The Scarletti Inheritance

by Ludlum, Robert

  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.’

  ‘Krogere. Heinrich Kroeger! Anything else, Madame Scarlatti?’

  ‘Not a thing. Not a single thing… Herr Kroeger.’

  The Scarletti Inheritance

  Chapter Forty-four

  ‘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.’

  Elizabeth paused to place her briefcase directly in front of her. The men around the table were aroused, apprehensive. Several were shocked at the casual mention of what they believed was highly confidential information. The Americans, Gibson and Landor, had quietly gone into the Canadian venture unannounced, without legal sanction, violating the U.S.-Canadian treaties. The Germans, von Schnitzler and Kindorf, had held secret conferences with Gustave Krupp—who was fighting desperately to remain neutral for fear of a Weimar takeover. If these conferences were made known, Krupp had sworn to expose them. The Frenchman, Louis Francois D’Almeida, guarded with his very life the extent of his ownership of the Franco-Italian rails. If it were known, it might well be confiscated by the republic. He had purchased the majority shares from the Italian government through plain bribery.

  And Myrdal, the heavyset Swede, bulged his eyes in disbelief when Elizabeth Scarlatti spoke so knowingly about the Stockholm exchange. His own company had covertly absorbed Donnonfeld in one of the most complicated mergers imaginable, made possible by the illegal transaction of the American securities. If it became public knowledge, the Swedish law would step in, and he’d be ruined. Only the Englishmen seemed totally poised, totally proud of their achievements. But even this measure of equanimity was misleading. For Sydney Masterton, undisputed heir to the merchant domain of Sir Robert Clive, had only recently concluded the Ceylon arrangements. They were unknown in the import-export world and there were certain agreements subject to question. Some might even say they constituted fraud.

  Huddled, quiet-toned conferences took place around the table in the four languages. Elizabeth raised her voice sufficiently to be heard.

  ‘I gather some of you are conferring with your aides—I assume they are your aides. If I’d realized this meeting made provisions for second-level negotiators, I’d have brought along my attorneys. They could have gossiped among themselves while we continue. The decisions we reach tonight, gentlemen, must be our own!’

  Heinrich Kroeger sat on the edge of his chair. He spoke harshly, unpleasantly. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure of any decisions. There are none to be made! You’ve told us nothing which couldn’t be learned by any major accounting firm!’

  A number of the men around the table—specifically the two Germans, D’Almeida, Gibson, Landor, Myrdal, and Masterson—avoided looking at him. For Kroeger was wrong.

  ‘You think so? Perhaps. But then I’ve overlooked you, haven’t I?… I shouldn’t do that, you’re obviously terribly important.’ Again, a number of the men around the table—excluding those mentioned—had traces of smiles on their lips.

  ‘Your wit is as dull as you are.’ Elizabeth was pleased with herself. She was succeeding in this most important aspect of her appearance. She was reaching, provoking Ulster Stewart Scarlett. She continued without acknowledging his remark.

  ‘Strangely obtained assets of two hundred and seventy million sold under the most questionable circumstances would necessitate a loss of at least fifty percent, possibly sixty percent of market value. I’ll grant you the least, so I shall hazard an estimate of one hundred and thirty-five million dollars at the current rates of exchange. One hundred and eight, if you’ve been weak.’

  Matthew Canfield lurched from the wall, then held his place.

  The men around the table were astonished. The hum of voices increased perceptibly. Aides were shaking their heads, nodding in agreement, raising their eyebrows unable to answer. Each participant thought he knew something of the others. Obviously, none were this knowledgeable of Heinrich Kroeger. They had not even been sure of his status at this table. Elizabeth interrupted the commotion.

  ‘However, Mister Kroeger, surely you know that theft, when eminently provable, is merely subject to proper identification before steps can be taken. There are international courts of extradition. Therefore, it is conceivable that your assets might be calculated at… zero!’

  A silence fell over the table as the gent
lemen, along with their assistants, gave Heinrich Kroeger their full attention. The words, theft, courts, and extradition were words they could not accept at this table. They were dangerous words. Kroeger, the man many of them vaguely feared for reasons solely associated with his enormous influence within both camps, was now warned.

  ‘Don’t threaten me, old woman.’ Kroeger’s voice was low, confident. He sat back in his chair and glared at his mother at the opposite end of the long table. ‘Don’t make charges unless you can substantiate them. If you’re prepared to attempt that, I’m ready to counter—If you or your colleagues were out-negotiated, this is no place to cry. You won’t get sympathy here! I might even go so far as to say you’re on treacherous ground. Remember that!’ He kept staring until Elizabeth could no longer stand the sight of his eyes. She looked away.

  She was not prepared to do anything—not with him, not with Heinrich Kroeger. She would not gamble the lives of her family more than she had already. She would not wager at this table the name of Scarlatti. Not that way. Not now. There was another way.

  Kroeger had won the point. It was obvious to all, and Elizabeth had to rush headlong on so that none would dwell upon her loss.

  ‘Keep your assets. They are quite immaterial.’

  Around the table the phrase ‘quite immaterial’ when applied to such millions was impressive. Elizabeth knew it would be.

  ‘Gentlemen. Before we were interrupted, I gave you all, by national groupings, the personal assets calculated to the nearest five million for each contingent. I felt it was more courteous than breaking down each individual’s specific worth—some things are sacred, after all. However, I was quite unfair, as several of you know. I alluded to a number of—shall we say, delicate negotiations, I’m sure you believed were inviolate. Treacherous to you—to use Mr. Kroeger’s words—if they were known within your own countries.’ Seven of the Zurich twelve were silent. Five were curious. ‘I refer to my cocitizens, Mr. Gibson and Mr. Landor. To Monsieur D’Almeida, Sydney Masterson, and of course, to the brilliant Herr Myrdal. I should also include two-thirds of Germany’s investors—Herr von Schnftzler and Herr Kindorf, but for different reasons, as I’m sure they realize.’

  No one spoke. No one turned to his aides. All eyes were upon Elizabeth.

  ‘I don’t intend to remain unfair in this fashion, gentlemen. I have something for each of you.’

  A voice other than Kroeger’s spoke up. It was the Englishman, Sydney Masterson.

  ‘May I ask the point of all this? All this… incidental intelligence? I’m sure you’ve been most industrious—highly accurate, too, speaking for myself. But none of us here have entered the race for a Jesus medal. Surely, you know that.’

  ‘I do, indeed. If it were otherwise, I wouldn’t be here tonight.’

  ‘Then why? Why this?’ The accent was German. The voice belonged to the blustering baron of the Ruhr Valley, Kindorf.

  Masterson continued. ‘Your cablegram, madame—we all received the same—specifically alluded to areas of mutual interest. I believe you went so far as to say the Scarlatti assets might be at our joint disposal. Most generous, indeed… But now I must agree with Mr. Kroeger. You sound as though you’re threatening us, and I’m not at all sure I like it.’

  ‘Oh, come, Mr. Masterson! You’ve never held out promises of English gold to half the minor potentates in the backwaters of India? Herr Kindorf has not openly bribed his unions to strike with pledges of increased wages once the French are out of the Ruhr? Please! You insult all of us! Of course, I’m here to threaten you! And I can assure you, you’ll like it less as I go on!’

  Masterson rose from the table. Several others moved their chairs. The air was hostile. ‘I shall not listen further,’ said Masterson.

  ‘Then tomorrow at noon the Foreign Office, the British Stock exchange, and the board of directors of the Collective will receive detailed specifics of your highly illegal agreements in Ceylon! Your commitments are enormous! The news might just initiate a considerable run on your holdings!’

  Masterson stood by his chair. ‘Be damned!’ were the only words he uttered as he returned to his chair. The table once again fell silent. Elizabeth opened her briefcase.

  ‘I have here an envelope for each of you. Your names are typed on the front. Inside each envelope is an accounting of your individual worths. Your strengths. Your weaknesses… There is one envelope missing. The… influential, very important Mr. Kroeger does not have one. Frankly, it’s insignificant.’

  ‘I warn you!’

  ‘So very sorry, Mr. Kroeger.’ Again the words were rapidly spoken, but this time no one was listening. Each one’s concentration was on Elizabeth Scarlatti and her briefcase. ‘Some envelopes are thicker than others, but none should place too great an emphasis on this factor. We all know the negligibility of wide diversification after a certain point.’ Elizabeth reached into her leather case.

  ‘You are a witch!’ Kindorf’s heavy accent was now guttural, the veins stood out in his temples.

  ‘Here. I shall pass them out. And as each of you peruse your miniature portfolios I shall continue talking, which, I know, will please you.’

  The envelopes were passed down both sides of the table. Some were torn open immediately, hungrily. Others, like the cards of experienced poker players, were handled carefully, cautiously.

  Matthew Canfield stood by the wall, his left arm smarting badly in the sling, his right hand in his pocket, sweatily clutching his revolver. Since Elizabeth had identified Ulster Scarlett with the 270 million, he could not take his eyes off him. This man called Heinrich Kroeger. This hideous, arrogant son of a bitch was the man he wanted! This was the filthy bastard who had done it all! This was Janet’s personal hell.

  ‘I see you all have your envelopes. Except, of course, the ubiquitous Mr Kroeger. Gentlemen, I promised you I would not be unfair and I shan’t be. There are five of you who cannot begin to appreciate the influence of Scarlatti unless you have, as they say in cheap merchandising, samples applicable to you alone. Therefore, as you read the contents of your envelopes, I shall briefly touch on these sensitive areas.’

  Several of the men who had been reading shifted their eyes toward Elizabeth without moving their heads. Others put the papers down defiantly. Some handed the pages to aides and stared at the old woman. Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder at Matthew Canfield. She was worried about him. She knew he at last, faced Ulster Scarlatti, and the pressure on him was immense. She tried to catch his eye. She tried to reassure him with a look, a confident smile.

  He would not look at her. She saw only the hatred in his eyes as he stared at the man called Heinrich Kroeger.

  ‘I shall delineate alphabetically, gentlemen Monsieur Daudet, the Republic of France would be reluctant to continue awarding franchises to your fleet if they were aware of those ships under Paraguayan flag which carried supplies to France’s enemies in time of war.’ Daudet remained motionless, but Elizabeth was amused to see the three Englishmen bristle at the Frenchman.

  ‘The predictable, contradictory British.’

  ‘Oh, come, Mr Innes-Bowen. You may not have run ammunition, but how many neutral ships were loaded off how many piers in India with textile cargoes bound for Bremerhaven and Cuxhaven during the same period. And Mr Leacock. You can’t really forget your fine Irish heritage, can you? The Sinn Fein has proposed well under your tutelage. Moneys funneled through you to the Irish rebellion cost the lives of thousands of British soldiers at a time when England could least afford them! And quiet, calm Herr Olaffsen. The crown prince of Swedish steel. Or is he the king now? He might well be, for the Swedish government paid him several fortunes for untold hundreds of tons of low carbon ingot. However, they didn’t come from his own superior factories. They were shipped from inferior mills half a world away—from Japan.’

  Elizabeth reached into her briefcase once again. The men around the table were like corpses, immobile, only their minds were working. For Heinrich Kroeger, Elizabeth Sca
rlatti had placed the seal of approval on her own death warrant. He sat back and relaxed. Elizabeth withdrew a thin booklet from her briefcase.

  ‘Lastly we come to Herr Thyssen. He emerges with the least pain. No grand fraud, no treason, only minor illegality and major embarrassment. Hardly a fitting tribute to the house of August, Thyssen.’ She threw the booklet into the center of the table. ‘Filth, gentlemen, just plain filth. Fritz Thyssen, pornographer. Purveyor of obscenity. Books, pamphlets, even motion pictures. Printed and filmed in Thyssen warehouses in Cairo. Every government on the Continent has condemned the unknown source. There he is, gentlemen. Your associate.’

  For a long moment no one spoke. Each man was concerned with himself. Each calculated the damage that could result from old Scarlatti’s disclosures. In every instance the loss was accompanied by degrees of disgrace. Reputations could hang in balance. The old woman had issued twelve indictments and personally returned twelve verdicts of guilty. Somehow, no one considered the thirteenth, Heinrich Kroeger.

  Sydney Masterson pierced the belligerent air with a loud, manufactured cough. ‘Very well, Madame Scarlatti, you’ve made the point I referred to earlier. However, I think I should remind you that we are not impotent men. Charges and counter charges are parts of our lives. Solicitors can refute every accusation you’ve made, and I can assure you that lawsuits for unmitigated slander would be in the forefront. After all, when gutter tactics are employed there are expedient replies. If you think we fear disdain, believe me when I tell you that public opinion has been molded by far less money than is represented at this table.’

  The gentlemen of Zurich took confidence in Masterson’s words. There were nods of agreement.

  ‘I don’t for one second doubt you, Mr Masterson. Any of you. Missing personnel files, opportunistic executives—sacrificial goats. Please, gentlemen! I only contend that you wouldn’t welcome the trouble. Or the anxiety which goes with such distasteful matters.’