The Testament of Caspar Schultz. Jack Higgins
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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