The Testament of Caspar Schultz

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.