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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.
