Chapter Thirty-two

‘What the devil do you mean I was there?’ James Derek shouted into the phone. ‘I’ve been here at the Savoy since mid-afternoon!… Yes, of course I am. Since three or thereabouts… No, she’s here with me.’ The Englishman suddenly caught his breath. When he spoke again his words were barely audible, drawn out in disbelief. ‘Good Lord!… How horrible… Yes. Yes, I heard you.’

Elizabeth Scarlatti sat across the room on the Victorian couch, absorbed in the Bertholde dossier. At the sound of Derek’s voice she looked up at the Englishman. He was staring at her. He spoke again into the phone.

‘Yes. He left here roughly at three-thirty. With Ferguson, from our office. They were to meet Mrs. Scarlett at Tippin’s and he was to proceed from there to Bertholde’s—I don’t know. His instructions were that she remain in Ferguson’s custody until he returned. Ferguson’s to call in… I see. For heaven’s sake, keep me posted. I’ll phone you if there’s any developments here.’

He replaced the telephone receiver on the hook and remained at the table. ‘Bertholde’s been killed.’

‘Good God! Where’s my daughter?’

‘With our man. She’s all right. He reported in an hour ago,’’

‘Canfield! Where’s Canfield?’

‘I wish I knew.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘How can I answer that if I don’t know where he is? We can presume he’s functioning. He identified himself as me and left the scene!’

‘How did it happen?’

‘He was garroted. A wire around his throat.’

‘Oh!’ Elizabeth suddenly, vividly recalled the picture of Matthew Canfield thrusting the cord in her face after Boothroyd’s attempt on her life aboard the Calpurnia. ‘If he killed him, he must have had a reason!’

‘What?’

‘For killing him. He must have had to!’

‘That’s most interesting.’

‘What is?’

‘That you would think Canfield had to kill him.’

‘It couldn’t have happened otherwise! He’s no killer.’

‘He didn’t kill Bertholde either, if it’s any comfort to you.’

Her relief was visible. ‘Do they know who did?’

‘They believe so. Apparently it was Bertholde’s chauffeur.’

‘That’s odd.’

‘Very. The man’s been with him for years.’

‘Perhaps Canfield’s gone after him.’

‘Not likely. The man left some ten to twelve minutes before they found Bertholde.’

James Derek walked from the telephone table toward Elizabeth. It was obvious that he was upset. ‘In the light of what’s just happened, I’d like to ask you a question. But, of course, you needn’t answer—-’

‘What is it?’

‘I’d like to know how—or perhaps why—Mr. Canfield received a full clearance from the British Foreign Office.’

‘I don’t know what that is.’

‘Come, madame. If you don’t care to answer, I respect that. But since my name’s been used in the killing of an influential man, I believe I’m entitled to something more than another… falsehood.’

‘Another… falsehood? That’s insulting, Mr. Derek.’

‘Is it? And are you and Mr. Canfield still setting elaborate traps for embassy personnel who returned to the United States over four months ago?’

‘Oh.’ Elizabeth sat down again on the couch. She was not concerned with the Englishman’s complaint; she only wished Canfield was there to answer him. What she was concerned with was the agent’s reference to the Foreign Office. ‘An unfortunate necessity.’

‘Most unfortunate—I gather, then, that you don’t care to answer.’

‘On the contrary, I have answered you.’ Elizabeth looked up at the Britisher. ‘I wish you’d explain. What is full clearance?’

‘Extraordinary cooperation from the highest echelons of our government. And such decisions from the British Foreign Office are generally reserved for major political crises! Not a stocks-and-bonds struggle between squabbling millionaires—Or, if you’ll pardon me, a private citizen’s personal tragedy.’

Elizabeth Scarlatti froze.

What James Derek had just said was abhorrent to the head of Scarlatti. More than anything else she had to operate outside the boundaries of ‘highest echelon’ scrutiny. For the sake of Scarlatti itself. Canfield’s minor agency had seemed heaven sent. Her arrangement with him gave her the facilities of official cooperation without answering to anyone of consequence. If she had wanted it otherwise, she would have commanded any number of men in either or both the legislative and executive branches of the United States government. It would not have been difficult… Now, it seemed, Canfield’s relatively unimportant department had grown in significance. Or perhaps her son had involved himself in an undertaking far more ominous than she had conceived.

Was the answer in the Bertholde dossier? Elizabeth wondered. ‘I gather from your tone that this full clearance is a new development.’

‘I was informed this morning.’

Then it must be in the Bertholde dossier, thought Elizabeth—Of course it was! Even Matthew Canfield had begun to perceive it! Only his perception had been based solely on the recognition of certain words, names. He had marked the pages. Elizabeth picked up the file.

‘Following the war, the Ruhr Valley interests repurchased… Offices in Stuttgart and Tassing…’

Tassing.

Germany.

An economic crisis.

The Weimar Republic.

A series of economic crises! A major and constant political crisis!

‘… partners in the importing firm are Mr. Sydney Masterson and Mr. Harold Leacock…’

Masterson and Leacock. Zurich!

Tassing!

‘Does the city of Tassing mean anything to you?’

‘It’s not a city. It is an outlying district of Munich. In Bavaria. Why do you ask?’

‘My son spent a good deal of time and money there… among other places. Does it have any special meaning for you?’

‘Munich?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Hotbed of radicalism. Breeding ground of malcontents.’

‘Malcontents?… Communists?’

‘Hardly. They’d shoot a Red on sight. Or a Jew. Call themselves Schutzstaffel. Go around clubbing people. Consider themselves a race apart from the rest of the world.’

A race apart.

Oh, God!

Elizabeth looked at the dossier in her hands. Slowly she replaced it in the manila envelope and stood up. Without saying a word to the Englishman, she crossed to her bedroom door and let herself in. She closed the door behind her.

James Derek remained in the center of the room. He didn’t understand.

Inside her bedroom Elizabeth went to her writing desk where papers were scattered across the top. She sorted them out until she found the Zurich list.

She read each name carefully.

AVERY LANDOR, U.S.A.—Oil.

Louis GIBSON, USA.—Oil.

THOMAS RAWLINS, U.S.A.—Securities.

HOWARD THORNTON, U.S.A.—Industrial Construction.

SYDNEY MASTERSON, GREAT BRITAIN—Imports.

DAVID INNES-BOWEN, GREAT BRITAIN—Textiles.

HAROLD LEACOCK, GREAT BRITAIN—Securities.

Louis FRANCOIS D’ALMEIDA, FRANCE—Railroads.

PIERRE DAUDET, FRANCE—Ship lines.

INGMAR MYRDAL, SWEDEN—Securities.

CHRISTIAN OLAFFSEN, SWEDEN—Steel.

OTTO VON SCHNITZLER, GERMANY—I.G. Farben.

FRITZ THYSSEN, GERMANY—Steel.

ERICH KINDORF, GERMANY—Coal.

One might say that the Zurich list was a cross-section of the most powerful men in the Western hemisphere.

Elizabeth put the list down and reached for a leather-bound notebook in which she kept telephone numbers and addresses. She thumbed to the letter O.

Ogilvie and Storm, Ltd., Publishers, Bays-water Road, London.

She would phone Thomas Ogilvie and have him send her whatever information he could unearth on the Schutzstaffel.

She knew something about it already. She remembered reading its political name was the National Socialists and they were led by a man named Adolf Hitler.