really mean it, Paul? But where would we go?”
He smiled. “Hell, what does it matter? Israel, if you like. Perhaps I could get a job lecturing at this Hebrew University of yours.”
She sighed and shook her head. “I’m afraid we suffer from a surplus of intellectuals.”
He shrugged. “All right, then. We’ll go back to the land. My grandfather was a Breton farmer – I’d probably manage to hold my own on that kibbutz you told me about.”
“Near Migdal where I was raised?” she said. “That would be wonderful, Paul. Of all things, I think that would be the most wonderful.”
“We could climb that hill of yours,” he said. “I can see us now. A fine warm afternoon with no one else for miles.”
“And what would you do when we reached the top?”
He grinned. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d find something.”
She reached across and touched his face gently and shook her head in mock disapproval.
From another cafe a little way along the strand someone played an accordion, and the music drifted sweetly across the water, a little sad, transitory, like the autumn leaves that the small wind scattered from the trees at the water’s edge, and Chavasse pulled her to her feet and into his arms and they danced alone there on the terrace, her head against his shoulder.
For a little while, it was as she had wanted it to be and nothing else seemed to matter, just the two of them there on the terrace alone, and then there was a slight, polite cough and they drew apart hastily to find Mark Hardt standing looking at them, a strange expression on his face.
“So you got here,” Chavasse said, rather pointlessly, and they all sat down at the table.
“You two seem to have been enjoying yourselves,” Hardt said. He looked across at Anna and she gazed back at him calmly. He shrugged and turned to Chavasse.
“Where did you get to this afternoon? A little unwise venturing out during daylight hours, surely?”
Chavasse shrugged. “Not really. There was a message for me from London. I went to the races at Farmsen to meet Sir George Harvey.”
Hardt raised his eyebrows. “Anything interesting?”
“They’d just discovered who Muller was and thought it might be useful. Apparently, he was Bormann’s orderly for a time.”
“That was something I didn’t know,” Hardt said. “However, we’ve got more important things to think about at the moment.” He unfolded a sheet of paper and placed it on the table where they could all see it.
It was a carefully drawn sketch-plan of the clinic and Chavasse examined it with interest. “This is good,” he said at length. “Where did you get it?”
“A local real-estate agent,” Hardt said. “There’s an empty house next door and I told him I was interested in buying. The plan he showed me included Kruger’s clinic as well. Apparently, the property was only converted last year.”
“Did you find out anything else about the place?” Chavasse said.
Hardt nodded. “Yes, security is pretty strict. High walls, broken glass set in concrete. There’s a bar opposite the main gate and I had a word with the proprietor. According to him, Kruger handles a lot of mental cases. Rich neurotics, women with twisted sex lives. All that sort of thing.”
Chavasse studied the plan again. “How are we going in?”
“It should be pretty simple.” Hardt leaned over the plan. “The dividing wall between the clinic and the empty house is about ten feet high. Once over that, we enter the building by way of the boiler-house door. There are several cellars beyond that and from one of them, a small service elevator serves all floors. It’s used for laundry.”
“What about the patients?” Chavasse said.
“Every Sunday night they have a film show in the lounge on the ground floor. It doesn’t finish until ten. From what I can find out, everybody goes.”
Chavasse nodded. “That should give us a clear field. If Muller is in there, it stands to reason he must be on either the first or second floor and it shouldn’t take long to locate him. There are only fifteen rooms.”
Hardt glanced at his watch. “We’d better make a move. It’s nine-fifteen already and we haven’t got a lot of time to spare. Where have you parked the car?” When Anna told him, he nodded. “It’s only five minutes from there.”
Chavasse paid the waiter and they left quickly, and climbed back up the steeply sloping alley until they reached the Hauptstrasse. He and Anna got into the rear seat and Hardt drove.
The clinic was on the corner of a narrow side street lined with chestnut tress, and a sound of music came from the small bar opposite the great iron gates. As Hardt drove past, Chavasse saw that they were securely locked and beyond them the clinic loomed out of the night, half-hidden by trees.
Hardt stopped the Volkswagen a few yards beyond the gate of the next house and switched off the engine. He turned to Anna. “I want you to wait for us here. With luck, we should be in and out within twenty minutes.”
She nodded calmly. “And if you are not?”
Chavasse, who was getting out of the car, said grimly, “If we aren’t back by ten o’clock, you get out of here – and fast.”
She seemed about to protest, but Hardt broke in and said gently, “He’s right, Anna. There’s no point in your being dragged down with us. If anything happens, return to the flat and get in touch with London. They’ll know what to do.”
Chavasse could feel her eyes imploring him to turn and look at her, but some stubborn impulse kept him walking steadily back along the pavement, and in through the gates of the empty house. There was no sound, only the slight rustle of the wind through half-bare trees, and Hardt pushed him forward.
There was a decaying summer house set against the dividing wall, and Chavasse hoisted himself up onto its roof and peered cautiously over into the grounds of the clinic.
The top of the wall was covered with concrete in which hundreds of pieces of broken glass had been set, and he tested them gingerly with his fingertips. Hardt moved up beside him and quickly draped several old sacks across a section of the wall. “I found these in the summer house when I was nosing around this afternoon,” he whispered.
They could see the windows of the lounge running toward the front to the house, and heard a sudden burst of laughter from the patients who were watching the film. “Sounds as if they’re enjoying it,” Chavasse said. “Are you ready?”
Hardt nodded, and Chavasse placed one hand lightly on the thick padding of the sacks and vaulted over the wall. He landed knee-deep in dead leaves, and a moment later Hardt was beside him.
They moved across the lawn, keeping under the trees, and approached the door to the boiler house. Chavasse listened intently at the door for a moment, and then opened it easily and quickly and moved inside, hands ready. There was no one there.
He moved on without speaking, through the opposite door and along a narrow stone passage. Facing him was another door. When he opened it, the room was in darkness. His groping hand found the switch and turned it on. The cellar was full of laundry baskets and facing him was the entrance to the service elevator.
Chavasse examined it quickly. It was simple enough to operate and he turned to Hardt, who had followed him in, and said, “I’ve been thinking. We’ll do better if we take one floor each. You take the first floor, I’ll take the second, if you like.”
Hardt nodded without saying anything. He took out the Beretta automatic and checked the action. Chavasse said, “Without a silencer, that thing’s worse than useless on a job like this. If you do meet anyone and use it, you’ll have the entire household breathing down our necks.”
Hardt said, “What do you suggest I do – raise my hands and go quietly?”
Chavasse grinned. “I could tell you, but we haven’t the time now.” He pushed Hardt into the elevator and followed him. A moment later, the doors closed silently and they were rising.
He pressed the button for the first floor and they came to a halt. He turned to Hardt and whispered, “Let’s hope there’s no one in the corridor.”
The doors slid open and he peered out. The corridor was deserted and he pushed Hardt forward without a word and quickly pressed the button for the second floor.
