The Bormann Testament (12 page)

Von Kraul chuckled. “A woman, eh? Will it take long?”

Chavasse shook his head. “Only a couple of minutes, I promise you, and it’s on our way.”

Von Kraul made no further comment after Chavasse gave him the address, and they continued in silence through the busy streets.

It was a fine autumn evening and the rain had stopped. Chavasse lowered the window and lit a cigarette, feeling suddenly content. Every so often he had a feeling that things were running his way, that the job was going to get finished in exactly the way he wanted.

When the Porsche braked to a halt in front of the apartment house where Anna lived, he got out feeling absurdly happy and grinned through the side window at von Kraul. “I’ll only be a couple of minutes.”

Von Kraul smiled, the cheroot still between his teeth. “Take your time, my friend. Within reason, of course.”

He went up the stairs two at a time and rang Anna’s bell and waited, humming to himself. There was no immediate reply, and after a moment or two he rang the bell again. Still there was no reply. He tried to open the door, but it was locked and he frowned and pressed the bell-push again, holding his thumb in place for several seconds this time, thinking that perhaps she might be in the bath.

It was only then that he felt afraid. He hammered several times on the door and called her name, but there was no reply and he became aware of the peculiar silence that reigned throughout the entire house.

He went downstairs quickly and knocked on the door of the caretaker’s apartment in the hall. At first nothing happened, and he kicked the bottom of the door savagely, and then he heard slow reluctant footsteps approaching.

The door opened a little and the caretaker peered out. “Yes,
mein Herr,
what is it?”

“Miss Hartmann,” Chavasse said. “The young woman upstairs. I can’t get any reply.”

The caretaker was a middle-aged man with watery blue eyes and a pouched and wrinkled face. He shrugged. “That is not surprising,
mein Herr.
Fraulein Hartmann went out nearly an hour ago.”

Chavasse rammed his shoulder against the door with such force that the caretaker was sent staggering across the room to crash into the opposite wall. There was a cry of alarm as Chavasse followed him in, and a gray-haired woman shrank back in her chair, a hand covering her mouth.

Chavasse grabbed the terrified caretaker by the front of his shirt and pulled him close. “You’re lying!” he said. “I happen to know that nothing on earth would make her leave her apartment at this particular moment.” He slapped the man backhanded across the face. “Where is she?”

The man’s head rolled from side to side helplessly. “I can’t tell you,
mein Herr.
It’s as much as my life’s worth.”

Chavasse slapped him again, viciously and with all his strength. The woman flung herself across the room and tugged at his arm. “Leave him alone. I’ll tell you what you want to know, only don’t hit him any more. He’s a sick man. He was wounded at Stalingrad.”

Chavasse pushed the caretaker down into a chair and turned to the woman. “All right, you tell me and you’d better make it convincing.”

As she opened her mouth to speak, her husband said desperately, “For God’s sake, keep your mouth shut. Remember what he threatened to do if we talked.”

“I know what I’m doing, Willi,” she said, and turned back to Chavasse. “About twenty minutes ago, a car drew up outside. There were two men in it, only one got out.”

“How do you know about this?” Chavasse asked.

“I saw them from the window. The one who came in knocked on the door and my husband answered. He wanted to know the number of Fraulein Hartmann’s apartment. A few minutes afterward, we heard a scream and when we went out into the hall, he was dragging her down the stairs.”

Chavasse closed his eyes for a moment and drew a long breath. “Why didn’t you call the police?”

“He threatened us,
mein Herr,
” she said simply. “He said that at the very least, he would see that my husband lost his job.”

“And you believed him?” Chavasse said in disgust.

She nodded. “These people have the power to do anything,
mein Herr.
They are all around us. What chance have poor people like ourselves to oppose them? They got us into the last war—they will have us fighting again before they are done.”

Tomorrow the world, he thought. Tomorrow the world. He turned away from her, a sudden hatred for everything German rising inside him. She followed him to the door and held out a key.

“This is a master key,
mein Herr.
Perhaps you would like to examine the apartment?”

He took it from her without a word and went slowly up the stairs. There was no life left in him at all, and he unlocked the door and went inside and switched on the light.

She’d put up a struggle, that much was obvious. The carpet was rucked up and the table in the center of the room was overturned, the telephone lying on the floor. The table and chair by the window were in their usual positions, the Hebrew textbook and notebook lying open, almost as if she had been working a moment before and had simply left the room for a little while.

He looked into the bedroom. She had obviously changed on coming in and undergarments were strewn carelessly across the bed. He picked up a nylon stocking that had fallen to the floor and stood with it in his hands, staring blindly into space. After a while, he dropped it onto the bed and returned to the living room, and discovered Colonel von Kraul in the act of righting the upturned table.

“Y
ou were so long, I began to worry,” von Kraul said as he picked up the telephone and placed it on the table. “Your friend has gone out?”

Chavasse nodded slowly. “Yes, and I’m very much afraid she won’t be coming back.”

“There would appear to have been a struggle,” the German said. “Don’t you think you should tell me about it, my friend? Presumably, it has some connection with the business we have in hand.”

Chavasse sat down. After a moment or two, he looked up and said, “There doesn’t seem much point in keeping it to myself now, does there?”

“Not really,” von Kraul said. “In any case, I may be able to help.”

Chavasse shook his head. “Somehow, I don’t think so.” He stood up and walked across to the window and looked out into the darkening street. “I came to Germany to find Martin Bormann. We’d heard that he was alive and that he’d written his memoirs.”

Von Kraul’s eyes had narrowed slightly, but his face remained calm. Only the whiteness of his knuckles as his hands tightened over the handle of his walking stick betrayed the fact that he was considerably moved by what Chavasse had just told him. “And were these facts true?”

Chavasse nodded. “In the main—Bormann died some months ago in a village in the Harz. Apparently, he’d spent most of the postwar years in Portugal. His valet, a man called Muller, got hold of the manuscript of the memoirs and tried to make himself a little money. He approached a firm of German publishers and got the Nazi underground on his track. He then tried a British firm—that’s how we got onto him.”

“Did you ever meet this man Muller?” von Kraul asked.

Chavasse nodded. “I was present when he was beaten to death by Steiner and another man in Nagel’s castle at Berndorf.”

“This is all beginning to sound very involved,” von Kraul said. “And how does the young woman you were hoping to meet here fit into things?”

“She was working for an unofficial Israeli underground organization,” Chavasse told him. “The same people who tracked down Eichmann.”

“I see,” von Kraul said dryly. “She and her friends were also after Bormann. It would appear that everyone was in on the affair—except for German intelligence.”

“She telephoned me at the Atlantic an hour or so ago,” Chavasse continued. “Without going into details of how and why, she found Bormann’s manuscript waiting for her when she returned to the apartment this evening. It had been delivered by mail.”

“Presumably, that’s what the opposition were after when they came here,” von Kraul said.

Chavasse shook his head. “I think they were looking for Anna. It was just luck that she happened to have the manuscript.”

“It must make interesting reading.”

Chavasse nodded. “I understand Bormann washed a lot of dirty linen in public and gave names. People who’ve always insisted they never really supported Hitler—important people.”

“Presumably, Nagel must be included,” von Kraul said.

“He probably has a chapter to himself,” Chavasse told him, and at that moment the phone rang.

He lifted the receiver and said, “Yes, who is it?” knowing full well who it was.

Steiner’s voice floated over the wire. “Now, that’s a superfluous question. Surely you expected me to call?”

“How did you know I was here?”

“Because I’ve had the place under observation since we left.” Steiner sounded full of confidence.

“Let’s cut the talk and get down to business,” Chavasse told him. “What have you done with the girl?”

Steiner laughed harshly. “You know, you’re not as bright as I was led to believe, Chavasse. You allowed us to follow you all the way from Berndorf to the girl’s apartment.”

“You’ve got the manuscript,” Chavasse said. “What more do you want?”

“Ah, yes, the manuscript. Providential that she had it with her when we called. I’m sure you’ll be interested to know that I’ve reduced it to ashes in the furnace of the establishment from which I am now speaking. It made a fine blaze.”

Chavasse sat down. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and the room seemed unbearably warm. He cleared his throat. “You’ve got what you wanted. Why don’t you let the girl go? She can’t harm you now.”

“But that’s exactly what I intend to do,” Steiner said, “with your cooperation, of course.”

Von Kraul was crouched beside Chavasse, his ear as close to the receiver as possible, and he looked up, eyes expressionless.

Chavasse moistened his lips. “What do you want me to do?”

“I’m so glad you’re being sensible,” Steiner said. “To be perfectly honest, we’ve found you a nuisance, Chavasse. We’d rather you were out of Germany. Now that the Bormann affair is finished, there’s really nothing to keep you here. A London plane leaves the airport at ten o’clock. If you’ll give me your word not to trouble us any more, you and the girl can leave together on that plane.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” Chavasse asked.

“You don’t,” Steiner replied, “but if you feel like taking a chance, be outside Altona station at nine o’clock. A car will pick you up there and take you to the girl.”

“Take me to a quiet grave more likely,” Chavasse told him.

“Just as you please,” Steiner said coldly. “But make your decision quickly. I don’t have a great deal of time to spare.”

Chavasse glanced at von Kraul, and there was pity in the German’s eyes. Chavasse said desperately, “How do I know the girl is still alive?”

“You can judge for yourself.”

There was a murmur of conversation at the other end and then Anna’s voice sounded, clear and calm, but somehow far away. “Is that you, Paul?”

He found difficulty in speaking. “I’m sorry, Anna. I’ve made a fine mess of things.”

“Don’t listen to them,” she said calmly. “They mean to kill you.”

There was a commotion and the receiver was pulled from her hand. Chavasse heard the confused sounds of a struggle and Steiner’s cry of alarm. “Stop her, you idiot! She’s making for the window.”

There was a crash of breaking glass and then the sound of three shots, so close together that to anyone other than an expert, they might have sounded like one.

Chavasse got to his feet, a terrible coldness seeping through him. There was a slight click at the other end of the line and Steiner said calmly, “All bets are off, Chavasse. It appears we no longer have anything to discuss.”

Chavasse dropped the receiver into its cradle. He felt a hand on his shoulder and von Kraul said, “I think it would be better if you were to sit down, my friend.”

Chavasse brushed the hand away. “I’ll be all right,” he said. “Just give me a minute, that’s all.”

He went into the kitchen and searched the cupboards until he found a half-full bottle of Polish vodka on a lower shelf. He pulled the cork with his teeth and tilted back his head.

The liquor burned its way into his stomach and he coughed and leaned over the sink. After a moment, von Kraul appeared at his side. “Do you feel any better?”

Chavasse turned and looked at him with staring eyes. “She did it deliberately. She made him shoot her. That way, she solved my problem for me.”

“She must have been a very wonderful young woman,” Colonel von Kraul said.

In impotent fury, Chavasse smashed the bottle against the sink. “I only want one thing, to wrap my hands around Steiner’s throat. I don’t give a damn what happens to me as long as I can do that.”

Von Kraul gently moved away. “Then I suggest we leave. We have not got a great deal of time.”

Chavasse followed him without a word, and it was as if for the moment his mind had become frozen, so that the sights and sounds of the streets as they drove out toward Blankenese had no meaning for him.

He stared out of the windshield into the night and remembered that the last time he had driven out along this road, Anna had been by his side. As they entered Blankenese and passed the station, he looked down toward the direction of the Elbe, remembering the café on the Strandweg and the lights over the water and the feel of her in his arms, the plans they had made. It was all like something that had never really happened, a dream already half-forgotten and fast-fading, so that now when he tried to picture her clearly, he found it to be impossible.

Nagel’s house was a large, imposing mansion with grounds running down to the Elbe, and the road that ran past the main gates was lined with parked cars. Von Kraul took the car to the end of the road and turned into a small, dark cul-de-sac, where he braked to a halt and switched off the lights.

“The terrace of the ballroom is at the rear of the house and looks down toward the river,” he said. “There is a little gate in the hedge which is mainly for the use of tradespeople. It will be our best way in.”

He found the gate with no difficulty, and Chavasse followed him through and they crossed the wide lawn toward the great house. The place was ablaze with lights, and several windows were half-open so that Chavasse could hear the murmur of conversation and occasional snatches of careless laughter.

The terrace stood some six feet above the level of the ground, and a mass of rhododendron bushes ran along its entire length. Drapes were drawn across the French windows of the ballroom, but here and there a ray of light poked out into the cold night air.

They found the table and chair arranged at the north end of the terrace. They moved into the bushes until they were directly underneath it, and von Kraul said, “Simple, but extremely clever. Steiner can fire from here at virtually point-blank range and yet not be seen himself should anyone else appear on the terrace unexpectedly.”

Chavasse checked his watch without replying. It was a quarter to nine, and he squatted down beside von Kraul in the bushes and waited, feeling suddenly calm. A small wind brought the smell of the river with it through the darkness, and he could hear the sound of a ship’s engines clearly as it moved downriver.

He heard Steiner coming before von Kraul did, and rose to his feet, his hands coming out of his pockets. They stood together in the sheltering darkness of the bushes, and Steiner paused no more than a foot or two away from them.

A ray of light streamed through a gap in one of the drapes and continued down through the bushes and slanted into the ground. Steiner dropped on one knee and took out a gun, and quickly checked its action in the small pool of light. It was a Mauser with a silencer on the end of the barrel.

Chavasse said quietly, “Hello, you bastard,” and as the kneeling man glanced up in alarm, he kicked the Mauser out of his hand.

Steiner came to his feet slowly. “I knew you were trouble the first time I clapped eyes on you on the train. I should have put one between your eyes at Berndorf yesterday, but Nagel wanted to play games.” He laughed harshly. “But I fixed your girlfriend for you—one in the back and two in the belly.”

Chavasse kicked for the crotch, but Steiner caught the blow on his thigh and swung with his fist, catching Chavasse high on the right cheek, sending blood spurting from the gash that was already there.

Pain flooded through Chavasse and he lashed out viciously with the edge of his right hand, catching Steiner on the side of the neck. Steiner lurched into him and they fell to the ground, Chavasse underneath. He felt the big policeman’s hands wrap themselves around his throat, and he tensed his neck muscles and forced back the little finger of each hand.

Steiner grunted with pain and released his grip, and Chavasse pushed back the man’s head with the heel of his hand, twisting the neck until Steiner fell backward and rolled over onto his back, coming to a stop so that his face lay in a pool of light.

Chavasse moved forward, hands reaching for the throat, and then a hand appeared from the darkness holding the Mauser. The bulbous silencer on the end of the barrel was jammed against Steiner’s right ear and there was a slight, muffled cough. Steiner’s body jerked once, and then blood poured from his eyes and nostrils.

Chavasse got to his feet. Before he could speak, von Kraul whispered, “Someone is coming.”

They moved into the bushes and crouched down as one of the French windows was opened. It was carefully closed again and steps crossed the terrace.

“Are you there, Steiner?” Nagel whispered from the darkness, and he leaned over the balustrade.

Before Chavasse could move, von Kraul rose to his feet and shot Nagel between the eyes. He must have been killed instantly and fell across the balustrade, his body sliding headfirst into the bushes.

“We must move fast,” von Kraul said.

He took out a handkerchief and carefully wiped the Mauser clean of his fingerprints, and then he knelt down and folded the fingers of Steiner’s right hand around the butt.

He stood up and gave Chavasse a gentle push. “And now I think we had better leave events to take their course.”

As they crossed the wide lawn, rain started to fall and they hurried along the path, passed out through the gate in the hedge, and climbed into the car. Von Kraul drove back the way they had come, and they passed Blankenese station and moved on toward Hamburg.

After a while, they came to a beer house on a corner and von Kraul stopped the car and said, “I think we are entitled to drink, my friend.”

Chavasse nodded and they went inside. Von Kraul gave him a cheroot and they sat in silence over two glasses of brandy. Finally, von Kraul said, “You feel a little better now?”

Chavasse managed a smile. “I acted like a beginner on my first job. I’m sorry. When he boasted about what he’d done to her, I lost control.”

“Under the circumstances, it was understandable,” von Kraul said, “but my way was better. Police inspector suffering from brainstorm shoots well-known Hamburg industrialist and then commits suicide. The trimmings they give the story do not really matter. It is the result which counts.”

“But why did you want to handle it that way?” Chavasse said.

Von Kraul sighed. “Can you imagine how difficult it would have been to have proved your allegations against Nagel? Even Steiner would have presented us with quite a problem. Unfortunately, such people have many powerful sympathizers. A long drawn-out legal battle could have lasted for years.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Chavasse said. “So that wraps it up. I won’t be taking much back with me. Bormann was dead in the first place and his memoirs have gone up in smoke.”