The Scarlatti Inheritance

by Robert Ludlum

  “At the start of tomorrow’s business, subject to time zones, enormous transfers of Scarlatti capital will have been made to the financial centers of the five nations represented at this table. In Berlin, Paris, Stockholm, London, and New York, negotiations have already been completed for massive purchases on the open market of the outstanding shares of your central companies.… Before noon of the next business day, gentlemen, Scarlatti will have considerable, though, of course, minority ownership in many of your vast enterprises.… Six hundred and seventy million dollars’ worth!… Do you realize what this means, gentlemen?”

  Kindorf roared. “Ja! You will drive up the prices and makes us fortunes! You will own nothing!”

  “My dear lady, you are extraordinary.” Innes-Bowen’s textile prices had remained conservative. He was overjoyed at the prospects.

  D’Almeida, who realized she could not enter his Franco-Italian rails, took another view. “You can not purchase one share of my property, madame!”

  “Some of you are more fortunate than others, Monsieur D’Almeida.”

  Leacock, the financier, the gentlest trace of a brogue in his cultivated voice, spoke up. “Granting what you say, and it is entirely possible, Madame Scarlatti, what have we suffered?… We have not lost a daughter, but gained a minor associate.” He turned to the others who, he hoped, would find humor in his analogy.

  Elizabeth held her breath before speaking. She waited until the men of Zurich were once again focused on her.

  “I said before noon Scarlatti would be in the position I outlined.… One hour later a tidal wave will form in the Kurfuerstendamm in Berlin and end in New York’s Wall Street! One hour later Scarlatti will divest itself of these holdings at a fraction of their cost! I have estimated three cents on the dollar.… Simultaneously, every bit of information Scarlatti has learned of your questionable activities will be released to the major wire services in each of your countries.… You might sustain slander by itself, gentlemen. You will not be the same men when it is accompanied by financial panic! Some of you will remain barely intact. Some will be wiped out. The majority of you will be affected disastrously!”

  After the briefest moment of shocked silence, the room exploded. Aides were questioned peremptorily. Answers were bellowed to be heard.

  Heinrich Kroeger rose from his chair and screamed at the men. “Stop! Stop! You damn fools, stop it! She’d never do it! She’s bluffing!”

  “Do you really think so?” Elizabeth shouted above the voices.

  “I’ll kill you, you bitch!”

  “You are demented, Frau Scarlatti!”

  “Try it … Kroeger! Try it!” Matthew Canfield stood by Elizabeth, his eyes bloodshot with fury as he stared at Ulster Stewart Scarlett.

  “Who the hell are you, you lousy peddler?” The man called Kroeger, hands gripping the table, returned Canfield’s stare and screeched to be heard by the salesman.

  “Look at me good! I’m your executioner!”

  “What!”

  The man called Heinrich Kroeger squinted his misshapen eyes. He was bewildered. Who was this parasite? But he could not take the time to think. The voices of the men of Zurich had reached a crescendo. They were now shouting at each other.

  Heinrich Kroeger pounded the table. He had to get control. He had to get them quiet. “Stop it!… Listen to me! If you’ll listen to me, I’ll tell you why she can’t do it! She can’t do it, I tell you!”

  One by one the voices became quieter and finally trailed off into silence. The men of Zurich watched Kroeger. He pointed at Elizabeth Scarlatti.

  “I know this bitch-woman! I’ve seen her do this before! She gets men together, powerful men, and frightens them. They go into panic and sell out! She gambles on fear, you cowards! On fear!”

  Daudet spoke quietly. “You have answered nothing. Why can’t she do as she says?”

  Kroeger did not take his eyes off Elizabeth Scarlatti as he replied. “Because to do it would destroy everything she’s ever fought for. It would collapse Scarlatti!”

  Sydney Masterson spoke just above a whisper. “That would appear to be obvious. The question remains unanswered.”

  “She couldn’t live without that power! Take my word for it! She couldn’t live without it!”

  “That’s an opinion,” said Elizabeth Scarlatti facing her son at the opposite end of the table. “Do you ask the majority of those at this table to risk everything on your opinion?”

  “God damn you!”

  “This Kroeger’s right, honey.” The Texas drawl was unmistakable. “You’ll ruin yourself. You won’t have a pot to piss in.”

  “Your language matches the crudity of your operations, Mr. Landor.”

  “I don’t give pig piss for words, old lady. I do about money, and that’s what we’re talkin’ about. Why do you want to pull this here crap?”

  “That I’m doing it is sufficient, Mr. Landor.… Gentlemen, I said time was running out. The next twenty-four hours will either be a normal Tuesday or a day which will never be forgotten in the financial capitals of our world.… Some here will survive. Most of you will not. Which will it be, gentlemen?… I submit that in light of everything I’ve said, it’s a poor fiscal decision wherein the majority allows the minority to cause its destruction.”

  “What is it you want of us?” Myrdal was a cautious bargainer. “A few might rather weather your threats than accept your demands.… Sometimes I think it is all a game. What are your demands?”

  “That this … association be disbanded at once. That all financial and political ties in Germany with whatever factions be severed without delay! That those of you who have been entrusted with appointments to the Allied Controls Commission resign immediately!”

  “No! No! No! No!” Heinrich Kroeger was enraged. He banged his fist with all his might upon the table. “This organization has taken years to build! We will control the economy of Europe. We will control all Europe! We will do it!”

  “Hear me, gentlemen! Mr. Myrdal said it’s a game! Of course, it’s a game! A game we expend our lives on. Our souls on! It consumes us, and we demand more and more and more until, at last, we crave our own destruction.… Herr Kroeger says I can’t live without the power I’ve sought and gained. He may be right, gentlemen! Perhaps it’s time for me to reach that logical end, the end which I now crave and for which I’m willing to pay the price.… Of course, I’ll do as I say, gentlemen. I welcome death!”

  “Let it be yours, then, not ours.” Sydney Masterson understood.

  “So be it, Mr. Masterson. I’m not overwhelmed, you know. I leave to all of you the necessity of coping with this strange new world we’ve entered. Don’t think for a minute, gentlemen, that I can’t understand you! Understand what you’ve done. Most horridly, why you’ve done it!… You look around your personal kingdoms and you’re frightened. You see your power threatened—by theories, governments, strange-sounding concepts which eat away at your roots. You have an overpowering anxiety to protect the feudal system which spawned you. And well you should, perhaps. It won’t last long.… But you will not do it this way!”

  “Since you understand so, why do you stop us? This undertaking protects all of us. Ultimately yourself as well. Why do you stop us?” D’Almeida could lose the Franco-Italian rails and survive, if only the remainder could be saved.

  “It always starts that way. The greater good.… Let’s say I stop you because what you’re doing is a far greater blemish than it is a cure. And that’s all I’ll say about it!”

  “From you, that’s ludicrous! I tell you again, she won’t do it!” Kroeger pounded the flat of his hand on the table, but no one paid much attention to him.

  “When you say time is running out, Madame Scarlatti, how do you mean it? From what you said, I gathered time had run out. The expensive road had been taken.…”

  “There’s a man in Geneva, Mr. Masterson, who’s awaiting a phone call from me. If he receives that phone call, a cable will be sent to my offices in New York. I
f that cable arrives, the operation is canceled. If it doesn’t, it’s executed on schedule.”

  “That’s impossible! Such complexity untangled with a cablegram? I don’t believe you.” Monsieur Daudet was certain of ruin.

  “I assume considerable financial penalties by the action.”

  “You assume more than that, I would suspect, madame. You’ll never be trusted again. Scarlatti will be isolated!”

  “It’s a prospect, Mr. Masterson. Not a conclusion. The marketplace is flexible.… Well, gentlemen? Your answer?”

  Syndey Masterson rose from his chair. “Make your phone call. There’s no other choice, is there, gentlemen?”

  The men of Zurich looked at each other. Slowly they began to get out of their chairs, gathering the papers in front of them.

  “It’s finished. I am out of it.” Kindorf folded the manila envelope and put it in his pocket.

  “You’re a beastly tiger. I shouldn’t care to meet you in the arena with an army at my back.” Leacock stood erect.

  “You may be bullshitter, but I’m not gonna slip on it!” Landor nudged Gibson, who found it difficult to adjust.

  “We can’t be sure.… That’s our problem. We can’t be sure,” said Gibson.

  “Wait! Wait! Wait a minute!” Heinrich Kroeger began to shout. “You do this! You walk out! You’re dead!… Every God damn one of you leeches is dead! Leeches! Yellow-bellied leeches!… You suck our blood; you make agreements with us. Then you walk out?… Afraid for your little businesses? You God damn Jew bastards! We don’t need you! Any of you! But you’re going to need us! We’ll cut you up and feed you to dogs! God damn swine!” Kroeger’s face was flushed. His words spewed out, tumbling over one another.

  “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.

  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 headi
ng 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.