The Scarlatti Inheritance(120)
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.”
CHAPTER 44
“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.”