Главная страница | Триллеры | The Testament of Caspar Schultz

The Testament of Caspar Schultz
Jack Higgins
Somewhere in Germany was hidden a manuscript that would rock Western Europe to its foundations: the testament of Caspar Schulz.Once a prominent Nazi, and long believed to be dead, Schultz could soon be hailed as the author of the most shattering confessions ever to make print.Paul Chavasse, British Intelligence's toughest trouble-shooter, was hired to track the former Nazi down and secure the manuscript. But he soon discovered that he wasn't the only one who wanted to get his hands on the book. And some of his rivals would go to any lengths – including murder – to get it.



Jack Higgins
The Testament of Caspar Schultz



Dedication
For Arnold

Contents
Cover (#ulink_9d0182d6-98b7-5691-a66d-ee54f49b7fcf)
Title Page
Dedication
Publisher’s Note
1
Chavasse lay with his head pillowed on one arm and…
2
The train started to slow down as it entered the…
3
The man who leaned against the door held an Italian…
4
Chavasse looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was…
5
He wore a dark belted raincoat and his hair was…
6
He awakened slowly from a deep, dreamless sleep to an…
7
They arrived at Blankenese at half-past eight and parked the…
8
Remembering it afterwards, he could not be sure who was…
9
It was a damp, misty morning when they set out…
10
He regained his senses slowly and lay unmoving on the…
11
“He’s quite a man,” Chavasse said out of the silence.
12
They drove very fast on the way back to Hamburg.
13
“You were so long, I began to worry,” von Kraul…
14
It was bitterly cold at the Hook of Holland as…
15
Jean Frazer was typing busily when Chavasse went into her…
About the Author
Other Books by Jack Higgins
Copyright
About the Publisher

PUBLISHER’S NOTE
THE TESTAMENT OF CASPAR SCHULTZ was first published in 1979 by Fawcett Publications Inc., New York and in Great Britain by Coronet. This amazing novel has been out of print for some years, and in 2011, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back THE TESTAMENT OF CASPAR SCHULTZ for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.

1
Chavasse lay with his head pillowed on one arm and stared up at the ceiling through the darkness. He was tired—more tired than he had been in a long time and yet he couldn’t sleep. He switched on the bedside lamp and reached for a cigarette. As he struck a match, the telephone started to ring.
He lifted the receiver quickly and a woman’s voice sounded in his ear, cool and impersonal. “Paul, is that you?”
He pushed himself up against the pillow, “Who’s speaking?”
“Jean Frazer. Your flight got into London Airport from Greece three hours ago. Why haven’t you checked in?”
“What’s the rush?” Chavasse said. “I made a preliminary report from Athens yesterday. I’ll see the Chief in the morning.”
“You’ll see him now,” Jean Frazer said. “And you’d better hurry. He’s been waiting for you since that flight got in.”
Chavasse frowned. “What the hell for? I’ve just done two months in Greece and it wasn’t pleasant. I’m entitled to a night’s sleep if nothing else.”
“You’re breaking my heart,” she told him calmly. “Now get your clothes on like a good little boy. I’ll send a car round for you.”
Her receiver clicked into place and he cursed softly and threw back the bedclothes. He pulled on a pair of pants and padded across to the bathroom in his bare feet.
His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep and there was a bad taste in his mouth. He filled a glass with water and drank it slowly, savouring its freshness and then quickly rinsed his head and shoulders in cold water.
As he towelled himself dry, he examined his face in the mirror. There were dark circles under the eyes and faint lines of fatigue had drawn the skin tightly over the high cheekbones that were a heritage from his French father.
It was a handsome, even an aristocratic, face, the face of a scholar, and somehow the ugly, puckered scar of the old gunshot wound in the left shoulder looked incongruous and out of place.
He fingered the flesh beneath his grey eyes and sighed. “Christ, but you look like hell,” he said softly and the face in the mirror was illuminated by a smile of great natural charm that was one of his most important assets.
He ran a hand over the two-day stubble of beard on his chin, decided against shaving and returned to the bedroom. As he dressed, rain tapped against the window with ghostly fingers and when he left the flat ten minutes later he was wearing an old trenchcoat.
The car was waiting at the bottom of the steps when he went outside and he climbed in beside the driver and sat there in silence, staring morosely into the night as they moved through deserted, rain-swept streets.
He was tired. Tired of living out of a suitcase, of hopping from one country to another, of being all things to all men and someone very different on the inside. For the first time in five years he wondered why he didn’t pack it all in and then they turned in through the gates of the familiar house in St John’s Wood and he grinned ruefully and pushed the thought away from him.
The car braked to a halt before the front door and he got out without a word to the driver and mounted the steps. He pressed the bell beside the polished brass plate that carried the legend BROWN & COMPANY—IMPORTERS & EXPORTERS, and waited.
After a few moments the door opened and a tall, greying man in a blue serge suit stood to one side, a slight smile on his face. “Nice to see you back, Mr Chavasse.”
Chavasse grinned and punched him lightly on the shoulder as he passed. “You’re looking fine, Joe.”
He went up the curving Regency staircase and passed along a thickly carpeted corridor. The only sound was a slight, persistent hum from the dynamo in the radio room, but he moved past the door and mounted two steps into another corridor. Here, the silence was absolute and he opened a large, white-painted door at the far end and went in.
The room was small and plainly furnished, with a desk in one corner on which stood a typewriter and several telephones. Jean Frazer was bending over a filing cabinet and she looked up, a slight smile on her round, intelligent face. She removed her spectacles with one hand and frowned. “You look pretty rough.”
Chavasse grinned. “I usually do at this time in the morning.”
She was wearing a plain white blouse and a tweed skirt of deceptively simple cut that moulded her rounded hips. His eyes followed her approvingly as she walked across to her desk and sat down.
He sat on the edge of the desk and helped himself to a cigarette from a packet which was lying there. He lit it and blew out a cloud of smoke with a sigh of satisfaction. “Now what’s all the fuss about? What’s the Chief got on his mind that’s so important it can’t wait until a respectable hour?”
She shrugged. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s waiting for you inside.”
He frowned slightly. “Another job?”
She nodded. “I think it’s something pretty big.”
Chavasse cursed softly and got to his feet. “What does he think I’m made of—iron?” Without waiting for a reply, he walked across to the far door, opened it and went in.
The room was half in shadow, the only light, the shaded lamp which stood upon the desk by the window. The Chief was reading a sheaf of type-written documents and he looked up quickly, a slight frown on his face. It was replaced by a smile and he waved a hand towards a chair. “So they finally managed to locate you, Paul. Sit down and tell me about Greece.”
Chavasse slumped into the chair and pushed his hat back from his forehead. “Didn’t you get my coded report from the Embassy in Athens?”
The Chief nodded. “I had a quick look at it when it came in yesterday. It seems satisfactory. Any loose ends?”
Chavasse shrugged. “One or two. Your hunch about Skiros was right. He was a double agent. Been working for the Commies for the past four years. They’ll have to wait a long time for his next report.”
The Chief selected a cigarette from a silver box and lit it carefully. “How did you manage it?”
“I traced him to Lesbos,” Chavasse said. “He was having a skin-diving holiday. Unfortunately something went wrong with his aqua-lung one afternoon. By the time they got him back to the beach it was too late.”
The Chief sighed. “Most unfortunate.”
Chavasse leaned across the desk. “Now I’ve explained the finer points of the affair, perhaps I can go back to bed.” He got to his feet and crossed to the window. “I feel as if I haven’t slept for a month.” He stood there, staring out into the rain for a moment and then turned abruptly. “To be perfectly frank, on the way over here I was considering packing things in.”
The Chief raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Could you see yourself going back to lecturing in a provincial university?” He shook his head. “Not a chance, Paul. You’re the best man I’ve got. One of these days you’ll be sitting behind this desk.”
“If I live that long,” Chavasse said sourly.
The Chief gestured to the chair; “Come and sit down and have another cigarette. You always feel like this when a job’s over, especially when you’ve killed somebody. What you need is a long rest.”
“Then what about it?” Chavasse said. “Christ knows I’ve earned one. This last year’s been hell.”
“I know, Paul, I know,” the Chief said soothingly, “and I’ll see you get one—after this next job.”
Chavasse turned from the window angrily. “For God’s sake, am I the only man the Bureau’s got? What about Wilson or LaCosta?”
The Chief shook his head. “I sent Wilson to Ankara last month. He disappeared his second day there. I’m afraid we’ll have to cross him off the list.”
“And LaCosta?”
“He cracked up after that affair in Cuba. I’ve put him into the home for six months.” The Chief sighed. “I had a psychiatrist’s report this morning. Frankly, it wasn’t too good. I’m afraid we shan’t be able to use LaCosta again.”
Chavasse moved across to his chair and slumped down into it. He helped himself to a cigarette from the box the Chief held out to him and lit it with a steady hand. After a while he smiled. “All right, I give in. You’d better put me in the picture.”
The Chief got to his feet. “I knew you’d see it my way, Paul. And don’t worry. You’ll get that holiday. This affair shouldn’t take you more than a couple of weeks at the most.”
“Where am I going?” Chavasse said simply.
“West Germany!” The Chief walked to the window and spoke without turning round. “What do you know about Caspar Schultz?”
Chavasse frowned. “One of the top Nazis, probably killed in the final holocaust in Berlin when the Russians moved in. Wasn’t he in the bunker with Hitler and Bormann till the very end?”
The Chief turned and nodded. “We know that for certain. He was last reported trying to break out of the city in a tank. What actually happened, we don’t know, but certainly his body was never identified.”
Chavasse shrugged. “That’s hardly surprising. A lot of people died when the Russians moved in.”
The Chief moved back to the desk and sat down. “From time to time there have been vague rumours about Schultz. One of them said that he was living in the Argentine, another that he was farming in Ireland. We checked these stories very carefully, but they proved to have no foundation in fact.”
A cold finger of excitement moved inside Chavasse and he straightened slowly. “And now you’ve had another report? Something a little more substantial this time?”
The Chief nodded. “Do you know Sir George Harvey?”
Chavasse frowned slightly. “Wasn’t he Minister of Intelligence for a time in the Coalition Government during the war?”
“That’s the man,” the Chief said. “He retired from politics after the war to concentrate on his business interests. Yesterday, he went to the Foreign Office with a very strange story. The Foreign Secretary sent him straight to me. I’d like you to hear what he has to say.”
He pressed a buzzer on his desk twice. After a moment, the door opened and Jean ushered in a tall, greying man in his early sixties. She went out, closing the door softly behind her and the Chief got to his feet. “Come in, Sir George. I’d like you to meet Paul Chavasse, the young man I was telling you about earlier.”
Chavasse stood up and they shook hands. Sir George Harvey had obviously kept himself in good condition. His handclasp was strong, his face tanned and the clipped moustache gave him a faintly military appearance.
He smiled pleasantly and sat down. “I’ve been hearing some very complimentary things about you, Mr Chavasse.”
Chavasse grinned and offered him a cigarette. “I’ve had my share of luck.”
Sir George took one and smiled again. “In your game you need it, my friend.”
The Chief struck a match and held it out in cupped hands. “I wonder if you’d mind telling Chavasse here exactly what you told me, Sir George?”
Sir George nodded and leaned back in his chair. He turned slightly towards Chavasse. “Among my many business interests, Mr Chavasse, I hold a great number of shares in a publishing house which shall remain nameless. Yesterday morning, the managing director came to see me with an extraordinary letter. He and his board felt that it should be placed before the Foreign Secretary as soon as possible, and knowing that I was a personal friend of his, they asked me to handle the affair.”
“Who was the letter from?” Chavasse said.
“A German called Hans Muller,” Sir George told him. “This man states in the letter that Caspar Schultz is alive. He says that Schultz lived in Portugal until 1955 when he returned to Germany where he has since been living quietly under an assumed name.”
“But what does he want with a publishing firm?” Chavasse asked.
“I’m coming to that,” Sir George told him. “If the letter is to be believed, Caspar Schultz has written his memoirs and wants them published.”
“With Muller acting as middle-man?” Chavasse said. “But why hasn’t he tried a German publisher? I should have thought that such a book would have been an even bigger sensation over there than in England.”
“Apparently Muller did just that,” Sir George said. “Unfortunately he chose the wrong publishers. He wrote them a similar letter and, within hours, had the Nazi underground hot on his trail. According to Muller, Schultz has written in what might be described as an extremely illuminating manner about many people in Germany who up to now have always affirmed that they never really supported Hitler. Very important people, I might add. He even deals with Nazi sympathizers here in England and includes a chapter on the man who was prepared to act as Quisling in 1940 when the German invasion was expected.”
Chavasse whistled softly. “Does he give any names in the letter?”
Sir George shook his head. “No, he simply states that he has the manuscript and that it is handwritten by Schultz himself—a fact which can of course be verified—and that there is only one copy. Needless to say, the sum of money he mentioned was rather large.”
“I’ll bet it was,” Chavasse said. “If only the poor fool realized it, he’s carrying a time bomb around with him.” He turned to the Chief. “I haven’t worked in Germany for nearly three years. How strong are the Nazis now?”
“A lot stronger than most people realize,” the Chief said. “Ever since the German government set up the office for the Detection of War Crimes at Ludwigsburg, it’s been engaged in a battle of wits with the Nazi underground. Senior ex-S.S. officers have managed to infiltrate into the police. Because of this, the Nazi intelligence service has been able to warn a number of former S.S. camp officials who were about to be arrested. This has given many of them a chance to escape to the United Arab Republic.”
“But there are still plenty left in high places?”
“That fact is impossible to dispute. They’re in the government, in big business.” The Chief laughed ironically. “Muller must have found that out to his cost when he wrote to that German publishing company.”
“Does he name the firm?”
The Chief shook his head. “He didn’t even give his own address. Said he’d get in touch by phone.”
“And did he?”
The Chief nodded. “Six o’clock last night on the dot, just as he said he would. The managing director took the call. He told Muller they were definitely interested and made arrangements for a director of the firm to meet him.”
“And that’s me, I suppose.”
“Correct!” the Chief said. “I want you to cross to the Hook of Holland by the afternoon boat. You’ll catch the North-West Express for Hamburg.” He opened a drawer and took out a large envelope. “You’ll find everything you need in there. New passport in your own name, but changing your occupation to publisher, money for expenses and a few other things that might come in useful.”
“Why the night train to Hamburg?” Chavasse said.
“I’m coming to that,” the Chief told him. “I’ve got you a first-class sleeping car berth in a reserved compartment. You’ll find the tickets in the envelope. Muller will board the train at Osnabruck a few minutes before midnight and come straight to your compartment.”
“And what do I do with him once I’ve got him?”
The Chief shrugged. “It’s entirely up to you. I want that manuscript, but more than that I want Schultz. As it happens, Sir George is going to Hamburg on the same train to attend the United Nations Peace Conference. That’s one of the reasons I’ve rushed these arrangements through without discussing them with you. String Muller along. Tell him you must see the manuscript or at least part of it. If necessary, call Sir George in to meet him. Tell him that Sir George has a big interest in the firm, that the publishers have asked him to accompany you as an evidence of their good faith.”
Sir George got to his feet. “Yes, indeed, Mr Chavasse. You can rely on me to do anything I can to help.” He smiled. “It’s like old times, being on the inside of a thing like this, but now if you’ll excuse me I really must go. The train leaves Liverpool Street at ten and I’d like an hour or two in bed before then.” He held out his hand with a smile. “If you’ll take my advice, young man, you’ll do the same thing. You look as if you could do with it. I’ll see you on the train, I hope.”
The Chief ushered him out of the door and then came back. He sat down behind his desk. “Well, what do you think?”
Chavasse shrugged. “It all depends on Muller. Have we got anything on him?”
“I’ve had the files checked,” the Chief said, “but this seems to be the first time we’ve come into contact with him. Of course we’ve no description and he may have used another name previously.”
“Did he say what his connection was with Schultz?”
The Chief shook his head. “That also is a complete mystery, I’m afraid.”
Chavasse picked up the envelope which contained his passport and tickets and slipped it into his pocket. “What about German Intelligence? Will they be in on this?”
The Chief shook his head. “I thought about that, but decided against it for the moment. I don’t want things to get confused. If the affair gets out of hand and you decide you need some local help, telephone me here. Ask for Mr Taylor and use the name Cunningham. Just say that business is booming and you could use some help. I’ll bring German Intelligence into it at that point.”
Chavasse nodded slowly and got to his feet. “That seems to be everything. I think I’ll take Sir George’s advice and go back to bed.” He started to move to the door and then paused. “By the way, how much can I count on him?”
“On Sir George Harvey?” The Chief shrugged. “Well, he’s an important man and we don’t want any international scandals. I think you’ll find he’ll do anything within reason to help. He was a great success at the Ministry during the war, you know.”
Chavasse nodded. “I’ll try not to use him if I can help it, but he might be just the extra thing needed to make Muller believe I’m on the level.”
“That’s what I thought,” the Chief said. He came round the desk and held out his hand. “Anyway, good luck, Paul. I think you’ll find this is a pretty straightforward one. Whatever happens, I’ll see you get that holiday after it’s all over.”
Chavasse opened the door and half-turned, a curious smile on his lips. “I’m sure you will,” he said dryly and closed the door before the Chief could reply.
Jean Frazer had gone and judging by the neat and orderly condition of her desk top and the cover on the typewriter, she was not coming back. He went slowly downstairs, his mind going back over the interview, recalling each remark made by the Chief and Sir George, shaping them into a coherent whole.
The car was waiting for him outside and he climbed in beside the driver and sat hunched in his seat, wrapped in thought, all the way back to the flat. One thing puzzled him. Assuming the whole thing was genuine and not a hoax, then why had Caspar Schultz decided on this time rather than on any other to offer his memoirs for publication?
The war had been over for fifteen years—years during which Schultz had successfully evaded discovery by the intelligence agents of all the Great Powers. Why then should he now set on foot an undertaking which by its very nature would start the most colossal manhunt in history with himself as quarry?
He was still thinking about it as he undressed at the flat, but it was a problem which could have no solution for the time being. Only Hans Muller could supply the answer.
He brewed a pot of coffee and got into bed. It was just after three a.m. and the rain drummed steadily against the windows. He lit a cigarette and opened the envelope which the Chief had given him.
They’d done a good job on the passport. It had been issued four years previously and was true in all personal particulars except for his occupation. He had apparently been to the Continent several times during the period and once to America. He memorized the dates quickly and then examined the other documents.
His tickets were all in order and so were the traveller’s cheques. There was also a current driving license and a member’s ticket for a city luncheon club. Finally, he had been supplied with several letters which purported to be from business contacts and one couched in affectionate terms from a girl called Cynthia.
He read it through with interest. It was good—very good indeed. He wondered whether the Chief had got Jean Frazer to write it, and there was a smile on his face when he finally switched off the lamp and turned his face into the pillow.

2
The train started to slow down as it entered the outskirts of Rheine and Chavasse put down the book he had been reading and checked his watch. It was eleven p.m. They were due at Osnabruck in just under an hour.
He pulled on his jacket and went out into the corridors as the train came to a halt. The sleeping-car attendant who was standing nearby, opened one of the doors and stepped down on to the platform. Obeying a sudden impulse, Chavasse followed him and stood there, hands in pockets, drawing the cold night air deep into his lungs.
The platform was almost deserted and no one seemed to be getting on or off. He was about to get back into the train when a group of men emerged from the waiting room and came towards him.
The one who led the way was a tall, heavily-built man with an iron-hard face and eyes like chips of blue ice. Behind him came two attendants in white coats carrying a man on a stretcher. The man who brought up the rear wore a Homburg hat and an expensive overcoat with a fur collar. His gaunt, fleshless face was half-covered by a carefully trimmed black beard which looked as if it had been dyed.
Chavasse moved out of the way and the two attendants carefully manœuvred the stretcher on to the train and into the next apartment to his own. The other two men followed them in and closed the door.
As Chavasse climbed back into the corridor, he turned enquiringly to the attendant who had followed him. “What was all that about?” he asked in German.
The man shrugged. “The tough-looking one is Inspector Steiner of the Hamburg police. The bearded man is called Kruger—he’s one of the best-known physicians in Hamburg.”
“And the man on the stretcher?”
“A criminal they’re taking back to Hamburg,” the attendant said. “He was injured in a fight with the police and they called in Dr Kruger to see whether he was fit to be moved.”
Chavasse nodded. “I see. Thanks very much.”
“A pleasure,” the attendant said. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
Chavasse shook his head. “Not at the moment. Perhaps a coffee a little later on. I’ll let you know.”
The man nodded and walked away and Chavasse went back into his compartment. He sat on the edge of the bunk and checked his watch again. Three-quarters of an hour and the train would be in Osnabruck. There would be a light tap on the door, it would open and Hans Muller would walk in. He wondered what the man would look like, what his first words would be, and then it occurred to him that perhaps Muller wouldn’t show up. For some obscure reason the thought vaguely amused him and he lit a cigarette, feeling suddenly sanguine about the whole thing.
He decided to pay Sir George Harvey a visit. So far they had only had time for a brief word on the boat coming over. It was probably a good moment to put him in the picture.
He opened the door of the compartment and walked out into the corridor, cannoning heavily into someone who was coming from the opposite direction. There was a muffled curse and he was sent staggering backwards by a strong push.
He straightened his tie and moved forward. Facing him was an American army sergeant whose jaw stuck out belligerently. “Why the hell can’t you look where you’re going, buddy?” the man said nastily.
Chavasse took a deep breath of corn whisky and forced a smile. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t see you there.”
The American seemed to undergo a change of attitude. He swayed forward and patted Chavasse on the shoulder. “That’s okay, pally. We all make mistakes.”
His eyes swam myopically, enormously magnified by the thick lenses of his steel-rimmed spectacles, and his peaked cap was tilted forward over his nose making him look faintly ridiculous. He patted Chavasse on the shoulder again, sidled past him and lurched away.
Chavasse grinned and moved along the corridor, pausing outside the end compartment. He knocked and went in.
Sir George was sitting at a small collapsible table writing a letter. He looked up with a smile and laid down his pen. “Ah, Mr Chavasse, I was hoping to see you. I’m afraid I’ve been rather busy with various matters concerning this Peace Conference. Is everything under control?”
Chavasse nodded. “As far as possible. We’ll be in Osnabruck in about forty minutes. I thought I’d better have a chat with you before we arrive.”
Sir George poured sherry into two glasses and handed him one. “Do you anticipate any trouble with Muller?”
Chavasse shook his head. “Not really. I should imagine he’s going through hell at the moment. Probably frightened of his own shadow. All I want to do is gain his confidence and make him believe I’m what I’m supposed to be. I don’t want to use you if I can help it, but if he turns awkward or gets suspicious then I might have to call on you. With any luck that should clinch things.”
“Do you think he’ll have the manuscript with him?”
“He’ll be a damned fool if he does,” Chavasse said. “I’ll try and make arrangements to meet him at some later date to see the manuscript. From that point anything can happen, but I’m hoping the trail will lead me to Caspar Schultz.”
“We’ll drink to that,” Sir George said and refilled his glass. After a moment’s silence he said enquiringly, “Chavasse—that’s a French name, isn’t it?”
Chavasse nodded. “My father was a lawyer in Paris, but my mother was English. He was an officer in the reserve—killed at Arras when the Panzers broke through in 1940. I was only eleven at the time. My mother and I came out through Dunkirk.”
“So you weren’t old enough to serve in the war?” Sir George carefully lit a small cigar and carried on, “I was in the first lot, you know. Lieutenant at twenty—Lieutenant-Colonel at twenty-four. Promotion was quick in those days.”
“It must have been pretty rough,” Chavasse said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Sir George told him. “There was a wonderful spirit abroad. People still clung to the old values. It was after the war that the rot set in.”
“The lost generation,” Chavasse said softly.
Sir George stared back into the past and sighed. “Everything changed—nothing was ever quite the same again. I went into politics like many others, with the intention of doing something about it, but we were too late.”
“A civilization in decline,” Chavasse said.
“One could draw a remarkable parallel between the British and Roman Empires,” Sir George said. “Universal suffrage and the voice of the mob leading to an internal weakness and eventual collapse with the barbarians at the gates.” He got to his feet and smiled. “If I sound like an old-fashioned Imperialist, forgive me. Frankly, I look back on the days of Empire with nostalgia. However, we could talk in this vein all night and that won’t do at all.”
Chavasse glanced at his watch. In exactly twenty minutes they would be in Osnabruck. He opened the door and moved out into the corridor. “Whatever happens I’ll keep in touch. Where are you staying in Hamburg?”
“The Atlantic,” Sir George said. “By all means contact me there if you don’t need me tonight to help deal with Muller. I’ll be interested to know what happens.”
Chavasse closed the door and moved back along the corridor. As he paused outside his compartment he heard a faint sound of movement inside. He flung the door open and moved in quickly.
The American army sergeant turned from the bunk, an expression of alarm on his face. He lurched forward and stood swaying in front of Chavasse, one hand braced against the wall. He seemed completely befuddled.
“Guess I made a mistake,” he said thickly.
“It seems like it,” Chavasse replied.
The American started to squeeze past him. “I don’t feel so good. Travel sickness—it always gets me. I had to go to the can. I must be in the wrong coach.”
For a brief moment Chavasse stood in his way, gazing into the eyes that peered anxiously at him from behind thick lenses and then he moved to one side without a word. The American lurched past and staggered away along the corridor.
Chavasse closed the door and stood with his back to it. Everything looked normal enough and yet he felt vaguely uneasy. There was something wrong about the American, something larger than life. He was more like a figure from a cheap burlesque show—the pathetic clown who spent his life walking into bedrooms where showgirls were pulling on their underwear and then blundered around short-sightedly while the audience roared.
His suitcase was on the top bunk and he took it down and opened it. It was still neatly packed, just as he had left it except for one thing. His handkerchiefs had originally been at the bottom of the case. Now they were on top. It was the sort of mistake anyone might make, even an expert, especially when he was in a hurry.
He closed the case, put it back on the top bunk and checked his watch. The train would be in Osnabruck in fifteen minutes. It was impossible for him to do anything about the American until after he had seen Muller.
There was a discreet tap on the door and the attendant entered, a tray balanced on one hand. “Coffee, mein Herr?”
Chavasse nodded. “Yes, I think I will.” The man quickly filled a cup and handed it to him. Chavasse helped himself to sugar and said, “Are we on time?”
The attendant shook his head. “About five minutes late. Can I get you anything else?” Chavasse said no, the man bade him goodnight and went out, closing the door behind him.
The coffee wasn’t as hot as it could have been and Chavasse drained the cup quickly and sat on the edge of his bunk. It was warm in the compartment, too warm, and his throat had gone curiously dry. Beads of perspiration oozed from his forehead and trickled down into his eyes. He tried to get up, but his limbs seemed to be nailed to the bunk. Something was wrong—something was very wrong, but then the light bulb seemed to explode into a thousand fragments that whirled around the room in a glowing nebula, and as he fell back across the bunk, darkness flooded over him.

After a while the light seemed to come back again, to rush to meet him from the vortex of the darkness and then it became the light bulb swaying rhythmically from side to side. He blinked his eyes several times and it became stationary.
He was lying on his back on the floor of the compartment and he frowned and tried to remember what had happened, but his head ached and his brain refused to function. What am I doing here, he thought? What the hell am I doing here? He reached for the edge of the bunk and pulled himself up into a sitting position.
A man was sitting on the floor in the far corner of the room by the washbasin. Chavasse closed his eyes and breathed deeply. When he opened them again, the man was still there. There was only one thing wrong. His eyes were fixed and staring into eternity. Where his jacket had fallen open, a ragged, smoke-blackened hole was visible on the left-hand side of the white shirt. He had been shot through the heart at close quarters.
Chavasse got to his feet and stood looking down at the body, his mind working sluggishly and then something seemed to surge up from his stomach and he leaned over the basin quickly and vomited. He poured water into a glass and drank it slowly and after a moment or two he felt better.
There was a bruise on his right cheek and a streak of blood where the skin had been torn. He examined it in the mirror with a frown and then glanced at his watch. It was twelve-fifteen. That meant the train had already passed through Osnabruck and was speeding through the night towards Bremen.
Even before he examined the body, Chavasse knew in his heart what he was going to find. The man was small and dark with thinning hair and his cheeks were cold and waxlike to the touch. The fingers of his right hand were curved like hooks reaching out towards a wad of banknotes which lay scattered under the washbasin.
It was in the inside pocket that Chavasse found what he was looking for. There was a membership card for a club on the Reeperbahn in Hamburg in the name of Hans Muller, a faded snapshot of him in Luftwaffe uniform with his arm round a girl and several letters from someone called Lilli addressed to a hotel in Gluckstrasse, Hamburg.
Chavasse got slowly to his feet, his mind working rapidly. As he turned away from the body, his eyes fell upon the Mauser automatic pistol lying in the corner. As he bent to pick it up, there was a thunderous knocking on the door and it was flung open.
Inspector Steiner was standing there, the attendant peering anxiously over his shoulder. “Herr Chavasse?” Steiner said politely. “I regret to trouble you, but the attendant reports hearing a shot from this compartment. Have you any explanation?”
At the same moment he saw the Mauser lying on the floor and picked it up. The attendant gasped in horror and Sterner pushed Chavasse back into the compartment and followed him in.
Chavasse sat on the edge of the bunk and Steiner examined the body quickly. After a moment he called the attendant in. “What is your name?” he said.
“Schmidt, Herr Steiner,” the attendant said. “Otto Schmidt.” His face had turned a sickly yellow colour and he looked as if he might vomit at any moment.
“Pull yourself together, man,” Steiner snapped. “Have you ever seen this man before?”
Schmidt nodded. “He boarded the train at Osnabruck, Herr Steiner.”
“And then?” Steiner asked.
Schmidt glanced furtively at Chavasse. “I saw him enter this compartment.”
Steiner nodded. “I see. Ask Dr Kruger to step in here.”
Schmidt went out into the corridor and Steiner turned and held out his hand. Chavasse realized that he was still holding the things he had taken from Muller’s pocket and handed them over. Steiner examined the letters quickly and grunted. “This man, Hans Muller, who was he? Why did you kill him?”
Chavasse shrugged. “You tell me.”
Steiner bent down and picked up the wad of banknotes from beneath the washbasin. He held them up in one hand. “I don’t think we have to look very far, my friend, unless you are going to try to tell me this money is yours?”
Chavasse shook his head, “No, it isn’t mine.”
Steiner nodded in satisfaction. “Good, then we are getting somewhere. There was a quarrel, perhaps over this money. He struck you. There is the mark of the blow on your cheek and a cut caused by the rather ornate ring worn on the middle finger of his right hand.”
“And then I shot him?” Chavasse said helpfully.
Steiner shrugged. “You must admit it looks that way.”
At that moment Kruger came into the compartment. He glanced enquiringly at Steiner who nodded towards the body. Kruger frowned and dropped down on to one knee. After a brief examination he stood up. “A clean shot through the heart. Death must have been instantaneous.”
Steiner put the money into one of his pockets and became suddenly businesslike. “Have you anything further to tell me before I take you into custody, Herr Chavasse?”
Chavasse shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. There’s just one thing I’d like to ask Schmidt, if I may.” He turned to the attendant before Steiner could reply. “Tell me, Schmidt. Is there an American army sergeant travelling on the train?”
Schmidt looked genuinely bewildered. “An American army sergeant, mein Herr? No, you must be mistaken.”
Chavasse smiled gently. “Somehow I thought I was.” He got to his feet and turned to Steiner. “Well, where do we go, Inspector?”
Steiner looked enquiringly at Schmidt. “Have you an empty compartment?”
“Yes, Herr Steiner,” Schmidt said. “In one of the other coaches.”
Kruger, who had been listening in silence, stood to one side and Steiner pushed Chavasse into the corridor. The noise of the voices had brought several people to the doors of their compartments and as Chavasse followed Schmidt along the corridor, people stared curiously at him.
Sir George Harvey was standing outside his compartment, a bewildered expression on his face. As they approached he seemed about to raise a hand, but Chavasse frowned and shook his head slightly. Sir George stepped back into his compartment and closed the door.
Chavasse had decided a good ten minutes earlier that there was little point in sitting in a Hamburg gaol for six months while the lawyers argued over his ultimate fate. As they passed through the second coach a plan had already started to form in his mind.
The empty compartment was at the far end of the third coach and by the time they reached it he was ready. Schmidt bent down to unlock the door and Chavasse waited, Steiner close behind him. As the door started to open Chavasse pushed his hand into Schmidt’s back, sending him staggering into the compartment. At the same moment he whirled on the ball of one foot and rammed the stiffened fingers of his left hand into Steiner’s throat.
The policeman collapsed on to the floor of the corridor, hands tearing at his throat as his face turned purple. Chavasse quickly closed the compartment door, cutting off Schmidt’s cry of alarm and turned the key in the lock. Then he stepped over Steiner’s writhing body and ran back the way they had come.
His intention was to reach the sanctuary of Sir George Harvey’s compartment. There he would be safe, at least until they reached Hamburg. But first it was necessary to make Steiner believe he had left the train.
He turned the corner at the end of the corridor and reached for the handle of the emergency stop lever above the door. As the train started to slow, he opened the door and the cold night air sucked it outwards, sending it smashing back against the side of the coach.
He moved on quickly into the next coach. He was almost at the end of the corridor and within a few yards of Sir George’s compartment, when he heard voices coming towards him. For a moment he hesitated and then, as he turned to run, the door of the compartment behind him opened silently. A hand reached out and pulled him backwards through the doorway.
He lost his balance and fell to the floor. Behind him the door clicked firmly into place. He started to move, ready to come up like a steel spring uncoiling with explosive force, but he paused, one knee still on the floor.
Lying on the bunk in front of him was an American army uniform with the sergeant’s stripes showing on the neatly folded tunic. On top of the tunic rested a military cap and on top of the cap, a pair of thick-lensed, steel-rimmed spectacles.

3
The man who leaned against the door held an Italian Biretta automatic negligently in his right hand. He was of medium build and his eyes seemed very blue in the tawny face. An amused smile twisted the corners of his mouth. “You do seem to have stirred things up, old man,” he said in impeccable English.
The train had finally come to a stop and there was shouting in the corridor outside. Chavasse listened keenly and managed to distinguish Steiner’s voice. He scrambled to his feet and the man said, “Steiner doesn’t sound very pleased. What did you do to him?”
Chavasse shrugged. “Judo throat jab. A nasty trick, but I didn’t have time to observe the niceties.” He nodded towards the automatic. “You can put that thing away. No rough stuff, I promise you.”
The man smiled and slipped the gun into his pocket. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react when I dragged you in here.” He extracted a leather and gold cigarette case from his inside pocket and flicked it open. Chavasse took one and leaned across for the proffered light.
He hadn’t been working for the Chief for five years without being able to tell a professional when he saw one. People in his line of business carried a special aura around with them, indefinable and yet sensed at once by the trained agent: One could even work out the nationality by attitude, methods employed and other trademarks; but in this case he was puzzled.
“Who are you?” he said.
“Hardt’s the name, Mr Chavasse,” the man told him. “Mark Hardt.”
Chavasse frowned. “A German name and yet you’re not a German.”
“Israeli.” Hardt grinned. “A slightly bastardized form by Winchester out of Emmanuel College.”
The picture was beginning to take shape. “Israeli Intelligence?” Chavasse asked.
Hardt shook his head. “Once upon a time, but now nothing so official. Let’s say I’m a member of an organization which by the very nature of its ends is compelled to work underground.”
“I see,” Chavasse said softly. “And what exactly are your aims at the moment?”
“The same as yours,” Hardt said calmly. “I want that manuscript, but even more than that I want Caspar Schultz.” Before Chavasse could reply, he got to his feet and moved to the door. “I think I’d better go into the corridor and see what’s going on.”
The door closed softly behind him and Chavasse sat on the edge of the bunk, a slight frown on his face, as he considered the implications of what Hardt had said. It was well known that there was at least one strong Jewish underground unit which had been working ceaselessly since the end of the war in all parts of the world, tracking down Nazi war criminals who had evaded the Allied net in 1945. He had heard that its members were fanatically devoted to their task, brave people who had dedicated their lives to bringing some of the inhuman monsters responsible for Belsen, Auschwitz and other hell-holes, to justice.
On several occasions during his career with the Bureau he had found himself competing with the agents of other Powers towards the same end, but this was different—this was very different.
The train started to move, the door opened and Hardt slipped in. He grinned. “I just saw Steiner. He’s been raging like a lion up and down the track. It was finally pointed out to him that you were probably several miles away by now and he was persuaded to come back on board. I don’t fancy your chances if he ever manages to get his hands on you.”
“I’ll try to see that he doesn’t.” Chavasse nodded towards the American uniform. “A neat touch, your disguise. After the crime, the criminal simply ceases to exist, eh?”
Hardt nodded. “It’s proved its worth on several occasions, although the spectacles can be a bit of a nuisance. I can’t see a damned thing in them.”
He locked the door, pulled a stool from beneath the bunk and sat on it, his shoulders resting comfortably against the wall. “Don’t you think it’s time we got down to business?”
Chavasse nodded. “All right, but you first. How much do you know about this affair?”
“Before I start just tell me one thing,” Hardt said. “It is Muller who is dead, isn’t it? I heard one of the other passengers say something about a shooting and then Steiner marched you along the corridor.”
Chavasse nodded. “I had a cup of coffee just before Osnabruck. Whatever was in it put me out for a good half hour. When I came round, Muller was lying in the corner, shot through the heart.”
“A neat frame on somebody’s part.”
“As a matter of fact I thought it was your handiwork,” Chavasse told him. “What exactly were you looking for in my compartment?”
“Anything I could find,” Hardt said. “I knew Muller was supposed to meet you at Osnabruck. I didn’t expect him to be carrying the manuscript, but I thought he might take you to it, even to Schultz.”
“And you intended to follow us?” Chavasse said.
“Naturally,” Hardt told him.
Chavasse lit another cigarette. “Just tell me one thing. How the hell do you know so much?”
Hardt smiled. “We first came across Muller a fortnight ago when he approached a certain German publisher and offered him Schultz’s manuscript.”
“How did you manage to find out about that?”
“This particular publisher is a man we’ve been after for three years now. We had a girl planted in his office. She tipped us off about Muller.”
“Did you actually meet him?”
Hardt shook his head. “Unfortunately the publisher got some of his Nazi friends on the job. Muller was living in Bremen at the time. He left one jump ahead of them and us.”
“And you lost track of him, I presume?”
Hardt nodded. “Until we heard about you.”
“I’d like to hear how you managed that,” Chavasse said. “It should be most interesting.”
Hardt grinned. “An organization like ours has friends everywhere. When Muller approached the firm of publishers you’re supposed to be representing, the directors had a word with Sir George Harvey, one of their biggest shareholders. He got in touch with the Foreign Secretary who put the matter in the hands of the Bureau.”
Chavasse frowned. “What do you know about the Bureau?”
“I know it’s a special organization formed to handle the dirtier and more complicated jobs,” Hardt said. “The sort of things M.I.5 and the Secret Service don’t want to touch.”
“But how did you know I was travelling on this train to meet Muller?” Chavasse said.
“Remember that the arrangement with Muller, by which he was supposed to contact you at Osnabruck, was made through the managing director of the publishing firm. He was naturally supposed to keep the details to himself.”
“Presumably he didn’t?”
Hardt nodded. “I suppose it was too good a tale to keep from his fellow directors and he told them everything over dinner that same evening. Luckily one of them happens to be sympathetic to our work and thought we might be interested. He got in touch with our man in London who passed the information over to me at once. As I was in Hamburg, it was rather short notice, but I managed to get on a mid-morning flight to Rotterdam and joined the train there.”
“That still doesn’t explain how the people who killed Muller knew we were supposed to meet on this train,” Chavasse said. “I can’t see how there could possibly have been another leak from the London end. I don’t think it’s very probable that there’s also a Nazi sympathizer on the board of directors of the firm I’m supposed to be representing.”
Hardt shook his head. “As a matter of fact I’ve got a theory about that. Muller was living in Bremen with a woman called Lilli Pahl. She was pulled out of the Elbe this morning, apparently a suicide case.”
“And you think she was murdered?”
Hardt nodded. “She disappeared from Bremen when Muller did so they’ve probably been living together. My theory is that the other side knew where he was all along, that they were leaving him alone hoping he’d lead them to Caspar Schultz. I think Muller gave them the slip and left Hamburg for Osnabruck last night. That left them with only one person who probably knew where he had gone and why—Lilli Pahl.”
“I’ll go along with that,” Chavasse said. “It sounds reasonable enough. But it still doesn’t explain why they shot him.”
Hardt shrugged. “Muller could have been carrying the manuscript, but I don’t think that’s very likely. I should imagine the shooting was an accident. Muller probably jumped the person who was waiting for him in your compartment and was killed in the struggle.”
Chavasse frowned, considering everything Hardt had told him. After a while he said, “There’s still one thing which puzzles me. Muller is dead and that means I’ve come to a full-stop as regards finding Schultz. I can’t be of any possible use to you, so what made you go to the trouble of saving my skin?”
“You could say I’m sentimental,” Hardt told him. “I have a soft spot for people who are Israeli sympathizers and I happen to know that you are.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Do you recall a man named Joel ben David?” Hardt asked. “He was an Israeli intelligence agent in Cairo in 1956. You saved his life and enabled him to return to Israel with information which was of great service to our army during the Sinai campaign.”
“I remember,” Chavasse said. “But I wish you’d forget about it. It could get me into hot water in certain quarters. I wasn’t supposed to be quite so violently partisan at the time.”
“But we Jews do not forget our friends,” Hardt said quietly.
Chavasse was suddenly uncomfortable and he went on hurriedly. “Why are you so keen to get hold of Schultz? He isn’t another Eichmann, you know. There’s bound to be an outcry for an international trial. Even the Russians would want a hand in it.”
Hardt shook his head. “I don’t think so. In any case, we aren’t too happy about the idea of leaving him in Germany for trial for this reason. There’s a statute of limitations in force under German law. Cases of manslaughter must be tried within fifteen years of the crime—murder, within twenty years.”
Chavasse frowned. “You mean Schultz might not even come to trial?”
Hardt shrugged. “Who knows? Anything might happen.” He got to his feet and paced restlessly across the compartment. “We are not butchers, Chavasse. We don’t intend to lead Schultz to the sacrificial stone with the whole of Jewry shouting Hosanna. We want to try him, for the same reason we have tried Eichmann. So that his monstrous crimes might be revealed to the world. So that people will not forget how men treat their brothers.”
His eyes sparkled with fire and his whole body trembled. He was held in the grip of a fervour that seemed almost religious, something which possessed his heart and soul so that all other things were of no importance to him.
“A dedicated man,” Chavasse said softly. “I thought they’d gone out of fashion.”
Hardt paused, one hand raised in the air and stared at him and then he laughed and colour flooded his face. “I’m sorry, at times I get carried away. But there are worse things for a man to do than something he believes in.”
“How did you come to get mixed up in this sort of thing?” Chavasse asked.
Hardt sat down on the bunk. “My people were German Jews. Luckily my father had the foresight in 1933 to see what was coming. He moved to England with my mother and me, and he prospered. I was never particularly religious—I don’t think I am now. It was a wild, adolescent impulse which made me leave Cambridge in 1947 and journey to Palestine by way of an illegal immigrants’ boat from Marseilles. I joined Haganah and fought in the first Arab war.”
“And that turned you into a Zionist?”
Hardt smiled and shook his head. “It turned me into an Israeli—there’s a difference, you know. I saw young men dying for a belief, I saw girls who should have been in school, sitting behind machine-guns. Until that time my life hadn’t meant a great deal. After that it had a sense of purpose.”
Chavasse sighed and offered him a cigarette. “You know, in some ways I think I envy you.”
Hardt looked surprised. “But surely you believe in what you are doing? In your work, your country, its political aims?”
“Do I?” Chavasse shook his head. “I’m not so sure. There are men like me working for every Great Power in the world. I’ve got more in common with my opposite number in Smersh than I have with any normal citizen of my own country. If I’m told to do a thing, I get it done. I don’t ask questions. Men like me live by one code only—the job must come before anything else.” He laughed harshly. “If I’d been born a few years earlier and a German, I’d probably have worked for the Gestapo.”
“Then why did you help Joel ben David in Cairo?” Hardt said. “It hardly fits into the pattern you describe.”
Chavasse shrugged and said carelessly, “That’s my one weakness, I get to like people and sometimes it makes me act unwisely.” Before Hardt could reply he went on, “By the way, I searched Muller before Steiner arrived on the scene. There were some letters in his inside pocket from this Lilli Pahl you mentioned. The address was a hotel in Gluckstrasse, Hamburg.”
Hardt frowned. “That’s strange. I should have thought he’d have used another name. Did you find anything else?”
“An old photo,” Chavasse said. “Must have been taken during the war. He was wearing Luftwaffe uniform and standing with his arm around a young girl.”
Hardt looked up sharply. “Are you sure about that—that it was a Luftwaffe uniform he was wearing?”
Chavasse nodded. “Quite sure. Why do you ask?”
Hardt shrugged. “It probably isn’t important. I understood he was in the army, that’s all. My information must have been incorrect.” After a moment of silence he went on, “This hotel in Gluckstrasse might be worth investigating.”
Chavasse shook his head. “Too dangerous. Don’t forget Steiner knows about the place. I should imagine he’ll have it checked.”
“But not straightaway,” Hardt said. “If I go there as soon as we reach Hamburg, I should be well ahead of the police. After all, there’s no particular urgency from their point of view.”
Chavasse nodded. “I think you’ve got something there.”
“Then there remains only one thing to decide,” Hardt said, “and that is what you are going to do.”
“I know what I’d like to do,” Chavasse said. “Have five minutes alone with Schmidt—the sleeping-car attendant who served me that coffee. I’d like to know who he’s working for.”
“I think you’d better leave me to handle that for the moment,” Hardt said. “I can get his address and we’ll visit him later. It wouldn’t do for you to hang about the Hauptbahnhof too long when we reach Hamburg.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
Hardt seemed to be thinking hard. After a while he appeared to come to a decision. “Before I say anything more I want to know if you are prepared to work with me on this thing.”
Chavasse immediately saw the difficulty and stated it. “What happens if we find the manuscript? Who gets it?”
Hardt shrugged. “Simple—we can easily make a copy.”
“And Schultz? We can’t copy him.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Chavasse shook his head. “I don’t think my Chief would see things your way.”
Hardt smiled coolly. “The choice is yours. Without my help you’ll get nowhere. You see I have an ace up my sleeve. Something which will probably prove to be the key to the whole affair.”
“Then what do you need me for?” Chavasse said.
Hardt shrugged. “I told you before, I’m sentimental.” He grinned. “Okay, I’ll be honest. Things are moving faster than I thought they would and at the moment I haven’t got another man in Hamburg. I could use you.”
The advantages to be obtained from working with Hardt were obvious and Chavasse came to a quick decision. He held out his hand. “All right. I’m your man. We’ll discuss the division of the spoils if and when we get that far.”
“Good man!” Hardt said, and there was real pleasure in his voice. “Listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you. Muller had a sister. Now we know it, but I don’t think the other side do. He always thought she was killed in the incendiary raids during July 1943. They only got together again recently. She’s working as a showgirl at a club on the Reeperbahn called the Taj Mahal. Calls herself Katie Holdt. I’ve had an agent working there for the past week. She’s been trying to get friendly with the girl hoping she might lead us to Muller.”
Chavasse raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Is your agent a German girl?”
Hardt shook his head. “Israeli—born of German parents. Her name is Anna Hartmann.” He pulled a large silver ring from the middle finger of his left hand. “Show her this and tell her who you are. She knows all about you. Ask her to take you back to her flat after the last show. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”
Chavasse slipped the ring on to a finger. “That seems to settle everything. What time do we get into Hamburg?”
Hardt glanced at his watch. “About two hours. Why?”
Chavasse grinned. “Because I’ve been missing a hell of a lot of sleep lately and if it’s all right with you, I’m going to make use of this top bunk.”
A smile appeared on Hardt’s face and he got to his feet and pushed the mounting ladder into position. “You know, I like your attitude. We’re going to get on famously.”
“I think we can say that’s mutual,” Chavasse said.
He hung his jacket behind the door and then climbed the ladder and lay full length on the top bunk, allowing every muscle to relax in turn. It was an old trick and one that could only be used when he felt easy in his mind about things.
Because of that special extra sense that was a product of his training and experience, he knew that for the moment at any rate, the affair was moving very nicely. Very nicely indeed. He turned his face into the pillow and went to sleep at once as peacefully as a child.

4
Chavasse looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was wearing a white Continental raincoat and green hat, both of which belonged to Hardt. He pulled the brim of the hat down over his eyes and grinned. “How do I look?”
Hardt slapped him on the shoulder. “Fine, just fine. There should be a lot of people leaving the train. If you do as I suggest you’ll be outside the station in two minutes. You can get a taxi.”
Chavasse shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. It’s a long time since I’ve been to Hamburg, but I can still find my way to the Reeperbahn.”
“I’ll see you later then.” Hardt opened the door and looked out and then he stood to one side. “All clear.”
Chavasse squeezed past him and hurried along the deserted corridor. The train was coming slowly into the Hauptbahnhof and already the platform seemed to be moving past him. He passed through one coach after another, pushing past the people who were beginning to emerge from their compartments, until he reached the far end of the train. As it stopped he opened a door and stepped on to the platform.
He was first through the ticket barrier and a moment later he was walking out of the main entrance. It was two-thirty and at that time in the morning the S-Bahn wasn’t running. It was raining slightly, a warm drizzle redolent of autumn, and obeying a sudden impulse he decided to walk. He turned up his coat collar and walked along Monckebergstrasse towards St Pauli, the notorious night-club district of Hamburg.
The streets were quiet and deserted and as he walked past the magnificent buildings he remembered what Hamburg had been at the end of the war. Not a city, but a shambles. It seemed incredible that this was a place in which nearly seventy thousand people had been killed in ten days during the great incendiary raids of the summer of 1943. Germany had certainly risen again like a phoenix from her ashes.
The Reeperbahn was as he remembered it, noisy and colourful and incredibly alive, even at that time in the morning. As he walked amongst the jostling, cheerful people he compared it with London at almost three in the morning and a smile touched the corners of his mouth. What was it they called the heart of St Pauli—Die Grosse Freiheit—The Great Freedom? It was an apt title.
He walked on past the garish, neon-lighted fronts of the night-clubs, ignoring the touts who clutched at his sleeve, and passed the Davidstrasse where young girls could be found in the windows, displaying their charms to the prospective customers. He found the Taj Mahal, after enquiring the way, in an alley off Talstrasse.
The entrance had been designed to represent an Indian temple and the doorman wore ornate robes and a turban. Chavasse passed in between potted palms and a young woman in a transparent sari relieved him of his hat and coat.
The interior of the club was on the same lines—fake pillars along each side of the long room and more potted palms. The waiter who led him to a table was magnificently attired in gold brocade and a red turban although the effect was spoiled by his rimless spectacles and Westphalen accent. Chavasse ordered a brandy and looked about him.
The place was only half-full and everyone seemed a little jaded as if the party had been going on for too long. On a small stage a dozen girls posed in a tableau that was meant to represent bath time in the harem. In their midst, a voluptuous redhead was attempting the Dance of the Seven Veils with a complete lack of artistry. The last veil was removed, there was a little tired clapping from the audience and the lights went out. When they came on again, the girls had disappeared.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/jack-higgins/the-testament-of-caspar-schultz/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.