And then Canfield wondered if the agony of the last hours had played tricks with his sight, corrupted the infallible process of vision.
Or had the blond man bent his head down and whispered something into Heinrich Kroeger’s ear?
Was Heinrich Kroeger still alive?
Von Schnitzler stood over Canfield. “He will be taken away. I have ordered a coup de grace. No matter, he is dead. It is finished.” The obese von Schnitzler then shouted further commands in German to the uniformed chauffeurs around Kroeger. Several started to lift up the lifeless form but they were blocked by the blond man with the close-cropped hair. He shouldered them out of the way, not letting them touch the body.
He alone lifted Heinrich Kroeger off the floor and carried him out the door. The others followed.
“How’s she?” Canfield gestured toward Elizabeth, who was seated in a chair. She was staring at the door through which the body had been taken, staring at the man no one knew was her son.
“Fine! She can make her call now!” Leacock was trying his best to be decisive.
Canfield rose from the floor and crossed to Elizabeth. He put his hand on her wrinkled cheek. He could not help himself.
Tears were falling down the ridges of her face.
And then Matthew Canfield looked up. He could hear the sound of a powerful automobile racing away. He was bothered.
Von Schnitzler had told him he’d ordered a coup de grace.
Yet no shot was fired.
A mile away, on the Winterthurstrasse, two men dragged the body of a dead man to a truck. They weren’t sure what to do. The dead man had hired them, hired them all to stop the automobile heading to Falke Haus. He had paid them in advance, they had insisted upon it. Now he was dead, killed by a bullet meant for the driver of the automobile an hour ago. As they dragged the body over the rocky incline toward the truck, the blood from the mouth sprewed onto the perfectly matted waxed moustache.
The man named Poole was dead.
PART FOUR
CHAPTER 45
Major Matthew Canfield, aged forty-five—about to be forty-six—stretched his legs diagonally across the back of the army car. They had entered the township of Oyster Bay, and the sallow-complexioned sergeant broke the silence.
“Getting close, Major. You better wake up.”
Wake up. It should be as easy as that. The perspiration streamed down his face. His heart was rhythmically pounding an unknown theme.
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
The car swung east down Harbor Road toward the ocean drive. As they came closer to his home, Major Matthew Canfield began to tremble. He grabbed his wrists, held his breath, bit the front of his tongue. He could not fall apart. He could not allow himself the indulgence of self-pity. He could not do that to Janet. He owed her so much.
The sergeant blithely turned into the blue stone driveway and stopped at the path, which led to the front entrance of the large beach estate. The sergeant enjoyed driving out to Oyster Bay with his rich major. There was always lots of good food, in spite of rationing, and the liquor was always the best. No cheap stuff for the Camshaft, as he was known in the enlisted man’s barracks.
The major slowly got out of the car. The sergeant was concerned. Something was wrong with the major. He hoped it didn’t mean they’d have to drive back to New York. The old man seemed to have trouble standing up.
“Okay, Major?”
“Okay, Sergeant.… How’d you like to bunk in the boathouse tonight?” He did not look at the sergeant as he spoke.
“Sure! Great, Major!” It was where he always bunked. The boathouse apartment had a full kitchen and plenty of booze. Even a telephone. But the sergeant didn’t have any signal that he could use it yet. He decided to try his luck. “Will you need me, Major? Could I call a couple of friends here?”
The major walked up the path. He called back quietly. “Do whatever you like, Sergeant. Just stay away from that radiophone. Is that understood?”
“You betcha, Major!” The sergeant gunned the engine and drove down toward the beach.
Matthew Canfield stood in front of the white, scalloped door with the sturdy hurricane lamps on both sides.
His home.
Janet.
The door opened and she stood there. The slightly graying hair, which she would not retouch. The upturned nose above the delicate, sensitive mouth. The bright, wide, brown searching eyes. The gentle loveliness of her face. The comforting concern she radiated.
“I heard the car. No one drives to the boathouse like Evans!… Matthew. Matthew! My darling! You’re crying!”
CHAPTER 46
The plane, an Army B-29 transport, descended from the late-afternoon clouds to the airport in Lisbon. An Air Force corporal walked down the aisle.
“Please buckle all seat belts! No smoking! We’ll be down in four minutes.” He spoke in a monotone, aware that his passengers had to be important, so he would be more important, but courteous, when he had to tell them something.