The Scarlatti Inheritance (43 page)

“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 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.

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!”

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.

The young man next to Matthew Canfield had said very little since their takeoff from Shannon. A number of times the major tried to explain that they were taking air routes out of range of the
Luftwaffe
, and that there was nothing to worry about. Andrew Scarlett had merely mumbled understood approval and had gone back to his magazines.

The car at the Lisbon airport was an armored Lincoln with two OSS personnel in the front. The windows could withstand short-range gunfire, and the automobile was capable of 120 miles an hour. They had to drive thirty-two miles up the Tejo River road to an airfield in Alenguer.

At Alenguer the man and boy boarded a low-flying, specially constructed Navy TBF with no markings for the trip to Bern. There would be no stops. Throughout the route, English, American, and Free French fighters were scheduled to intercept and protect to the destination.

At Bern they were met by a Swiss government vehicle, flanked by a motorcycle escort of eight men—one at the front, one at the rear, and three on each side. All were armed in spite of the Geneva pact, which prohibited such practices.

They drove to a village twenty-odd miles to the north, toward the German border. Kreuzlingen.

They arrived at a small inn, isolated from the rest of civilization, and the man and boy got out of the car. The driver sped the automobile away, and the motorcycle complement disappeared.

Matthew Canfield led the boy up the steps to the entrance of the inn.

Inside the lobby could be heard the wailing sound of an accordion, echoing from what was apparently a sparsely populated dining room. The high-ceilinged entry room was inhospitable, conveying the feeling that guests were not welcome.

Matthew Canfield and Andrew Scarlett approached the counter, which served as a front desk.

“Please, ring through to room six that April Red is here.”

As the clerk plugged in his line, the boy suddenly shook. Canfield grabbed his arm and held him.

They walked up the stairs, and the two men stood in front of the door marked with the numeral six.

“There’s nothing I can tell you now, Andy, except that we’re here for one person. At least that’s why I’m here. Janet. Your mother. Try to remember that.”

The boy took a deep breath. “I’ll try, Dad. Open the door! Jesus! Open the door!”

The room was dimly lit by small lamps on small tables. It was ornate in the fashion the Swiss felt proper for tourists—heavy rugs and solid furniture, overstuffed chairs and much antimacassar.

At the far end sat a man in half shadow. The spill of light angled sharply down across his chest but did not illuminate his face. The figure was dressed in brown tweeds, the jacket a combination of heavy cloth and leather.

He spoke in a throaty, harsh voice. “You are?”

“Canfield and April Red. Kroeger?”

“Shut the door.”

Matthew Canfield closed the door and took several steps forward in front of Andrew Scarlett. He would cover the boy. He put his hand in his right coat pocket.

“I have a gun pointed at you, Kroeger. Not the same gun but the same pocket as last time we met. This time I won’t take anything for granted. Do I make myself clear?”

“If you like, take it out of your pocket and hold it against my head.… There’s not much I can do about it.”

Canfield approached the figure in the chair.

It was horrible.

The man was a semi-invalid. He seemed to be paralyzed through the entire left portion of his body, extending to his jaw. His hands were folded across his front, his fingers extended as though spastic. But his eyes were alert.

His eyes.

His face.… Covered over by white splotches of skin graft below gray short-cropped hair. The man spoke.

“What you see was carried out of Sevastopol. Operation Barbarossa.”

“What do you have to tell us, Kroeger?”

“First, April Red.… Tell him to come closer.”

“Come here, Andy. By me.”

“Andy!” The man in the chair laughed through his half-closed mouth. “Isn’t that nice! Andy! Come here, Andy!”

Andrew Scarlett approached his stepfather and stood by his side, looking down at the deformed man in the chair.

“So you’re the son of Ulster Scarlett?”

“I’m Matthew Canfield’s son.”

Canfield held his place, watching the father and son. He suddenly felt as though he didn’t belong. He had the feeling that giants—old and infirm, young and scrawny—were about to do battle. And he was not of their house.

“No, young man, you’re the son of Ulster Stewart Scarlett, heir to Scarlatti!”

“I’m exactly what I want to be! I have nothing to do with you.” The young man breathed deeply. The fear was leaving him now, and in its place Canfield saw that a quiet fury was taking hold of the boy.

“Easy, Andy. Easy.”

“Why?… For him?… Look at him. He’s practically dead.… He doesn’t even have a face.”

“Stop it!” Ulster Scarlett’s shrill voice reminded Canfield of that long-ago room in Zurich. “Stop it, you fool!”

“For what? For you?… Why should I?… I don’t know you! I don’t want to know you!… You left a long time ago!” The young man pointed to Canfield. “He took over for you. I listen to him. You’re nothing to me!”

“Don’t you talk to me like that! Don’t you dare!”

Canfield spoke sharply. “I’ve brought April Red, Kroeger! What have you got to deliver! That’s what we’re here for. Let’s get it over with!”