“Non, madame.” Claude Daudet was outwardly cool but inwardly petrified. Perhaps his Zurich associates did not know the French people. A firing squad was not out of the question. “You are correct. Such troubles are to be avoided. So, then what is next? What is it you prepare for us, eh?”
Elizabeth paused. She wasn’t quite sure why. It was an instinct, an intuitive need to turn around and look at the field accountant.
Matthew Canfield had not budged from his position by the wall. He was a pathetic sight. His jacket had fallen away from his left shoulder revealing the dark black sling, his right hand still plunged in his pocket. He seemed to be swallowing continuously, trying to keep himself aware of his surroundings. Elizabeth noticed that he now avoided looking at Ulster Scarlett. He seemed, in essence, to be trying to bang on to his sanity.
“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Elizabeth rose from her chair and crossed to Canfield. She whispered quietly to him. “Take hold of yourself. I demand it! There’s nothing to fear. Not in this room!”
Canfield spoke slowly, without moving his lips. She could barely hear him, but what she heard startled her. Not for its content, but for the way in which he said it. Matthew Canfield was now among the ranks in this room in Zurich. He had joined them; he had become a killer, too.
“Say what you have to say and get it over with.… I want him. I’m sorry, but I want him. Look at him now, lady, because he’s a dead man.”
“Control yourself! Such talk will serve neither of us.” She turned and walked back to her chair. She stood behind it while she spoke. “As you may have noticed, gentlemen, my young friend has been seriously wounded. Thanks to all of you … or one of you, in an attempt to prevent my reaching Zurich. The act was cowardly and provocative in the extreme.”
The men looked at each other.
Daudet, whose imagination would not stop conjuring pictures of national disgrace or the firing squad, answered quickly. “Why would any here take such action, Madame Scarlatti? We are not maniacs. We are businessmen. No one sought to prevent your coming to Zurich. Witness, madame, we are all here.”
Elizabeth looked at the man called Kroeger.
“One of you violently opposed this conference. We were fired upon less than a half hour ago.”
The men looked at Heinrich Kroeger. Some were becoming angry. This Kroeger was, perhaps, too reckless.
“No.” He answered simply and emphatically, returning their stares. “I agreed to your coming. If I’d wanted to stop you, I’d have stopped you.”
For the first time since the meeting began, Heinrich Kroeger looked at the sporting goods salesman at the far end of the room, half concealed in the poor light. He had reacted with only moderate surprise when he realized Elizabeth Scarlatti had brought him to Zurich. Moderate because he knew Elizabeth’s penchant for employing the unusual, both in methods and personnel, and because she probably had no one else around she could browbeat into silence as easily as this money-hungry social gadfly. He’d be a convenient chauffeur, a manservant. Kroeger hated the type.
Or was he anything else?
Why had the salesman stared at him? Had Elizabeth told him anything? She wouldn’t be that big a fool. The man was the sort who’d blackmail in a minute.
One thing was sure. He’d have to be killed.
But who had tried to kill him previously? Who had tried to stop Elizabeth? And why?
The same question was being considered by Elizabeth Scarlatti. For she believed Kroeger when he disavowed the attempts on their lives.
“Please continue, Madame Scarlatti.” It was Fritz Thyssen, his cherubic face still flushed with anger over Elizabeth’s disclosure of his Cairo trade. He had removed the booklet from the center of the table.
“I shall.” She approached the side of her chair but did not sit down. Instead, she reached once more into her briefcase. “I have one thing further, gentlemen. With it we can conclude our business, and decisions can be made. There is a copy for each of the twelve remaining investors. Those with aides will have to share them. My apologies, Mr. Kroeger, I find I haven’t one for you.” From her position at the end of the table she distributed twelve slender manila envelopes. They were sealed, and as the men passed them down, the investors taking one apiece, it was apparent that each found it difficult not to rip open the top and withdraw the contents at once. But none wished to betray such obvious anxiety.
Finally, as each of the twelve held his envelope in front of him, one by one the men began to open them.
For nearly two minutes the only sound was the rustling of pages. Otherwise, silence. Even breathing was seemingly suspended. The men from Zurich were mesmerized by what they saw. Elizabeth spoke.