The Scarlatti Inheritance (33 page)

As he stood on the curb under the Knights’ canopy waiting for a taxi, Canfield was numb with fear. He was no longer dealing with a world he understood. He was dealing with giants, with concepts, with commitments beyond his comprehension.

Elizabeth had the newspaper and magazine articles spread over the couch. Ogilvie and Storm, publishers, had done an excellent job. There was more material here than Elizabeth or Canfield could digest in a week.

The National Socialist German Workers party emerged as ragtail fanatics. The
Schutzstaffel
were brutes but no one took them seriously. The articles, the photographs, even the short headlines were slanted in such a way as to give a comic-opera effect.

Why Work in the Fatherland

if You Can Dress Up

and Pretend It’s Wagner?

Canfield picked up a portion of a Sunday supplement and read the names of the leaders. Adolf Hitler, Erich Ludendorff, Rudolf Hess, Gregor Strasser. They read like a team of vaudeville jugglers. Adolf, Erich, Rudolf, and Gregor. However, toward the end of the article his amusement waned. There were the phrases.

“…  conspiracy of Jews and Communists …”

“…  daughters raped by Bolshevik terrorists!…”

“…  Aryan blood soiled by scheming Semites!…”

“…  a plan for a thousand years!…”

Canfield could see the face of Basil Hawkwood, owner of one of the largest industries in England, whispering with great intensity many of these same words. He thought of the shipments of leather to Munich. The leather without the trademark
hawkwood
, but the leather
that became part of the uniforms in these photographs. He recalled the manipulations of the dead Bertholde, the road in Wales, the mass murders at York.

Elizabeth was sitting at the desk jotting down notes from an article. A picture was beginning to emerge for her. But it was incomplete, as if part of a background was missing. It bothered her, but she’d learned enough.

“It staggers your imagination, doesn’t it?” said Elizabeth, rising from her chair.

“What do you make of it?”

“Enough to frighten me. An obscure but volatile political organization is being quietly, slowly financed by a number of the wealthiest men on earth. The men of Zurich. And my son is part of them.”

“But why?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Elizabeth walked to the window. “There’s more to learn. However, one thing is clear. If this band of fanatics make solid progress in Germany—in the Reichstag—the men of Zurich could control unheard of economic power. It’s a long-range concept, I think. It could be brilliant strategy.”

“Then I’ve got to get back to Washington!”

“They may already know or suspect.”

“Then we’ve got to move in!”

“You can’t move in!” Elizabeth turned back to Canfield, raising her voice. “No government has the right to interfere with the internal politics of another. No government has that right. There’s another way. A far more effective way. But there’s an enormous risk and I must consider it.” The old woman brought her cupped hands up to her lips and walked away from Canfield.

“What is it? What’s the risk?”

Elizabeth, however, did not hear him. She was concentrating deeply. After several minutes she spoke to him from across the room.

“There is an island in a remote lake in Canada. My husband, in a rash moment, bought it years and years ago. There are several dwellings on it, primitive but habitable.… If I put at your disposal whatever funds were necessary, could you have this island so guarded that it would be impregnable?”

“I think so.”

“That’s not good enough. There can be no element of doubt. The lives of my entire family would depend on
total isolation. The funds I mention are, frankly, limitless.”

“All right, then. Yes, I could.”

“Could you have them taken there in complete secrecy?”

“Yes.”

“Could you set all this up within a week?”

“Yes, again.”

“Very well. I’ll outline what I propose. Believe me when I tell you it is the only way.”

“What’s your proposal?”

“Put simply, the Scarlatti Industries will economically destroy every investor in Zurich. Force them into financial ruin.”

Canfield looked at the prepossessing, confident old woman. For several seconds he said nothing, merely sucked breath through his teeth as if trying to formulate a reply.

“You’re a lunatic,” he said quietly. “You’re one person. They’re fourteen … no, now thirteen stinking rich fatcats. You’re no match for them.”

“It’s not what one’s worth that counts, Mr. Canfield. Not after a point. It’s how rapidly one can manipulate his holdings. The time factor is the ultimate weapon in economics, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. In my case, one judgment prevails.”

“What does that mean?”

Elizabeth stood motionless in front of Canfield. Her speech was measured. “If I were to liquidate the entire Scarlatti Industries, there is no one on earth who could stop me.”

The field accountant wasn’t sure he understood her implication. He looked at her for a few seconds before speaking. “Oh? So?”

“You fool!… Outside of the Rothschilds and, perhaps a few Indian maharajas, I doubt there’s another person in my position, or in our civilization, who can say that!”

“Why not? Why can’t any of the men in Zurich do the same thing?”

The old woman was exasperated. She clasped her hands and brought the clenched fingers to her chin. “For a man whose imagination far exceeds his intelligence,
you astonish me. Or is it only fear that provokes your perception of larger things?”

“No question for a question! I want an answer!”

“It’s all related, I assure you. The primary reason why the operation in Zurich can not and will not do as I can do is their own fear. Fear of the laws binding their commitments; fear of the investments, investors; fear of extraordinary decisions; fear of the panic which always results from such decisions. Most important of all, fear of financial ruin.”

“And none of that bothers you? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No commitments bind Scarlatti. Until I die, there is only one voice. I
am
Scarlatti.”

“What about the rest of it? The decisions, the panics, the ruin?”

“As always my decisions will be executed with precision and foresight. Panic will be avoided.”

“And so will financial ruin, huh?… You are the God damnedest, self-confident old lady!”

“Again you fail to understand. At this juncture I anticipate the collapse of Scarlatti as inevitable should I be called. There will be no quarter given.”

Matthew Canfield now understood. “I’ll be damned.”

“I must have vast sums. Amounts inconceivable to you, which can be allocated by a single command. Money which can purchase massive holdings, inflate or depress entire markets. Once that kind of manipulation has been exercised, I doubt that all the capital on earth could put Scarlatti back together. It would never be trusted again.”

“Then you’d be finished.”

“Irrevocably.”

The old woman moved in front of Canfield. She looked at him but not in the manner to which he was accustomed. She might have been a worried grandmother from the dry plains of Kansas asking the preacher if the Lord would allow the rains to come.

“I have no arguments left. Please allow me my last battle. My final gesture, as it were.”

“You’re asking an awful lot.”

“Not when you think of it. If you return, it’ll take you a week to reach Washington. Another week to compile everything we’ve been through. Days before you reach
those in government who should listen to you, if you can get them to listen to you at all. By my calculations that would be at least three or four weeks. Do you agree?”

Canfield felt foolish standing in front of Elizabeth. For no reason other than to increase the distance between them, he walked to the center of the room. “God damn it, I don’t know what I agree with!”

“Give me four weeks. Just four weeks from today.… If I fail we’ll do as you wish.… More than that I’ll come to Washington with you. I’ll testify, if need be, in front of one of those committees. I’ll do whatever you and your associates think necessary. Further, I’ll settle our personal account three times above that agreed upon.”

“Suppose you fail?”

“What possible difference can it make to anyone but myself? There’s little sympathy in this world for fallen millionaires.”

“What about your family then? They can’t spend the rest of their lives in some remote lake in Canada?”

“That won’t be necessary. Regardless of the larger outcome, I’ll destroy my son. I shall expose Ulster Scarlett for what he is. I’ll sentence him to death at Zurich.”

The field accountant fell silent for a moment and looked at Elizabeth. “Have you considered the fact that you might be killed?”

“I have.”

“You’d risk that … Sell out Scarlatti Industries. Destroy everything you’ve built. Is it worth that to you? Do you hate him that much?”

“Yes. As one hates a disease. Magnified because I’m responsible for its flourishing.”

Canfield put his glass down, tempted to pour himself another drink. “That’s going a little far.”

“I didn’t say I invented the disease. I said that I’m responsible for spreading it. Not simply because I provided the money but infinitely more important, because I implanted an idea. An idea which has become warped in the process of maturing.”

“I don’t believe that. You’re no saint, but you don’t think like that.” He pointed toward the papers on the couch.

The old woman’s weary eyes closed.

“There’s a little of … that in each of us. It’s all part of the idea.… The twisted idea. My husband and I devoted
years to the building of an industrial empire. Since his death, I’ve fought in the marketplace—doubling, redoubling, adding, building—always acquiring.… It’s been a stimulating, all-consuming game.… I’ve played it well. And sometime during all those years, my son learned what many observers failed to learn—that it was never the acquisition of profits or material gain that mattered—they were merely the by-products. It was the acquisition of power.… I wanted that power because I sincerely believed that I was equipped for the responsibility. The more convinced I became, it had to follow that others were not equipped.… The quest for power becomes a personal crusade, I think. The more success one has, the more personal it becomes. Whether he understood it or not, that’s what my son saw happening.… There may be similarities of purpose, even of motive. But a great gulf divides us—my son and me.”

“I’ll give you the four weeks. Jesus Christ only knows why. But you still haven’t made it clear to me why you want to risk all this. Throw away everything.”

“I’ve tried to.… You’re slow at times. If I offend, it’s because I think you do understand. You’re deliberately asking me to spell out an unpleasant reality.” She carried her notes to the table by her bedroom door. As the light had grown dim, she turned on the lamp, causing the fringe on the shade to shimmy. She seemed fascinated by the movement. “I imagine that all of
us
—the Bible calls us the rich and mighty—wish to leave this world somewhat different from the way it was before us. As the years go by, this vague, ill-defined instinct becomes really quite important. How many of us have toyed with the phrases of our own obituaries?” She turned from the lamp and looked at the field accountant. “Considering everything we now know, would you care to speculate on my not-too-distant obituary?”

“No deal. That’s another question.”

“It’s a snap, you know.… The wealth is taken for granted. Every agonizing decision, every nerve-racking gamble—they become simple, expected accomplishments. Accomplishments more to be scorned than admired because I’m both a woman and a highly competitive speculator. An unattractive combination.… One son lost in the Great War. Another rapidly emerging as a pompous incompetent, sought after for every wrong reason, discarded
and laughed at whenever feasible. And now this. A madman leading or at least a part of a growing band of psychopathic malcontents.… This is what I bequeath. What Scarlatti bequeaths, Mr. Canfield.… Not a very enviable sum, is it?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Consequently, I’ll stop at nothing to prevent this final madness …” She picked up her notes and went into the bedroom. She closed the door behind her, leaving Canfield in the large sitting room by himself. He thought for a moment that the old woman was on the verge of tears.

The monoplane’s flight over the channel had been uneventful—the wind calm, the visibility excellent. It was fortunate for Scarlett that such was the case, for the stinging irritation of his unhealed surgery coupled with the pitch of his fury would have made a difficult trip a disastrous one. He was hardly capable of keeping his mind on the compass bearings and when he first saw the Normandy coast, it looked unfamiliar to him. Yet he had made these very same sightings a dozen times.

He was met at the small airfield outside of Lisieux by the Paris contingent, consisting of two Germans and a French Gascon, whose guttural dialect nearly matched that of his associates.

The three Europeans anticipated that the man—they did not know his name—would instruct them to return to Paris. To await further orders.

The man had other intentions, insisting that they all sit uncomfortably together in the front seat while he occupied the entire space in the back. He ordered the car to Vernon, where two got out and were told to make their own way back to Paris. The driver was to remain.

The driver vaguely protested when Scarlett ordered him to proceed west to Montbéliard, a small town near the Swiss border.

“
Mein Herr!
That’s a four-hundred-kilometer trip! It will take ten hours or more on these abysmal roads!”

“Then we should be there by dinner time. And be quiet!”

“It might have been simpler for
mein Herr
to refuel and fly …”

“I do not fly when I am tired. Relax. I’ll find you some ‘seafood’ in Montbéliard. Vary your diet, Kircher. It excites the palate.”

“Jawohl, mein Herr!” Kircher grinned, knowing the man was really a fine
Oberführer.