>
Jack Higgins
The Testament of Caspar Schultz
Dedication
For Arnold
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Publisher’s Note
1
Chavasse lay with his head pillowed on one arm and…
2
The train started to slow down as it entered the…
3
The man who leaned against the door held an Italian…
4
Chavasse looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was…
5
He wore a dark belted raincoat and his hair was…
6
He awakened slowly from a deep, dreamless sleep to an…
7
They arrived at Blankenese at half-past eight and parked the…
8
Remembering it afterwards, he could not be sure who was…
9
It was a damp, misty morning when they set out…
10
He regained his senses slowly and lay unmoving on the…
11
“He’s quite a man,” Chavasse said out of the silence.
12
They drove very fast on the way back to Hamburg.
13
“You were so long, I began to worry,” von Kraul…
14
It was bitterly cold at the Hook of Holland as…
15
Jean Frazer was typing busily when Chavasse went into her…
About the Author
Other Books by Jack Higgins
Copyright
About the Publisher
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
THE TESTAMENT OF CASPAR SCHULTZ was first published in 1979 by Fawcett Publications Inc., New York and in Great Britain by Coronet. This amazing novel has been out of print for some years, and in 2011, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back THE TESTAMENT OF CASPAR SCHULTZ for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.
1
Chavasse lay with his head pillowed on one arm and stared up at the ceiling through the darkness. He was tired—more tired than he had been in a long time and yet he couldn’t sleep. He switched on the bedside lamp and reached for a cigarette. As he struck a match, the telephone started to ring.
He lifted the receiver quickly and a woman’s voice sounded in his ear, cool and impersonal. “Paul, is that you?”
He pushed himself up against the pillow, “Who’s speaking?”
“Jean Frazer. Your flight got into London Airport from Greece three hours ago. Why haven’t you checked in?”
“What’s the rush?” Chavasse said. “I made a preliminary report from Athens yesterday. I’ll see the Chief in the morning.”
“You’ll see him now,” Jean Frazer said. “And you’d better hurry. He’s been waiting for you since that flight got in.”
Chavasse frowned. “What the hell for? I’ve just done two months in Greece and it wasn’t pleasant. I’m entitled to a night’s sleep if nothing else.”
“You’re breaking my heart,” she told him calmly. “Now get your clothes on like a good little boy. I’ll send a car round for you.”
Her receiver clicked into place and he cursed softly and threw back the bedclothes. He pulled on a pair of pants and padded across to the bathroom in his bare feet.
His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep and there was a bad taste in his mouth. He filled a glass with water and drank it slowly, savouring its freshness and then quickly rinsed his head and shoulders in cold water.
As he towelled himself dry, he examined his face in the mirror. There were dark circles under the eyes and faint lines of fatigue had drawn the skin tightly over the high cheekbones that were a heritage from his French father.
It was a handsome, even an aristocratic, face, the face of a scholar, and somehow the ugly, puckered scar of the old gunshot wound in the left shoulder looked incongruous and out of place.
He fingered the flesh beneath his grey eyes and sighed. “Christ, but you look like hell,” he said softly and the face in the mirror was illuminated by a smile of great natural charm that was one of his most important assets.
He ran a hand over the two-day stubble of beard on his chin, decided against shaving and returned to the bedroom. As he dressed, rain tapped against the window with ghostly fingers and when he left the flat ten minutes later he was wearing an old trenchcoat.
The car was waiting at the bottom of the steps when he went outside and he climbed in beside the driver and sat there in silence, staring morosely into the night as they moved through deserted, rain-swept streets.
He was tired. Tired of living out of a suitcase, of hopping from one country to another, of being all things to all men and someone very different on the inside. For the first time in five years he wondered why he didn’t pack it all in and then they turned in through the gates of the familiar house in St John’s Wood and he grinned ruefully and pushed the thought away from him.
The car braked to a halt before the front door and he got out without a word to the driver and mounted the steps. He pressed the bell beside the polished brass plate that carried the legend BROWN & COMPANY—IMPORTERS & EXPORTERS, and waited.
After a few moments
