by Jack Higgins
Chavasse said slowly, “Then it was you and Steiner who took her from the apartment?”
Sir George nodded. “I’m afraid so. Of course you do realize the predicament I was in. I had to see that manuscript destroyed. I’m sorry about the girl—she just happened to be in the way. It was Steiner who shot her—not me.”
“But you’d have killed her anyway,” Chavasse said, “because she knew your secret.”
Sir George nodded gravely. “Yes, I’m very much afraid I would. The only reason I didn’t kill Steiner was because he told me about the Hauptmann business. That made me see some of the remarks you made earlier in the evening, and the visit of that German intelligence chap, in a new light. I decided Steiner was very probably a dead man walking anyway.”
“And you got two for the price of one,” Chavasse said. “Nagel as well. Now there’s only one living person who knows you intended to be one of the dirtiest traitors in English history.”
Sir George nodded and moved round in a half circle, the revolver never wavering for an instant. “Stand with your back against the rail, please,” he said sharply.
Chavasse took his time about moving into the required position, every muscle tensed and ready for action. If he was going to die anyway, he intended to make a move of some sort.
“That’s fine,” Sir George said. “Yes, you’re quite right. You’re the only person who can ruin me. Believe me, I’m sorry about this. I rather liked you.”
He moved back a pace, raising his arm, and aimed so quickly that he caught Chavasse off guard. As his finger tightened on the trigger, the seaman whom Chavasse had noticed a little earlier moved out of the fog silently. His arm swung and the edge of his right hand thudded across the back of Sir George’s neck.
The revolver dropped from the nerveless fingers and as he started to crumple to the deck, the seaman caught the inanimate body across his shoulders. He walked two quick paces to the rail and heaved Sir George Harvey down into the fog.
The whole thing had happened with such incredible speed that Chavasse had been unable to do anything. As the seaman kicked the revolver over the side, Chavasse grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him round—and found himself looking into the pale, impassive face of Mark Hardt.
For a moment there was silence, and then Hardt said calmly, “I think you’d better go down to your cabin, Paul. It wouldn’t do to be seen on deck now. You might be questioned later on.”
“How did you know?” Chavasse said.
Hardt shrugged. “After you’d gone last night, I was clearing up some of Anna’s things. Apparently, she’d been reading Bormann’s manuscript and made notes in Hebrew as she was going along. It seems there was a chapter on Harvey.”
Chavasse turned and looked over the rail, down into the swirling fog. He shivered. “It’s a hell of a way to go, but I can’t say I’m sorry for him. He was directly responsible for Anna’s death.”
Hardt nodded. “This way is better all round. Famous British politician has tragic accident and the country avoids a scandal of world dimensions.”
Chavasse looked at him closely for a moment and then shook his head. “You’re a strange one, Mark. I don’t think I’ve ever really understood you.”
Hardt smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You loved her, didn’t you, Paul?”
Chavasse nodded slowly and sighed. “Not that it did her a great deal of good.”
“I loved her too,” Hardt said. “We’ll always have that bond between us.”
They walked along the deck and paused at the entrance to the lounge. Hardt held out his hand and said gravely, “I don’t think we’ll be meeting again, Paul.”
Chavasse took the hand and held it for a moment. He tried to think of something to say, but Hardt turned and melted into the fog before anything suitable came to mind.
The ship seemed to poise high on a wave, and Chavasse held his breath and for some reason thought of Anna. And then the vessel dipped smoothly down into the next hollow again and he pulled open the door and went inside.
CHAPTER 15
Jean Frazer was typing busily when Chavasse went into her office. He sat on the edge of the desk and helped himself to a cigarette, and waited for her to finish what she was doing.
After a while, she removed her spectacles, leaned back in the chair, and gazed up at him critically. “You don’t look too good,” she said. “Was it rough?”
“Rough enough,” he told her. “Has he read my report?”
She nodded. “First thing this morning. Why didn’t you bring it in personally?”
He shrugged. “I needed some sleep. I don’t seem to have had much time for it during the last few days.”
“What you need is a holiday,” she said.
“That’s exactly what I intend to have,” he told her. “Is he in?”
She nodded. “He’s waiting for you.”
She replaced her spectacles and returned to her typing, and Chavasse moved across to the other door and opened it.
As he closed it behind him, the Chief looked up quickly and a smile appeared on his face. “I’ve been waiting for you to call, Paul. From your report, you seem to have had a hectic time of it.”
Chavasse slumped into a chair. “It was certainly one hell of an assignment. Didn’t you ever have even the slightest suspicion about Harvey?”
The Chief shook his head. “Plenty of prominent people were favorably disposed toward the Nazis in the years before the war. Don’t forget that for a long time Hitler seemed to be doing a good job. There were several politicians who thought like Harvey at the time.”
“He certainly managed to sabotage the operation,” Chavasse said, “and he was directly responsible for the destruction of Bormann’s manuscript.”
“He was nobody’s fool,” the Chief said. “On the whole, I’m glad you handled him the way you did. Saves a lot of unpleasantness all round.”
“You can thank Hardt for that, not me,” Chavasse told him. “If he hadn’t stepped in when he did, I’d have been the one to take a dive over the side.”
“For an amateur, he sounds a pretty useful type to have around,” the Chief said. “You don’t suppose he’d like a job, do you?”
Chavasse shook his head. “You’re wasting your time. He’s a dedicated man.”
The Chief smiled wryly. “Just a thought.”
He picked up the report and quickly skimmed through it.
After a moment, he went on. “So we can definitely say that Nagel and Steiner won’t trouble anybody again.”
“And you can count the guard at the castle, the man called Hans,” Chavasse said. “I think I broke his neck.”
“What about Kruger?” the Chief asked. “He sounds as if he could still be a thorn in somebody’s flesh.”
Chavasse pulled a newspaper out of his pocket and pushed it across the desk.
“That’s the afternoon edition. I got it on the way over. If you look at the bottom of page two, you’ll see a small item about the untimely death of Dr. Otto Kruger, well-known Hamburg physician. He was taking off in his own plane from a private airfield just outside Hamburg—destination unknown. Apparently, there was an accident. He nose-dived from three hundred feet.”
“Where do you think he was going?” the Chief said. “The United Arab Republic?”
Chavasse shrugged. “Probably. It seems a popular choice.”
“Wherever it was, he didn’t make it.” The Chief grinned. “That’s one thing about von Kraul. He doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet.”
“I must admit I like the way he works,” Chavasse said. “And he doesn’t look like what he is, which is certainly an asset in this game.”
“Yes, he’s quite a man.” The Chief sighed. “It’s a point worth remembering, that all Germans weren’t members of the Nazi Party, any more than all Hamburg police inspectors in any way resemble Steiner.”
Chavasse nodded slightly without replying. He had never felt so tired in his life, and he closed his eye
s for a moment and tried to relax. He was like a hairspring that had been wound up too tightly and was taking its time in running down.
He fought against the feeling of fatigue, and as he opened his eyes, the Chief looked up from the report and closed it. “Taking it all in all, I think things might have been a lot worse.”
“I’m glad you see it that way,” Chavasse said. “After all, we didn’t get the manuscript and Bormann was dead anyway.”
“But you did save Heinrich Hauptmann’s life,” the Chief pointed out, “and you cleaned out a pretty nasty nest of rats. I wouldn’t be too depressed about things.”
He selected a cigarette from the silver box on his desk and went on. “It was a damned shame about the girl—this Anna Hartmann, I mean. She must have had all the guts in the world.”
Chavasse shook his head slowly. “There was more to it than that—much more. She suffered from a virtue few people are cursed with—complete integrity. On top of that…she was in love with me.”
Now that he had said it, he found that his hands were shaking slightly. He got to his feet, crossed to the window, and looked out into the garden. A light wind tapped against the glass and a single leaf spiraled down into the damp grass, leaving the plane tree in front of the window bare.
Behind him, the Chief said softly, “So it was like that, was it?”
Chavasse turned slowly. “When I entered this office, I intended to hand you my resignation.”
“And now?” the Chief said.
Chavasse smiled, and that slight, rather boyish smile illuminated his entire face. “Now, I think I’d like that holiday you promised me.”
When the Chief spoke, he sounded relieved. “That’s more like it. For a moment there, you had me worried.” He chuckled. “You’re overtired, that’s what it is. I know it hasn’t been much fun handling two tough assignments one after the other, but now you can get away from everything for six weeks or so and relax. Soak up a little sun. They say Bermuda is nice at this time of year.”
Chavasse raised his eyebrows. “No expense spared to keep the help happy, eh?”
The Chief smiled. “See Jean on your way out. Tell her where you want to go and she’ll arrange the tickets for you.” He sighed and picked up a file. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to rush through an official report on this affair. The Foreign Secretary is having dinner with the Prime Minister tonight and the old boy wants to know all about it.”
He opened the file and picked up his pen, and Chavasse went back into the other office.
Jean Frazer was standing at the filing cabinet, and she turned with a slight smile of inquiry on her face. “Got what you wanted?”
He nodded. “I think you could say that.”
She picked up a memo pad. “Where’s it to be—Bermuda?”
He shook his head briefly. “You can telephone El Al. Book me a seat on their first flight out to Tel Aviv in the morning.”
As he crossed to the outer door and opened it, Jean Frazer said blankly, “But why Israel?”
He turned and smiled at her. “There’s a hill I’d like to climb just outside a place called Migdal on the Sea of Galilee. A promise I made to a friend a long time ago.” And he closed the door gently.
A long time ago? As he went down the hall, he smiled and shook his head, because already she seemed close to him again.
