Each block was followed—not by the usual two columns designating assessed value and sales value—but three columns. This third column was an across-the-board cut, which guaranteed the buyer a minor fortune with each transaction. Each signified a mandate to purchase that could not be refused. It was the highest level of finance, returned through the complexities of banking to the fundamental basis of economic incentive. Profit.

And Elizabeth counted on one last factor. It was the reverse of her instructions but that, too, was calculated.

In her sealed orders sent across the Atlantic was the emphatic stipulation that every contact made—to complete the task teams of administrators had to work twelve-hour shifts night and day—was to be carried out in the utmost secrecy and only with those whose authority extended to great financial commitments. The guaranteed gains absolved all from charges of irresponsibility. Each would emerge a hero to himself or to his economic constituency. But the price was consummate security until the act was done. The rewards matched the price. Millionaires, merchant princes, and bankers in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, and Palm Beach found themselves quartered in conference rooms with their dignified counterparts from one of New York’s most prestigious law firms. The tones were hushed and the looks knowing. Financial killings were being made. Signatures were affixed.