“Stop it, Kroeger!” Masterson took a step toward the raving man with the splotched face. “It’s finished! Can’t you understand? It’s finished!”
“Stay where you are, you scum, you English fairy!” Kroeger drew the pistol from his holster. Canfield, standing by Elizabeth, saw that it was a long-barreled forty-five and would blast half a man’s body off with one shot.
“Stay where you are!… Finished! Nothing’s finished until I say it’s finished. God damn filthy pigs! Frightened little slug worms! We’re too far along!… No one will stop us now! …” He waved the pistol toward Elizabeth and Canfield. “Finished! I’ll tell you who’s finished! She is!… Get out of my way.” He started down the left side of the table as the Frenchman, Daudet, squealed.
“Don’t do it, monsieur! Don’t kill her! You do, and we are ruined!”
“I warn you, Kroeger! You murder her and you’ll answer to us! We’ll not be intimidated by you! We’ll not destroy ourselves because of you!” Masterson stood at Kroeger’s side, their shoulders nearly touching. The Englishman would not move.
Without a word, without warning, Heinrich Kroeger pointed his pistol at Masterson’s stomach and fired. The shot was deafening and Sydney Masterson was jackknifed into the air. He fell to the floor, blood drenching his entire front, instantaneously dead.
The eleven men of Zurich gasped, some screamed in horror at the sight of the bloody corpse. Heinrich Kroeger kept walking. Those in his path got out of his way.
Elizabeth Scarlatti held her place. She locked her eyes with those of her killer son. “I curse the day you were born. You revile the house of your father. But know this, Heinrich Kroeger, and know it well!” The old woman’s voice filled the cavernous room. Her power was such that her son was momentarily stunned, staring at her in hatred as she pronounced his sentence of execution. “Your identity will be spread across every front page of every newspaper in the civilized world after I’m dead! You will be hunted down for what you are! A madman, a murderer, a thief! And every man in this room, every investor in Zurich, will be branded your associate if they let you live this night!”
An uncontrollable rage exploded in the misshapen eyes of Heinrich Kroeger. His body shook with fury as he lashed at a chair in front of him sending it crashing across the floor. To kill was not enough. He had to kill at close range, he had to see the life and mind of Elizabeth Scarlatti detonated into oblivion in front of his eyes.
Matthew Canfield held the trigger of his revolver in his right-hand pocket. He had never fired from his pocket and he knew that if he missed he and Elizabeth would die. He was not sure how long he could wait. He would aim in the vicinity of the approaching man’s chest, the largest target facing him. He waited until he could wait no longer.
The report of the small revolver and the impact of the bullet into Scarlett’s shoulder was so much of a shock that Kroeger, for a split second, widened his eyes in disbelief.
It was enough, just enough for Canfield.
With all his strength he crashed into Elizabeth with his right shoulder sending her frail body toward the floor out of Kroeger’s line of sight as he, Canfield, flung himself to the left. He withdrew his revolver and fired again, rapidly, into the man called Heinrich Kroeger.
Kroeger’s huge pistol went off into the floor as he crumpled over.
Canfield staggered up, forgetting the unbearable pain in his left arm, which had been crushed under the weight of his own body. He leaped on Ulster Stewart Scarlett, wrenching the pistol from the iron grip. He began hitting the face of Heinrich Kroeger with the barrel. He could not stop.
Destroy the face! Destroy the horrible face!
Finally he was pulled off.
“Gott! He’s dead! Halt! Stop! You can do no more!” The large, strong Fritz Thyssen held him.
Matthew Canfield felt weak and sank to the floor.
The men of Zurich had gathered around. Several helped Elizabeth, while the others bent over Heinrich Kroeger.
Rapid knocking came from the door leading to the hall.
Von Schnitzler took command. “Let them in!” he ordered in his thick German accent.
D’Almeida walked swiftly to the door and opened it. A number of chauffeurs stood at the entrance. It occurred to Canfield as he watched them that these men were not simply drivers of automobiles. He had good reason. They were armed.
As he lay there on the floor in terrible pain and shock, Canfield saw a brutish-looking blond man with close-cropped hair bent over the body of Heinrich Kroeger. He pushed the others away for the briefest instant while he pulled back the misshapen lid of one eye.