by Jack Higgins
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.
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, 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 shortsightedly while the audience roared.
Chavasse’s 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, and the man bade him good night 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 lightbulb 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 lightbulb 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 that the train had already passed through Osnabruck and was speeding through the night toward 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 toward a wad of banknotes that 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 a Luftwaffe uniform with his arm round a girl, and several letters from someone called Lilli addressed to a hotel in Gluckstrasse, Hamburg.
Chavasse slowly got 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 Steiner 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 color.
“Pull yourself together,” 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 inquiringly at Steiner, who nodded toward the body. Kruger frowned and dropped down onto 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 traveling 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 inquiringly at Schmidt. “Have you got an empty compartment?”
“Yes, Herr Steiner,” Schmidt said. “In one of the other coaches.”
Kruger 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 jail for six months while 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 the floor of the corridor. 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 outward, 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 toward him. For a moment, he hesitated and then, as he turned to run, the door of the compartment opened silently. A hand reached out and pulled him backward 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.
CHAPTER 3
The man who leaned against the door held an Italian Beretta 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 an impeccable English accent.
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 toward 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 a cigarette 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,” said Chavasse 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 Bormann.” Before Chavasse could reply, Hardt 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 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 that 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 hellholes to justice.
On several occasions during his career with the Bureau, he had found himself competing with the agents of other Powers toward the same end, but this was different—this was very different.
The train started to move, the door opened, and Hardt slipped in. “I just saw Steiner. He’s been raging like a lion up and down the track. It was finally pointed out to him t
hat 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 toward 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 Bormann.”
“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 Bormann’s manuscript.”