The Bormann Testament (The Testament of Caspar Schultz)

by Jack Higgins

  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 though 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 have no description and he may have used another name previously.”

  “Did he say what his connection was with Bormann?”

  The Chief shook his head. “That also is a complete mystery, I’m afraid.”

  Chavasse picked up the envelope that 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 job. 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 desktop 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 Bormann 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 Bormann had successfully evaded discovery by the intelligence agents of all the Great Powers. Why then should he now set off on an undertaking that, by its very nature, would start the most colossal manhunt in history – with himself as the quarry?

  Chavasse was still thinking about it as he undressed at the flat, but it was a problem that 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 that 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 travelers’ checks. 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 that purported to be from business contacts and one couched in affectionate terms from a girl called Cynthia.

  He read the letter through with interest. It was goods – very good indeed. He wondered whether the Chief had gotten 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.

  CHAPTER 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 onto 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 toward 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 face was half-covered by a carefully trimmed black beard that looked as if it had been dyed.

  Chavasse moved out of the way, and the two attendants carefully maneuvered the stretcher onto 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 inquiringly 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 backward 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 asked.

  Chavasse took a deep breath of corn whiskey and forced a smile. “I’m sorry, 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 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 damn 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 Bormann.”

  “We’ll drink to that,” Sir George said, and refilled his glass. After a moment’s silence, he said inquiringly, “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.

  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 sp
eeding 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?”