leaned out of the window and reached toward him. With a courage born of desperation, Schmidt jumped for the fire escape, his hand clawing the air.
His fingers seemed to find a hold and for a moment he hung there, and then he slipped and fell, his body twisting in midair so that he hit the cobbles headfirst.
Hardt gave a cry of horror and started forward, but Chavasse grabbed him by the arm and hustled him through the alley and out into the street. “We’ve got to think about the living,” he said. “If we don’t get away from here fast, Steiner will have half the Hamburg police force breathing down our necks.”
When they were safe in the Volkswagen and moving away through the deserted back streets of the city, Chavasse laughed shakily. “It was a pretty close thing back there. For a moment or two, I thought we weren’t going to make it.”
Hardt glanced across at him, his face white and strained. “The sound that poor devil’s head made when it hit the cobbles – I don’t think I’m ever likely to forget it.” He shuddered and turned his attention to the road.
“Steiner probably intended to get rid of him one way or another at some time in the future,” Chavasse said. “He knew too much.”
Hardt nodded. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
It had stopped raining as they slowed to a halt outside Anna’s apartment house, and Hardt switched off the engine. In the silence that followed, he sat smoking a cigarette and nervously tapping his fingers against the rim of the steering wheel.
After a while, Chavasse said, “Well, what’s our next move?”
Hardt frowned and said slowly, “A visit to this clinic of Kruger’s at Blankenese, I suppose.”
“And when do you suggest we make it?”
“Tonight after dark, I think. I’ll see what I can find out about the place during the day.”
He opened the door and got out, and Chavasse slid across the seat and followed him. They walked to the door of the apartment house and Hardt paused outside.
“Aren’t you coming in?” Chavasse asked in surprise.
Hardt shook his head. “No, I’ll get back to my place. I could do with a few hours’ sleep. I’m afraid I can’t take you with me, but you’ll be all right here. Anna will make up a bed for you on the couch.”
“Aren’t you going to take the car?” Chavasse said.
Hardt shook his head. “I feel like the walk – it isn’t far.”
He started to move away, and then hesitated and turned slowly. Dawn was just beginning to break, and in its gray light he looked sickly and unwell.
“I didn’t lose my nerve back there,” he said.
“I know that,” Chavasse told him.
“It was just that ghastly sound when his head hit the cobbles. I’ve seen men die, I’ve killed several myself, but I’ve never heard anything quite like that.”
“Go home to bed.”
For a moment longer, Hardt stared fixedly at him, and then he walked slowly away along the wet pavement. Chavasse watched him for a little while, and then he turned in through the entrance to the apartment house and went quickly upstairs.
At his first light knock, Anna opened the door and let him in. As he peeled off his raincoat, she said anxiously, “Where’s Mark?”
“Gone back to his hotel,” Chavasse told her. “He’ll be getting in touch later in the day after he’s checked on Kruger’s clinic at Blankenese. We’ll be paying it a visit tonight after dark.”
She went into the kitchen and returned almost at once with a fresh pot of coffee. As she filled two cups, she said, “What happened – did you see Schmidt?”
He drank his coffee, sitting beside her on the couch, and told her. When he finished, she shuddered. “That poor man – what a horrible way to die.”
“He couldn’t have known much about it,” Chavasse said. “He must have been killed instantly.”
“At least we now know who we’re working against,” she said.
He nodded. “According to Schmidt, Steiner was a group leader in the SS. Kruger was probably a camp doctor or something of the sort.”
“Do you think they’ll be mentioned in Bormann’s memoirs?”
He shook his head. “I shouldn’t think so. My hunch is that they’re both simply active members of the Nazi underground. The people they take their orders from probably figure in Bormann’s book.”
“And you think they’ll have Muller at this clinic in Blankenese?”
“Let’s hope so.” He put down his coffee cup and got to his feet. “And now, if I can have the use of your couch?”
She went into the bedroom and came back carrying several blankets and a pillow. As he watched, she quickly made a bed for him. She turned with a smile. “I think you’ll find it’s pretty comfortable and I can promise you won’t be disturbed. I could sleep for a week myself.”
Suddenly, she seemed very close and he felt tired – really tired. “You’re very sweet, Anna,” he said.
She raised a hand and touched his cheek, and he bent his head quickly and kissed her on the mouth. For a moment, she responded, but as soon as she felt his hands on her waist, she pulled away and rushed across to her bedroom.
The door closed behind her. For a moment, Chavasse looked at it, and then he sighed and started to peel off his clothes. By the time he had finished, fatigue had seeped into his brain. He had barely enough strength left to crawl between the blankets and switch off the table lamp before he dived into darkness.
CHAPTER 6
He awakened slowly from a deep, dreamless sleep to an atmosphere of brooding quiet. Pale autumn sunlight reached in through the window, and faintly in the distance he could hear church bells and remembered it was Sunday.
He checked his watch and found, with something of a shock, that it was half past one. He threw aside the blankets and started to get dressed, and then he saw the letter propped against the flower vase on the small table.
It was from Anna. She had decided to pay Katie Holdt’s landlady a visit in the hope of getting a lead on the girl’s whereabouts. She expected to be back by three o’clock at the latest.
He lit a cigarette and went into the kitchen. He didn’t feel hungry, and ate only one buttered roll as he waited for his coffee to brew, and then returned to the living room.
He sat on the edge of the couch with the cup in both hands and wondered how Hardt was getting on. He felt restless and ill at ease, and he got to his feet and paced up and down the apartment. It was the inaction he hated. He preferred being in at the center of things, checking the other man’s move or making one himself.
On impulse he picked up the phone, rang the Atlantic Hotel, and asked for Sir George Harvey. There was a slight click as the receiver was picked up at the other end and Sir George spoke. “Yes, who is it?”
“Your traveling companion,” Chavasse said.
Sir George’s voice didn’t change. “I was hoping you’d ring,” he said. “I’ve had your boss on the phone from London. He asked me to pass on some information to you.”
“Is it important?”
“Nothing startling, but it might prove useful.”
“Good, we’d better get together then.”
“I’m afraid that’s going to be rather awkward,” Sir George told him. “I’ve hired a car and I’m driving out to the race track at Farmsen with some of the other conference delegates. We’re leaving in a few minutes. The first race starts at two-thirty.”
Chavasse considered the situation. He had been to Farmsen before to see the trotting races. They were usually well attended on a Sunday afternoon. He came to a decision quickly.
“I’ll meet you in the bar under the grandstand in the second-class enclosure at three o’clock,” he said. “Will
