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
