by Jack Higgins
Hardt frowned. “That’s strange. I should have thought he’d have used another name. Did you find anything else?”
“An old photo,” Chavasse said. “Must have been taken during the war. He was wearing a Luftwaffe uniform and standing with his arm around a young girl.”
Hardt look up sharply. “Are you sure about that – that it was a Luftwaffe uniform he was wearing?”
Chavasse nodded. “Quite sure. Why do you ask?”
Hardt shrugged. “It probably isn’t important. I understood he was in the Army, that’s all. My information must have been incorrect.” After a moment of silence, he went on. “This hotel in Gluckstrasse might be worth investigating.”
Chavasse shook his head. “Too dangerous. Don’t forget Steiner knows about the place. I should imagine he’ll have it checked.”
“But not straightaway,” Hardt said. “If I go there as soon as we reach Hamburg, I should be well ahead of the police. After all, there’s no particular urgency from their point of view.”
Chavasse nodded. “I think you’ve got something there.”
“Then there remains only one thing to decide,” Hardt said, “and that is what you are going to do.”
“I know what I’d like to do,” Chavasse said. “Have five minutes alone with Schmidt – the sleeping-car attendant who served me that coffee. I’d like to know who he’s working for.”
“I think you’d better leave me to handle that for the moment,” Hardt said. “I can get his address and we’ll visit him later. It wouldn’t do for you to hang about the Hauptbahnhof too long when we reach Hamburg.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
Hardt seemed to be thinking hard. After a while, he appeared to come to a decision. “Before I say anything more, I want to know if you are prepared to work with me on this thing.”
Chavasse immediately saw the difficulty and stated it. “What happens if we find the manuscript? Who gets it?”
Hardt shrugged. “We can make a copy.”
“And Bormann? We can’t copy him.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Chavasse shook his head. “I don’t think my Chief would see things your way.”
Hardt smiled coolly. “The choice is yours. Without my help, you’ll get nowhere. You see, I have an ace up my sleeve. Something which will probably prove to be the key to the whole affair.”
“Then what do you need me for?” Chavasse said.
Hardt shrugged. “I told you before, I’m sentimental.” He grinned. “Okay, I’ll be honest. Things are moving faster than I thought they would, and at the moment I haven’t got another man in Hamburg. I could use you.”
The advantages to be obtained from working with Hardt were obvious and Chavasse came to a quick decision. He held out his hand. “All right. I’m your man. We’ll discuss the division of spoils if and when we get that far.”
“Good man!” Hardt said. “Listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you. Muller had a sister. Now, we know it, but I don’t think the other side do. He always thought she was killed in the incendiary raids during July 1943. They only got together again recently. She’s working as a showgirl at a club in the Reeperbahn called the Taj Mahal. Calls herself Katie Holdt. I’ve had an agent working there for the past week. She’s been trying to get friendly with the girl, hoping she might lead us to Muller.”
Chavasse raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Is your agent a German girl?”
HARDT shook his head. “Israeli – born of German parents. Her name is Anna Hartmann.” He pulled a large silver ring from the middle finger of his left hand. “Show her this and tell her who you are. She knows all about you. Ask her to take you back to her flat after the last show. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”
Chavasse slipped the ring onto a finger. “That seems to settle everything. What time do we get to Hamburg?”
Hardt glanced at his watch. “About two hours. Why?”
Chavasse grinned. “Because I’ve been missing a hell of a lot of sleep lately, and if it’s all right with you, I’m going to make use of your top bunk.”
Hardt smiled and he got to his feet and pushed the mounting ladder into position. “You know, I like your attitude. We’re going to get on famously.”
“I think we can say that’s mutual,” Chavasse said.
He hung his jacket behind the door and then climbed the ladder and lay full length on the top bunk, allowing every muscle to relax in turn. It was an old trick and one that could only be used when he felt easy in his mind about things.
Because of that special extra sense that was a product of his training and experience, he knew that for the moment at any rate, the affair was moving very nicely. Very nicely indeed. He turned his face into the pillow and went to sleep at once.
CHAPTER 4
Chavasse looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was wearing a white Continental raincoat and green hat, both of which belonged to Hardt. He pulled the brim of the hat down over his eyes. “How do I look?”
Hardt slapped him on the shoulder. “Fine, just fine. There should be a lot of people leaving the train. If you do as I suggest, you’ll be outside the station in two minutes. You can get a taxi.”
Chavasse shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. It’s a long time since I’ve been to Hamburg, but I can still find my way to the Reeperbahn.”
“I’ll see you later then.” Hardt opened the door and looked out and then he stood to one side. “All clear.”
Chavasse squeezed past him and hurried along the deserted corridor. The train was coming slowly into the Hauptbahnhof and already the platform seemed to be moving past him. He passed through one coach after another, pushing past people who were beginning to emerge from their compartments, until he reached the far end of the train. As it stopped, he opened a door and stepped onto the platform.
He was first through the ticket barrier, and a moment later he was walking out of the main entrance. It was two-thirty, and at that time in the morning the S-Bahn wasn’t running. It was raining slightly, a warm drizzle redolent of autumn, and obeying a sudden impulse, he decided to walk. He turned up his coat collar and walked along Monckebergstrasse toward St. Pauli, the notorious nightclub district of Hamburg.
The streets were quiet and deserted, and as he walked past the magnificent buildings, he remembered what Hamburg had been at the end of the war. Not a city, but a shambles. It seemed incredible that this was a place in which nearly seventy thousand people had been killed in ten days during the great incendiary raids of the summer of 1943. Germany had certainly risen again like a phoenix from her ashes.
The Reeperbahn was as he remembered it, noisy and colorful and incredibly alive, even at that time in the morning. As he walked amongst the jostling, cheerful people, he compared it with London at almost three in the morning. What was it they called the heart of St. Pauli – Die Grosse Freiheit – The Great Freedom? It was an apt title.
He walked on past the garish, neon-lit fronts of the nightclubs, ignoring the touts who clutched at his sleeve, and passed the Davidstrasse, where young girls could be found in the windows, displaying their charms to the prospective customers. After asking the way, he found the Taj Mahal in an alley off Talstrasse.
The entrance had been designed to represent an Indian temple and the doorman wore ornate robes and a turban. Chavasse passed in between potted palms, and a young woman in a transparent sari relieved him of his hat and coat.
The interior of the club was on the same lines – fake pillars along each side of the long room and more potted palms. The waiter who led him to a table was magnificently attired in gold brocade and a red turban, although the effect was spoiled by his rimless glasses and Westphalian accent. Chavasse ordered a brandy and looked about him.
The place was only half-full and everyone seemed a little jaded, as if the party had been going on for too long. On a small stage, a dozen girls posed in a tableau that was meant to represent bath time in the
harem. In their midst, a voluptuous redhead was attempting the Dance of the Seven Veils with a complete lack of artistry. The last veil was removed, there was a little tired clapping from the audience, and the lights went out. When they came on again, the girls had disappeared.
The waiter returned with the brandy, and Chavasse said, “You have a Fraulein Hartmann working here. How can I get in touch with her?”
The waiter smiled, exposing gold-capped teeth. “Nothing could be easier, mein Herr. The girls act as dance-hostesses after each show. I will point Fraulein Hartmann out to you when she comes in.”
Chavasse gave him a large tip and ordered a half bottle of champagne and two glasses. During his conversation with the waiter, a small band had been arranging itself on the stage, and now they started to play. At that moment, a door by the entrance to the kitchens opened and the showgirls started to come through as if on cue.
Most of them were young and reasonably attractive and wore dresses that tended to reveal their charms. They were all stamped in the same mold, with heavily made-up faces and fixed, mechanical smiles for the customers.
He was conscious of a vague, irrational disappointment at the thought that one of them must be the girl he was seeking, and then, as he was about to turn away, the door swung open again.
He did not need the waiter’s slight nod from the other side of the room to know that this was Anna Hartmann. Like the other girls, she wore high-heeled shoes, dark stockings, and a sheath dress of black silk that was barely knee-length and clung to her hips like a second skin.
But there the resemblance ended. There was about her a tremendous quality of repose, of tranquillity almost. She stood just inside the door and gazed calmly about the room, and it was as if she had no part in it, as if the ugliness of life could not touch her.
He was filled with a sudden excitement that he found impossible to analyze. It was not that she was beautiful. Her skin was olive-hued and the blue-black hair was shoulder-length. Her rounded face and full curving mouth gave her a faintly sensual appearance, and yet her good bone structure and firm chin indicated a strength of character that placed her immediately in a world apart from the other girls.
She moved forward, and heads turned as men looked at her admiringly. She skillfully evaded the clutching hand of a drunk, and then she was passing Chavasse’s table. He stood up and touched her arm quickly. “Fraulein Hartmann?” he said. “I wonder if you’d care to have a drink with me?”
She turned and looked into his face, and then she noticed the champagne and two glasses ready and waiting. “You seem to have gone to considerable trouble, Herr…?”
“Chavasse,” he said. “Paul Chavasse.”
Something seemed to move in the brown eyes, but her face betrayed no emotion. To anyone watching, she was just another of the girls accepting a drink from a customer. “That’s very kind of you, Herr Chavasse. Champagne is always most acceptable.”
As he sat down, he pulled off the ring Hardt had given him and pushed it across to her. “I hope you find this also acceptable, Fraulein Hartmann.” Then he took the bottle of champagne from the ice bucket and opened it.
As he filled her glass, she studied the ring, her face quite calm, and then slipped it into her handbag. When she looked up, there was a slight crease between her eyes, the sure sign of stress.
“What’s happened to Mark?” she said simply.
Chavasse smiled. “Drink your champagne and don’t worry. We’re working together now. You’re supposed to take me back to your flat with you. He’ll meet us there as soon as he can.”
She sipped a little of her champagne and frowned down at the glass, as if considering what he had said. After a few moments, she looked up. “I think you’d better tell me everything, Herr Chavasse.”
He gave her a cigarette and took one himself. They leaned across the table like two lovers, heads almost touching, and he brought her up to date in a few brief sentences.
When he was finished, she sighed. “So Muller is dead?”
“What about his sister?” Chavasse said. “Is she here at the moment?”
Anna Hartmann shook her head. “I’m afraid not. When she didn’t report for work this evening, I phoned her apartment. Her landlady told me that she packed a bag and left this morning without leaving any forwarding address.”
Chavasse frowned. “That isn’t so good. We don’t have a clear lead to follow now.”
“There’s always the sleeping-car attendant you told me about,” she said. “Through him you can at least find out something about the opposition.”
“You’ve got a point there.” He checked his watch and saw that it was almost three-thirty. “I think we’d better make a move.”
She smiled. “I’m afraid that isn’t as easy as it sounds. I’m supposed to work until four-thirty. If you want me to leave before that time, you’ll have to pay the management a fee.”
Chavasse smiled. “You’re kidding.”
“No, it’s quite true,” she said. “But first, we must have a dance together to make it look good.”
She pulled him to his feet and onto the tiny dance floor before he could protest. She slipped one arm around his neck and danced with her head on his shoulder, her firm young body pressed so closely against him that he could feel the line from breast to thigh.
Most of the other couples on the crowded dance floor seemed to be dancing in the same way, and Chavasse whispered in her ear, “How long are we supposed to keep this up?”
She smiled up at him and there was a hint of laughter in her eyes. “I think five minutes should be enough. Have you any objection?”
He shook his head. “No, but if it’s all right with you, I’d like to relax and enjoy it.”
The smile slipped from her face and she regarded him gravely for a moment, and then she turned her head against his shoulder once more and he tightened his arm about her wasist.
Chavasse forgot about the job, forgot about everything except the fact that he was dancing with a warm, exciting girl whose perfume filled his nostrils and caused a pleasant ache of longing in the pit of his stomach. It had been a long time since he had last slept with a woman, but that wasn’t the whole explanation. That Anna Hartmann attracted him physically was undeniable, but there was something more there, something deeper.
They had been dancing for at least fifteen minutes when she at last pulled gently away from him. “We’d better go now,” she said gravely, and led the way back to the table.
She picked up her handbag and turned with a smile. “As I said, you’ll have to buy my time, otherwise I can’t leave.” She glanced at her watch. “I think thirty marks should cover it.”
He opened his wallet and counted out the money. “Do you do this often?” he asked.
She smiled delightfully, her whole face lighting up. “Oh, no, this will be my very first time. Until now, the manager has despaired of me. After this, he will go home to his breakfast a happy man.”
She moved away between the tables and disappeared through the door at the rear of the club. Chavasse called the waiter, paid his bill, and then he retrieved his hat and coat from the cloakroom.
He lit a cigarette and stood on the pavement outside the club, and after five minutes she joined him. She was wearing a fur coat, and a silk scarf was tied around her hair peasant fashion.
“Do we have far to go?” he asked as she slipped a hand into his arm and they moved along the street.
“I have a car,” she said. “It only takes ten minutes at this time in the morning when the roads are deserted.”
The car was parked round the corner, a small, battered Volkswagen, and a moment later they were moving away through the quiet, windswept streets. She seemed a competent, sure driver, and Chavasse slouched down into his seat and relaxed.
He was still puzzled by her. For one thing, she seemed young for the kind of work she was doing, and for another, there was no hint of the ruthlessness so essential to success. She was a warm, intelligent, and lo
vely girl and he wondered how the hell she had come to be mixed up in this sort of thing.
They came to a halt in a narrow street outside an old brownstone apartment house. Her flat was on the second floor, and as they went upstairs, she said apologetically, “Not very fancy, I’m afraid, but there’s an atmosphere of genteel decay about the place which pleases me for some strange reason and it’s nice and quiet.”
She opened the door, and when she switched on the light, he found himself in a large, comfortable room. “I must get out of this dress,” she said. “Excuse me for a moment.”
Chavasse lit a cigarette and moved casually around the room. On a table by the window, he found several Hebrew textbooks and an exercise book in which she had obviously been making notes. He was leafing through it when she came back into the room.
She was wearing an embroidered kimono in heavy Japanese silk and her hair was tied back with a ribbon. “I see you’ve found my homework. Mark said you were something of an expert on languages. Do you speak Hebrew?”
“Not enough for it to count,” he said.
She went into the kitchen, still talking, and he followed her. “I speak it well enough, but I still need to practice reading,” she said.
He leaned in the doorway and watched her prepare coffee. “Tell me something,” he said. “How did a girl like you get mixed up in this sort of game?”
She smiled briefly over her shoulder and then continued with her work. “It’s not much of a story, I’m afraid. I left school at sixteen and studied economics at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. After that, I went into the Israeli Army.”
“Did you see any fighting?”
“Enough to make me realize I had to do more,” she said briefly.
She placed cups and the coffeepot on a tray, and then she moved over to a cupboard and took down a tin of cream. Chavasse watched her as she moved about the small kitchen. As she leaned over the table to pick up the tray, her kimono tightened, outlining the sweet curves of her body, and then she turned, the tray in her hands, and smiled at him.
