Chapter Forty

The embassy limousine climbed the small hill to the front of the Georgian house in Fairfax, Virginia. It was the elegant residence of Erich Rheinhart, attache of the Weimar Republic, nephew of the sole imperial general who had thrown his support to the German radical movement given the name of Nazi, by philosophy, a full-fledged Nazi himself.

The well-tailored man with the waxed moustache got out of the back seat and stepped onto the driveway. He looked up at the ornate facade.

‘A lovely home.’

‘I’m pleased, Poole,’ said Rheinhart, smiling at the man from Bertholde et Fils.

The two men walked into the house and Erich Rheinhart led his guest to a book-lined study off the living room. He indicated a chair for Poole and went to a cabinet, taking out two glasses and a bottle of whiskey.

‘To business. You come three thousand miles at a loathsome time of the year for ocean travel. You tell me I am the object of your visit. I’m flattered, of course, but what can…’

‘Who ordered Bertholde’s death?’ Poole said harshly.

Erich Rheinhart was astonished. He hunched his padded shoulders, placed his glass on the small table, and extended his hands, palms up. He spoke slowly, in consternation.

‘My dear man, why do you think it concerns me? I mean—in all candor—you are either deluded as to my influence or you need a long rest.’

‘Labishe wouldn’t have killed him without having been ordered to do it. Some one of enormous authority had to issue that order.’

‘Well, to begin with I have no such authority, and secondly I would have no reason. I was fond of that Frenchman.’

‘You hardly knew him.’

Rheinhart laughed. ‘Very well—All the less reason…’

‘I didn’t say you personally. I’m asking who did and why.’ Poole was betraying his normal calm. He had good reason. This arrogant Prussian held the key if Poole was right, and he wasn’t going to let him go until he found out. He would have to press nearer the truth, yet not disclose it.

‘Did Bertholde know something the rest of you didn’t want him to know?’

‘Now, you’re preposterous.’

‘Did he?’

‘Jacques Bertholde was our London contact! He enjoyed a unique position in England that approached diplomatic immunity. His influence was felt in a dozen countries among scores of the industrial elite. His death is a great loss to us! How dare you imply that any of us was responsible!’

‘I find it interesting that you haven’t answered my question.’ Poole was exasperated. ‘Did he know something the men in Munich might consider dangerous?’

‘If he did, I have no idea what it might be!’ But Poole knew. Perhaps he was the only one who did know. If he could only be sure.

‘I’d like another drink, please. Forgive my temper.’ He smiled.

Rheinhart laughed. ‘You’re impossible. Give me your glass… You’re satisfied?’ The German crossed to the liquor cabinet and poured. ‘You travel three thousand miles for nothing. It’s been a bad trip for you.’

Poole shrugged. He was used to the trips—some good, some bad. Bertholde and his odd friend, the misshapen Heinrich Kroeger, had ordered him over barely six months ago. His orders had been simple then. Pick up the girl, find out what she had learned from old Scarlatti. He’d failed. The Canfield man had stopped him. The solicitous lackey, the salesman-cum-escort had prevented it. But he hadn’t failed his other orders. He’d followed the banker named Cartwright. He’d killed him and broken into the railroad station locker and gotten the banker’s agreement with Elizabeth Scarlatti.

It was then that he had learned the truth of Heinrich Kroeger’s identity. Elizabeth Scarlatti’s son had needed an ally and Jacques Bertholde was that ally. And in return for that precious friendship, Ulster Scarlett had ordered Bertholde’s death. The fanatic had commanded the death of the man who had made everything possible for him.

He, Poole, would avenge that terrible murder. But before he did, he had to confirm what he suspected was the truth. That neither the Nazi leaders nor the men in Zurich knew who Kroeger was. If that was the case, then Kroeger had murdered Bertholde to keep that identity secret. The revelation might cost the movement millions. The Munich Nazis would know this, if they knew anything.

Erich Rheinhart stood over Poole. ‘A penny for your thoughts, my dear fellow? Here, a bourbon. You do not speak to me.’

‘Oh?… Yes, it’s been a bad trip, Erich. You were right.’ Poole bent his neck back, closed his eyes, and rubbed his forehead. Rheinhart returned to his chair.

‘You need a rest—Do you know what I think? I think you’re right. I think some damned fool did issue that order.’ Poole opened his eyes, startled by Erich Rheinhart’s words. ‘Ja! In my opinion you are correct. And it must stop!… Strasser fights Hitler and Ludendorff. Ekhart rambles on like a madman. Attacking! Attacking! Kindorf screams in the Ruhr. Jodl betrays the Black Wehrmacht in Bavaria. Graefe makes a mess in the north. Even my own uncle, the illustrious Wilhelm Rheinhart, makes an idiot of himself. He speaks, and I hear the laughter behind my back in America. I tell you we are split in ten factions. Wolves at each other’s throats. We will accomplish nothing! Nothing, if this does not stop!’ Erich Rheinhart’s anger was undisguised. He didn’t care. He rose again from his chair. ‘What is most asinine is the most obvious! We can lose the men in Zurich. If we cannot agree among ourselves, how long do you think they will stay with us? I tell you, these men are not interested in who has next week’s power base in the Reichstag—not for its own sake. They don’t care a Deutschemark for the glories of the new Germany. Or the ambitions of any nation. Their wealth puts them above political boundaries. They are with us for one reason alone—their own power. If we give them a single doubt that we are not what we claim to be, that we are not the emerging order of Germany, they will abandon us. They will leave us with nothing! Even the Germans among them!’

Rheinhart’s fury abated. He tried to smile but instead drained his glass quickly and crossed to the cabinet.

If Toole could only be sure. ‘I understand,’ he said quietly.

‘Ja. I think you do. You’ve worked long and hard with Bertholde. You’ve accomplished a great deal—’ He turned around facing Poole. That’s what I mean. Everything that all of us have worked for can be lost by these internal frictions. The achievements of Funke, Bertholde, von Schnitzler, Thyssen, even Kroeger, will be wiped out if we cannot come together.

We must unite behind one, possibly two, acceptable leaders—’

That was it! That was the sign. Poole was now sure. Rheinhart had said the name! Kroeger!

‘Maybe, Erich, but who?’ Would Rheinhart say the name again? It was not possible, for Kroeger was no German. But could he get Rheinhart to use the name, just the name, once more without the slightest betrayal of concern.

‘Strasser, perhaps. He’s strong, attractive. Ludendorff naturally has the aura of national fame, but he’s too old now. But mark me, Poole, watch this Hitler! Have you read the transcripts of the Munich trial?’

‘No. Should I?’

‘Yes! He’s electric! Positively eloquent! And sound.’

‘He has a lot of enemies. He’s banned from speaking in almost every grafshalt in Germany.’

‘The necessary excesses in a march to power. The bans on him are being removed. We’re seeing to that.’

Poole now watched Rheinhart carefully as he spoke.

‘Hitler’s a friend of Kroeger, isn’t he?’

‘Ach! Wouldn’t you be? Kroeger has millions! It is through Kroeger that Hitler gets his automobiles, his chauffeur, the castle at Berchtesgaden, God knows what else. You don’t think he buys them with his royalties, do you? Most amusing. Last year Herr Hitler declared an income that could not possibly purchase two tires for his Mercedes.’ Rheinhart laughed. ‘We managed to have the inquiry suspended in Munich, fortunately. Ja, Kroeger is good to Hitler.’

Poole was now absolutely sure. The men in Zurich did not know who Heinrich Kroeger was!

‘Erich, I must go. Can you have your man drive me back to Washington?’

‘But of course, my dear fellow.’’

Poole opened the door of his room at the Ambassador Hotel. Upon hearing the sound of the key, the man inside stood up, practically at attention.

‘Oh, it’s you, Bush.’

‘Cable from London, Mr. Poole. I thought it best that I take the train down rather than using the telephone.’ He handed Poole the cable.

Poole opened the envelope and extracted the message. He read it.

DUCHESS HAS LEFT LONDON STOP DESTINATION ASCERTAINED GENEVA STOP RUMORS OF ZURICH CONFERENCE STOP CABLE INSTRUCTIONS PARIS OFFICE

Poole pinched his aristocratic lips together, nearly biting into his own flesh in an attempt to suppress his anger.

‘Duchess’ was the code name of Elizabeth Scarlatti. So she headed for Geneva. A hundred and ten miles from Zurich. This was no pleasure trip. It was not another leg on her journey of mourning.

Whatever Jacques Bertholde had feared—plot or counterplot—it was happening now. Elizabeth Scarlatti and her son ‘Heinrich Kroeger’ were making their moves. Separately or together, who could know.

Poole made his decision.

‘Send the following to the Paris office. ‘Eliminate Duchess from the market. Her bid is to be taken off our lists at once. Repeat, eliminate Duchess.’

Poole dismissed the courier and went to the telephone. He had to make reservations immediately. He had to get to Zurich.

There’d be no conference. He’d stop it. He’d kill the mother, expose the killer son! Kroeger’s death would follow quickly!

It was the least he could do for Bertholde.

PART THREE