The principal livelihood of its citizens was farm produce, much of which was shipped into Switzerland and Germany. Its currency, as in many towns on the border, was a mixture of francs, marks and Swiss francs.
Scarlett and his driver reached it a little after nine in the evening. However, except for several stops for petrol and a midafternoon lunch, they had pushed forward with no conversation between them. This quiet acted as a sedative to Scarlett's anxiety. He was able to think without anger, although his anger was ever present. The driver had been right when he had pointed out that a flight from Lisieux to Montbeliard would have been simpler and less arduous, but Scarlett could not risk any explosions of temper brought on by exhaustion.
Sometime that day or evening - the time was left open - he was meeting with the Prussian, the all-important man who could deliver what few others could. He had to be up to that meeting, every brain cell working. He couldn't allow recent problems to distort his concentration. The conference with the Prussian was the culmination of months, years of work. From the first macabre meeting with Gregor Strasser to the conversion of his millions to Swiss capital. He, Heinrich Kroeger, possessed the finances so desperately needed by the National Socialists. His importance to the party was now acknowledged. The problems. Irritating problems! But he'd made his decisions. He'd have Howard Thornton isolated, perhaps killed. The San Franciscan had betrayed them. If the Stockholm manipulation had been uncovered, it had to be laid at Thornton's feet. They'd used his Swedish contacts and obviously he maneuvered large blocks of securities back into his own hands at the depressed price.
Thornton would be taken care of. As was the French dandy, Jacques Bertholde. Thornton and Bertholde! Both misfits! Greedy, stupid misfits!
What had happened to Boothroyd? Obviously killed on the Calpurnia. But how? Why? Regardless, he deserved to die! So did his father-in-law. Rawlins' order to kill Elizabeth Scarlatti was stupid! The timing had been insane! Couldn't Rawlins understand that she would have left letters behind, documents? She was far more dangerous dead than alive. At least until she'd been reached - as he had reached her, threatened her precious Scarlattis. Now, she could die! Now it wouldn't matter. And with Bertholde gone, Rawlins gone, and Thornton about to be killed, there'd be no one left who knew who he was. No one! He was Heinrich Kroeger, a leader of the new order!
They pulled up at L'Auberge des Moineaux, a small restaurant with a buvette and lodgings for the traveler or for those desiring privacy for other reasons. For Scarlett it was the appointed meeting place.
'Take the car down the road and park it,' he told Kircher. 'I'll be in one of the rooms. Have dinner. I'll call for you later - I haven't forgotten my promise' Kircher grinned.
Ulster Scarlett got out of the car and stretched. He felt better, his skin bothered him less, and the impending conference filled him with a sense of anticipation. This was the kind of work he should always do! Matters of vast consequences. Matters of power.
He waited until the car was far enough down the street to obscure Kircher's rear-mirror view of him. He then walked back, away from the door, to the cobblestone path and turned into it. Misfits were never to be told anything that wasn't essential to their specific usefulness.
He reached an unlighted door and knocked several times.
The door opened and a moderately tall man with thick, wavy black hair and prominent, dark eyebrows stood in the center of the frame as if guarding an entrance, not welcoming a guest. He was dressed in a Bavarian-cut gray coat and brown knickers. The face was darkly cherubic, the eyes wide and staring. His name was Rudolf Hess.
'Where have you been?' Hess motioned Scarlett to enter and close the door. The room was small; there was a table with chairs around it, a sideboard, and two floor lamps, which gave the room its light. Another man who had been looking out the window, obviously to identify the one outside, nodded to Scarlett. He was a tiny, ugly man with bird-like features, even to the hawknose. He walked with a limp.
'Joseph?' said Scarlett to him. 'I didn't expect you here.'
Joseph Goebbels looked over at Hess. His knowledge of English was poor. Hess translated Scarlett's words rapidly and Goebbels shrugged his shoulders.
'I asked you where you have been!'
'I had trouble in