The Bormann Testament (The Testament of Caspar Schultz)

But it was very difficult. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate, it was unimportant things that persisted in pushing the other things, the things the Chief would want to know, into the background.

It was a touch of brain fatigue, that was all, and he sighed and gave up the struggle. He closed his eyes, and her face seemed to float in the darkness before him. There was a sweet, grave smile on her lips, and he was suddenly reminded that this was how she had looked in the hunting lodge at Berndorf when they had waited for Sir George’s car.

He remembered what she had said. One day, you’ll look back on it all and it will simply be something that happened a long time ago. And then she’d quoted from one of Marlowe’s plays. But that was long ago and in another country.

For a moment, he sat there, eyes closed, a slight frown on his face, and then he remembered the quotation in full and shivered violently, coldness seeping through him. But that was long ago and in another country, and besides – the wench is dead.

Had she perhaps had, for a brief moment only, a sudden foreknowledge of what was to happen? But his brain refused to function efficiently, and he reached for his glass and emptied it.

As he started to rise, Sir George Harvey sat on the stool beside him. “Got time for a nightcap?” he said.

Chavasse nodded and sat down again. “Just one if you don’t mind. I’m desperately tired. Haven’t slept since the day before yesterday.”

Sir George nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry we couldn’t meet on the train. Unfortunately, several of the delegates decided at the last minute to spend a day or two in London before breaking up. Naturally, I was compelled to travel with them.”

“That’s all right,” Chavasse said as the barman placed two large whiskies before them.

Sir George offered him a cigarette and shook his head. “I felt particularly bad about it under the circumstances. I wanted time to discuss things with you.”

“There isn’t anything to discuss,” Chavasse told him.

“But there is,” Sir George said. “I get the definite impression that you’re feeling pretty grim about everything. Your original mission a failure, Miss Hartmann’s unfortunate death. But there is another side to things, you know. After all, you did manage to save Hauptmann. Who knows what effect that may have on the future of Germany?”

Chavasse nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose one could look at it that way.” There was a dull, throbbing pain behind his eyes and he felt curiously light-headed. He got to his feet and said, “I hope you’ll excuse me now. I’m desperately tired.”

Sir George hastily finished his drink, his face full of concern. “Stupid of me to keep you here at all, Chavasse. You look terrible.”

They walked out of the lounge and paused at the top of the companionway. “I’ll leave you here,” Sir George said. “I feel like a turn around the deck. I can never sleep during this particular crossing.” He held out his hand. “If I don’t see you again, good luck. If you should ever feel like returning to a more normal life, come and see me. I’ve a great deal of influence in business circles.”

Chavasse went along the corridor to his cabin, thinking about Sir George’s offer. He wondered what the Chief would say if he walked into his office and handed over his resignation along with the report on the Bormann affair. It was tempting – very tempting.

He opened the door of the cabin and went inside, yawning as the tiredness seemed to melt into his very bones, turning them to jelly. He stood in front of the mirror and started to take off his tie, and images and thoughts circled endlessly in his brain, disjointed and meaningless, and then something erupted out of his subconscious to scream one name at him through the silence.

He gripped the edge of the washbasin with both hands and stared into the mirror, the shock of it like a bucket of ice water thrown in the face. And then he no longer felt tired and he pulled on his raincoat quickly and left the cabin.

The ship was moving through a silent world of thick fog when he came out onto the top deck, and a light rain was falling. He lit a cigarette and moved forward, his eyes probing every corner.

He found Sir George leaning over the stern rail, a cigar burning between his teeth, one hand thrust deep into the pocket of a heavy overcoat. A seaman in knitted cap and reefer jacket was coiling a rope nearby, and he moved away into the fog as Chavasse approached.

Sir George turned from the rail. “Oh, it’s you, Chavasse. Changed your mind about going to bed, eh?”

Chavasse nodded. “There are one or two loose ends to the Bormann affair. I thought you might be able to help me tie them up.”

“Certainly, my boy,” Sir George said. “Only too pleased to be of assistance.”

“I hoped you’d feel that way.” Chavasse smiled. “You can start by telling me how you came to be involved with Nagel, Steiner, and the rest of that pleasant bunch.”

Sir George’s face looked suddenly old and careworn in the sickly light of the deck lamp. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then I’ll make it plainer for you,” Chavasse told him. “You’ve been sticking a knife into my back from the very beginning of this affair. I’d like to know why.”

Sir George moved forward suddenly and tried to brush past him.

Chavasse pushed him violently and struck him a heavy blow in the face.

Sir George staggered backward and slipped to one knee. For a moment he stayed there, blood on his mouth. As he rose to his feet, his right hand came out of his overcoat pocket, holding an old Webley.38 with a specially shortened barrel.

“That won’t do you any good,” Chavasse said.

Sir George carefully wiped the blood from his mouth with a handkerchief. When he spoke, his voice was cold and impersonal. “How did you find out?”

“It was something you said in the bar earlier,” Chavasse replied. “You told me not to feel too badly about things because at least I’d saved Hauptmann’s life.”

For a moment, Sir George frowned, and then a light suddenly dawned. “Of course – I wasn’t supposed to know about the plan to assassinate Hauptmann, was I?”

“It was careless of you,” Chavasse said.

Sir George sighed. “We all make mistakes.”

“There were other things,” Chavasse said. “They didn’t make sense before, but they do now. The fact that the opposition knew Muller was to meet me on the train at Osnabruck. That was something I was never really happy about. And then there was something Nagel said at Berndorf when he first met Anna. His exact words were, ‘So this is the Jewish girl?’”

“What’s so remarkable about that?” Sir George asked.

Chavasse shrugged. “At the best of times, the word race is only an abstraction. The only way Nagel knew she was Jewish was because he’d been told, and only one person other than myself knew that an Israeli underground organization was also after Bormann and the manuscript. That was you, because I’d told you.”

“I seem to have been even more careless than I imagined.” Sir George sighed again. “It’s a great pity, Chavasse, because I’d really taken a liking to you, and now I’m going to have to kill you.”

Chavasse took out a cigarette and lit it calmly. “Not without an explanation,” he said. “Surely, I’m entitled to that?”

“A quick one.” Sir George’s eyes glinted in the dark. “There was a period in my life when I was very dissatisfied with the way my country was being governed. At that time, I greatly admired what was going on in Germany. In fact, I was censured by the press for my too-warm support of Herr Hitler.”

“And just how warm was that support?” Chavasse asked.

“I agreed to become head of the provisional government when the Germans successfully invaded England,” Sir George told him calmly.

And then the whole thing began to make sense. “Bormann mentioned you in his manuscript, didn’t he?” Chavasse said.

“I should imagine he devoted at least a chapter to me. He was the only member of the Nazi hierarchy with whom I was in close contact during the years before the war. The whole arrangement was made through him and