by Jack Higgins
“I’m sorry, Anna,” Chavasse said quietly.
She managed a smile. “It’s all right, Paul. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I should have used my brains,” he said, “but we all make mistakes.”
“Is this the Jewish one?” Nagel said. “I must say she’s charming. Quite charming.”
Kruger was regarding her with a peculiar, fixed stare. “You know my opinion of the race, my dear Kurt,” he said to Nagel, “but their womenfolk have always appealed to me.”
Anna shuddered, and Kruger moved closer and placed a hand on her arm, “You’ve nothing to worry about, my dear. As long as you behave yourself, that is.”
She pulled away from him. “Keep your hands off me.”
Kruger shrugged. “If you want it the hard way, that’s all right with me.” He pushed her toward Hans. “Lock her in the room next to mine. No food or water. I’ll deal with her myself later.”
Chavasse tried to look reassuring as Hans pulled her out into the hall. She managed one brave smile over her shoulder, and then Steiner closed the door.
Nagel said, “Now then, Chavasse. Let’s get down to business. What do you know about this Bormann business?”
Chavasse said, “Why ask me when you’ve got Muller?”
Nagel sighed. “Unfortunately, Muller is proving to be extremely stupid. So far he has refused to talk. I confess to some puzzlement about this. I offered him a large sum of money—very large. However, we now have some more information which should help.”
“And what would that be?” Chavasse said.
Nagel smiled. “All in good time, my friend. First, I am going to let you have a few words with Muller. Perhaps you can make him see sense.”
“I can’t see why anything I can say should make him change his mind,” Chavasse said. “Not after the things you must have done to him.”
Nagel shrugged. “You can tell him that my patience is at an end, for one thing.” He turned to the others. “Shall we all go? I think this might prove interesting.”
Steiner opened the door and led the way and Chavasse followed, with Kruger and Nagel bringing up the rear. They crossed the hall and mounted the great staircase to the gallery. From somewhere in the very depths of the castle, Chavasse could hear several dogs barking monotonously, and something seemed to crawl across his skin as he wondered if he would ever leave this place alive.
They mounted several stairs that led into an upper gallery, and two men who had been sitting quietly reading, in opposite chairs, stood up. They were stolid and brawny, obviously picked more for muscle than for brain, and Kruger told them to go down to the kitchen for a meal.
As they walked away, Kruger turned to Nagel and said, “Shall we let him have a word with his friend before seeing Muller?” He sniggered. “After all, it may be their last chance.”
Nagel smiled thinly. “By all means.”
Kruger unlocked the next door they came to, and Steiner pushed Chavasse inside.
The room was quite comfortably furnished and seemed normal except for the bars on the windows. Hardt was lying on the bed, and he swung his legs to the floor and rose to meet them.
His right arm was in a sling and his face looked drawn and pale. He stared somberly at Chavasse, eyes a little feverish, and a savage smile touched the corners of his mouth. “So they managed to catch up with you, Paul?”
Chavasse nodded. “I’m afraid so. Are you all right?”
Kruger moved forward. “He is doing extremely well, aren’t you, Herr Hardt? A minor flesh wound in the shoulder. I attended to it myself.”
“Without an anesthetic.” Hardt looked across at Chavasse. “He still hasn’t grown up. Enjoys pulling the wings off flies and all that sort of thing.”
Kruger deliberately placed his hand on the injured shoulder and squeezed. Hardt fell back onto the bed. “I shall be in again later,” Kruger said. “When I have finished with you, you will have learned how to curb your tongue.”
He pushed Chavasse out of the door and told Steiner to lock it. They walked along to the other end of the gallery and paused outside the last door.
Nagel said, “You can have five minutes, Herr Chavasse. For Muller’s sake, I hope he listens to you.”
Kruger unlocked the door and Steiner pushed Chavasse violently inside. The door closed behind him and he went forward.
It was a bare, unfurnished room. In the center a strong, metal operating table was bolted to the floor and leather straps hung from it, presumably used to hold the patient in position.
Muller was lying on a trundle bed in the far corner under a barred window. Chavasse went across and sat on the edge of the bed, and after a while Muller opened his eyes and stared up at him.
He seemed to be in his early forties and had a gaunt, skull-like face that was covered with skin the color of parchment. There were no visible marks, and Chavasse leaned forward and gently lifted the sheet. Muller was completely naked and his body was crisscrossed with great livid bruises and angry red weals. He had obviously been terribly beaten.
He stared vacantly at Chavasse for a moment and then something seemed to click, and fear appeared in his eyes. He tried to draw away with a tiny moan, and Chavasse said gently, “Don’t worry, Muller. I’m not one of them.”
Muller moistened cracked lips. “Who are you?”
“Paul Chavasse, the man you were supposed to meet on the North-West Express at Osnabruck.”
Muller shook his head weakly. “Why should I believe you?”
Chavasse leaned closer and pointed to his wounded face. “Who do you think gave me this?” Muller frowned and looked half-convinced and Chavasse went on. “I even know about your sister—they don’t know about that. She was working at the Taj Mahal under the name of Katie Holdt.”
Muller reached out and clawed feebly toward Chavasse. “For God’s sake, you mustn’t tell them that. I beg you not to tell them.” There were tears in his eyes. “It is only for my sister’s sake that I have kept quiet. I know what they would do to her.”
Chavasse eased him back against the pillow and said reassuringly, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell them about her. Has she got the manuscript?”
Muller nodded feebly. “I thought no one knew of her existence. She was supposed to have died in the bombing in 1943.”
“And Bormann,” Chavasse said, “where is he?”
“That’s the big joke,” Muller said, “the best joke of all. He died three months ago in a little village in the Harz Mountains.”
“You were his orderly during the war,” Chavasse said. “What happened afterward?”
Muller moistened his lips again. “Bormann had money salted away in Portugal. We lived there under assumed names and I acted as his valet. When his health started to fail and he knew he was dying, he decided to return to Germany. He spent the last year of his life writing the manuscript. He called it his testament.”
Something seemed to rattle in his throat and he closed his eyes. As Chavasse stood up, the door opened and the others moved in. Nagel was smoking a cigarette in a long holder. “Have you anything to tell me, Herr Chavasse?”
Chavasse shook his head. “Not a thing.”
Nagel sighed. “What a pity—in that case…”
He made a slight gesture with one hand and Hans, who had moved behind Chavasse, grabbed his arms and jerked them behind his back. Steiner moved in very fast, his great hands clenched. “Now comes the rest of the debt I owe you,” he said coldly, and Chavasse rocked back against Hans as a fist crashed against his already damaged right cheek, sending waves of pain moving through him.
He lifted both feet and slammed them into Steiner’s stomach as the big German moved in again. Steiner was thrown back against the operating table. For a moment, he hung there, and then he moved forward, a terrible look on his face.
As Chavasse started to struggle, Hans slid one forearm across his throat and squeezed and Chavasse started to choke. Steiner’s first blow landed in his stomach and was followed by a
nother and still another until Chavasse slid to the floor.
Steiner kicked him in the side of the neck, and as he drew back his foot again, Nagel said sharply, “That’s enough. We want him alive for the moment.”
Chavasse kept his eyes closed and breathed deeply, fighting the pain that flooded over him, fighting to stay conscious.
He was aware of Muller’s groans as they dragged him from the bed and strapped him to the operating table.
Nagel said, “Muller, can you hear me?” There was a moan and he continued. “Muller, I’ve been very patient with you, but I’m beginning to run out of time.”
“Shall we start?” Steiner said.
Chavasse forced open his eyes. Steiner and Hans were both stripped to the waist and holding long rubber truncheons.
Nagel leaned over the table. “We know about your sister, Muller,” he said. “Katie Holdt she calls herself, I believe. She’s got the manuscript, hasn’t she, Muller? Tell us where she lives. I only want the manuscript. I’ll see nothing happens to her.”
Again there came that curious rattling sound in Muller’s throat. Nagel gave an exclamation of annoyance and stood back. “Carry on!” he said to Steiner and Hans, and turned away.
Chavasse closed his eyes again at the first sound of a rubber hose curling around flesh and bone, and then Muller screamed and the blows and the screaming seemed to mingle endlessly, and Chavasse gritted his teeth and tried to shut out the sounds and then slid into darkness.
CHAPTER 10
He regained his senses slowly and lay unmoving on the floor, eyes tightly closed. He could not have been unconscious for long because they were all still in the room.
The sound of the beating had stopped and Nagel seemed angry. “Are you sure he’s all right?” he asked.
There was a moment’s silence before Kruger replied, “He’s still alive, if that’s what you mean.”
“The stubborn fool,” Nagel said angrily.
“Shall we start again?” Steiner said.
Nagel made an impatient sound. “He’s no use to us dead and he will be if you give him any more. Leave him alone for now. We have important things to talk over, remember.”
“What are the plans for tonight?” Kruger said.
“That is what I propose to discuss,” Nagel told him. “The reception starts at seven. Dinner will be at eight, and Hauptmann will make his speech at nine-thirty precisely.”
“At what time do you wish me to be there?” Steiner said.
“Nine o’clock. You will wait in the bushes below the terrace of the ballroom. There will be a table on the terrace especially prepared for Hauptmann. I shall take him out there at nine-fifteen, on the pretext that it will give him a chance to collect his thoughts while we are getting the other guests seated for his speech.”
“Can you be absolutely sure he will go out onto the terrace?” Kruger said.
“Of course,” Nagel told him. “I have known Hauptmann for several years now and he never uses prepared speeches. He always does it in this way.” He turned to Steiner. “I want no mistakes about this, Steiner. You have been selected because of your proven reliability. Hauptmann must die tonight.”
“It shall be as you say, Herr Nagel,” Steiner said confidently.
“Hauptmann’s connection with the Office for the Detection of War Crimes at Ludwigsburg has made him into something of a national hero. We must teach people a lesson. Let them know our movement is still a force to be reckoned with.”
Nagel crossed the room and stirred Chavasse with his foot. “You were really extremely rough with our friend here. He seems to be in a bad way. I trust he’ll be in a fit state to answer a few questions when I return tomorrow.”
Kruger moved over beside him. “I’ll give him an examination later this afternoon. Are you staying for lunch?”
“I don’t think so,” Nagel said. “I really must get back to Hamburg. Such a lot of preparations for tonight’s little affair.”
They moved to the door, and Chavasse opened one eye slightly and watched them go. Hans opened the door, and as they went out, Kruger said, “You’d better stay on duty at the end of the gallery, Hans, until the other two have had their meal.” The door closed and the key turned in the lock.
Chavasse sat up slowly and gingerly touched the side of his neck with his fingertips. It was lucky that Steiner had been wearing nothing heavier than crepe-soled shoes. His stomach muscles were bruised and tender to the touch, but it was his face that caused him the most pain. It somehow felt lopsided and heavy and his right cheek was swollen and sticky with blood.
Muller groaned slightly, and again there was that uncanny rattle in his throat. Chavasse got to his feet and went across to the operating table. As he looked down at that poor broken body, Muller opened his eyes and stared up at him vacantly.
He seemed to be trying to speak and Chavasse leaned down. “My sister,” Muller croaked. “Did I tell them where to find her?”
Chavasse shook his head. “No, you didn’t tell them a damn thing.”
Something resembling a smile appeared on Muller’s face. He closed his eyes with a long sigh of relief. Suddenly, Chavasse realized that Muller’s breathing had stopped.
For a long time, Chavasse stayed there, looking down at a dead man. After a while, he sighed. “Well, you had guts, Muller. I’ll say that for you.” He went across to the bed for a blanket, which he took back to the operating table and draped over the body.
He started to examine the room. There was no fireplace and the only window was crossed with iron bars set firmly in solid stone. He next tried the door, but a close examination of the locks made it clear that escape by that way was out of the question.
He glanced at his watch. It was almost two-thirty, and he sat down on the bed and considered the situation. He had to get out somehow. From the look in Kruger’s eye when he had first seen Anna, it wouldn’t be very long before he paid her a visit.
And then there was the Hauptmann affair. He tried to remember what he had read of the man. A liberal politician who was immensely popular with the people—possibly even a future chancellor. His death would be a world sensation. How ironic that it was to take place at the United Nations Peace Conference.
The very fact that Nagel and his associates dared attempt such a deed indicated the strength of their movement. If they got away with it, there was no telling what the ultimate effect would be on the German political scene. If the Nazis obtained any kind of government control, then everything would swing out of balance, including relations between East and West Germany. The repercussions on world politics could be immense.
He slammed a fist into the bed and started to get to his feet. It was then he noticed one of the long rubber truncheons that had been used to beat Muller.
Obviously, either Steiner or Hans had dropped it carelessly to the floor and it had rolled under the operating table. It was sticky with blood when he picked it up. He wiped it on one of the blankets and then stood in the center of the room, bending it in his hands. It was about two feet long, a horrible and deadly weapon, and as he examined it, a plan slowly formulated in his mind.
He opened his mouth wide and screamed. He allowed the sound to die away and then repeated it. As he listened, footsteps approached along the corridor and halted outside the door. Chavasse started to groan and whimper horribly.
Hans shouted through the door, “Stop that noise or I’ll come in and make you shut up!”
Chavasse groaned horribly as if in great pain, and quickly crossed the room and flattened himself against the wall behind the door.
Hans said angrily, “Right, my friend, you’ve asked for it.”
The key rattled in the lock and the door swung open. Hans moved forward into the room, his great hands clenched, and Chavasse said from behind him, “Here I am.”
As Hans turned, Chavasse swung the truncheon with all his strength, catching the man full across the throat. Hans made no sound. His eyes retracted and he fell backward as if
poleaxed. His beard was flecked with foam, and for a little while his fingers scrabbled uselessly at the floorboards as he fought for air, and then he was still.
Chavasse dropped onto one knee and searched him quickly, but he was out of luck. Hans had not been carrying a gun. Chavasse went out into the gallery and listened, but all was quiet. He quickly locked the door and pocketed the key, and then, as he turned to move down toward the room in which Hardt was imprisoned, a woman screamed somewhere close at hand.
He moved along the corridor quickly and then she screamed again, the sound coming clearly through an oak door at the end of the gallery. He turned the handle and opened the door.
ANNA was crouched in the corner by the fireplace, her dress torn down the front and a livid weal glowing angrily across one bare shoulder. Kruger stood in the center of the room, a small whip twitching nervously in his right hand.
“You won’t get away from me, my dear,” he said, “but please continue to resist. It adds a certain spice.”
Chavasse slipped in through the door and closed it quietly behind him. As he started to move forward, Anna saw him and her eyes widened. Kruger turned, an expression of alarm on his ravaged face, and Chavasse slashed him across the back of the hand that held the whip.
An expression of agony flooded Kruger’s face. He fell to his knees and started to whimper like a child, and Chavasse lashed him across the head with the truncheon.
Kruger bowed his head like a man in prayer and keeled over slowly. Chavasse raised the truncheon again, and Anna flung herself forward and caught hold of his arm, “That’s enough, Paul!” she said, fiercely holding him with a grip of surprising strength.
He lowered his arm reluctantly. “Has he harmed you?”
She shook her head. “He’s only been with me for ten minutes. Most of the time he spent talking the most unutterable filth.”
“We must thank God for the fact he’s only half a man,” Chavasse said, and pulled her toward the door. “We haven’t got much time to waste. We must release Hardt and then find a way out of this place.”