The Testament of Caspar Schultz
Jack Higgins
The Testament of Caspar Schultz
Dedication
For Arnold
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Publisher’s Note
1
Chavasse lay with his head pillowed on one arm and…
2
The train started to slow down as it entered the…
3
The man who leaned against the door held an Italian…
4
Chavasse looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was…
5
He wore a dark belted raincoat and his hair was…
6
He awakened slowly from a deep, dreamless sleep to an…
7
They arrived at Blankenese at half-past eight and parked the…
8
Remembering it afterwards, he could not be sure who was…
9
It was a damp, misty morning when they set out…
10
He regained his senses slowly and lay unmoving on the…
11
“He’s quite a man,” Chavasse said out of the silence.
12
They drove very fast on the way back to Hamburg.
13
“You were so long, I began to worry,” von Kraul…
14
It was bitterly cold at the Hook of Holland as…
15
Jean Frazer was typing busily when Chavasse went into her…
About the Author
Other Books by Jack Higgins
Copyright
About the Publisher
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
THE TESTAMENT OF CASPAR SCHULTZ was first published in 1979 by Fawcett Publications Inc., New York and in Great Britain by Coronet. This amazing novel has been out of print for some years, and in 2011, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back THE TESTAMENT OF CASPAR SCHULTZ for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.
1
Chavasse lay with his head pillowed on one arm and stared up at the ceiling through the darkness. He was tired—more tired than he had been in a long time and yet he couldn’t sleep. He switched on the bedside lamp and reached for a cigarette. As he struck a match, the telephone started to ring.
He lifted the receiver quickly and a woman’s voice sounded in his ear, cool and impersonal. “Paul, is that you?”
He pushed himself up against the pillow, “Who’s speaking?”
“Jean Frazer. Your flight got into London Airport from Greece three hours ago. Why haven’t you checked in?”
“What’s the rush?” Chavasse said. “I made a preliminary report from Athens yesterday. I’ll see the Chief in the morning.”
“You’ll see him now,” Jean Frazer said. “And you’d better hurry. He’s been waiting for you since that flight got in.”
Chavasse frowned. “What the hell for? I’ve just done two months in Greece and it wasn’t pleasant. I’m entitled to a night’s sleep if nothing else.”
“You’re breaking my heart,” she told him calmly. “Now get your clothes on like a good little boy. I’ll send a car round for you.”
Her receiver clicked into place and he cursed softly and threw back the bedclothes. He pulled on a pair of pants and padded across to the bathroom in his bare feet.
His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep and there was a bad taste in his mouth. He filled a glass with water and drank it slowly, savouring its freshness and then quickly rinsed his head and shoulders in cold water.
As he towelled himself dry, he examined his face in the mirror. There were dark circles under the eyes and faint lines of fatigue had drawn the skin tightly over the high cheekbones that were a heritage from his French father.
It was a handsome, even an aristocratic, face, the face of a scholar, and somehow the ugly, puckered scar of the old gunshot wound in the left shoulder looked incongruous and out of place.
He fingered the flesh beneath his grey eyes and sighed. “Christ, but you look like hell,” he said softly and the face in the mirror was illuminated by a smile of great natural charm that was one of his most important assets.
He ran a hand over the two-day stubble of beard on his chin, decided against shaving and returned to the bedroom. As he dressed, rain tapped against the window with ghostly fingers and when he left the flat ten minutes later he was wearing an old trenchcoat.
The car was waiting at the bottom of the steps when he went outside and he climbed in beside the driver and sat there in silence, staring morosely into the night as they moved through deserted, rain-swept streets.
He was tired. Tired of living out of a suitcase, of hopping from one country to another, of being all things to all men and someone very different on the inside. For the first time in five years he wondered why he didn’t pack it all in and then they turned in through the gates of the familiar house in St John’s Wood and he grinned ruefully and pushed the thought away from him.
The car braked to a halt before the front door and he got out without a word to the driver and mounted the steps. He pressed the bell beside the polished brass plate that carried the legend BROWN & COMPANY—IMPORTERS & EXPORTERS, and waited.
After a few moments the door opened and a tall, greying man in a blue serge suit stood to one side, a slight smile on his face. “Nice to see you back, Mr Chavasse.”
Chavasse grinned and punched him lightly on the shoulder as he passed. “You’re looking fine, Joe.”
He went up the curving Regency staircase and passed along a thickly carpeted corridor. The only sound was a slight, persistent hum from the dynamo in the radio room, but he moved past the door and mounted two steps into another corridor. Here, the silence was absolute and he opened a large, white-painted door at the far end and went in.
The room was small and plainly furnished, with a desk in one corner on which stood a typewriter and several telephones. Jean Frazer was bending over a filing cabinet and she looked up, a slight smile on her round, intelligent face. She removed her spectacles with one hand and frowned. “You look pretty rough.”
Chavasse grinned. “I usually do at this time in the morning.”
She was wearing a plain white blouse and a tweed skirt of deceptively simple cut that moulded her rounded hips. His eyes followed her approvingly as she walked across to her desk and sat down.
He sat on the edge of the desk and helped himself to a cigarette from a packet which was lying there. He lit it and blew out a cloud of smoke with a sigh of satisfaction. “Now what’s all the fuss about? What’s the Chief got on his mind that’s so important it can’t wait until a respectable hour?”
She shrugged. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s waiting for you inside.”
He frowned slightly. “Another job?”
She nodded. “I think it’s something pretty big.”
Chavasse cursed softly and got to his feet. “What does he think I’m made of—iron?” Without waiting for a reply, he walked across to the far door, opened it and went in.
The room was half in shadow, the only light, the shaded lamp which stood upon the desk by the window. The Chief was reading a sheaf of type-written documents and he looked up quickly, a slight frown on his face. It was replaced by a smile and he waved a hand towards a chair. “So they finally managed to locate you, Paul. Sit down and tell me about Greece.”
Chavasse slumped into the chair and pushed his hat back from his forehead. “Didn’t you get my coded report from the Embassy in Athens?”
The Chief nodded. “I had a quick look at it when it came in yesterday. It seems satisfactory. Any loose ends?”
Chavasse shrugged. “One or two. Your hunch about Skiros was right. He was a double agent. Been working for the Commies for the past four years. They’ll have to wait a long time for his next report.”
The Chief selected a cigarette from a silver box and lit it carefully. “How did you manage it?”
“I traced him to Lesbos,” Chavasse said. “He was having a skin-diving holiday. Unfortunately something went wrong with his aqua-lung one afternoon. By the time they got him back to the beach it was too late.”
The Chief sighed. “Most unfortunate.”
Chavasse leaned across the desk. “Now I’ve explained the finer points of the affair, perhaps I can go back to bed.” He got to his feet and crossed to the window. “I feel as if I haven’t slept for a month.” He stood there, staring out into the rain for a moment and then turned abruptly. “To be perfectly frank, on the way over here I was considering packing things in.”
The Chief raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Could you see yourself going back to lecturing in a provincial university?” He shook his head. “Not a chance, Paul. You’re the best man I’ve got. One of these days you’ll be sitting behind this desk.”
“If I live that long,” Chavasse said sourly.
The Chief gestured to the chair; “Come and sit down and have another cigarette. You always feel like this when a job’s over, especially when you’ve killed somebody. What you need is a long rest.”
“Then what about it?” Chavasse said. “Christ knows I’ve earned one. This last year’s been hell.”
“I know, Paul, I know,” the Chief said soothingly, “and I’ll see you get one—after this next job.”
Chavasse turned from the window angrily. “For God’s sake, am I the only man the Bureau’s got? What about Wilson or LaCosta?”
The Chief shook his head. “I sent Wilson to Ankara last month. He disappeared his second day there. I’m afraid we’ll have to cross him off the list.”
“And LaCosta?”
“He cracked up after that affair in Cuba. I’ve put him into the home for six months.” The Chief sighed. “I had a psychiatrist’s report this morning. Frankly, it wasn’t too good. I’m afraid we shan’t be able to use LaCosta again.”
Chavasse moved across to his chair and slumped down into it. He helped himself to a cigarette from the box the Chief held out to him and lit it with a steady hand. After a while he smiled. “All right, I give in. You’d better put me in the picture.”
The Chief got to his feet. “I knew you’d see it my way, Paul. And don’t worry. You’ll get that holiday. This affair shouldn’t take you more than a couple of weeks at the most.”
“Where am I going?” Chavasse said simply.
“West Germany!” The Chief walked to the window and spoke without turning round. “What do you know about Caspar Schultz?”
Chavasse frowned. “One of the top Nazis, probably killed in the final holocaust in Berlin when the Russians moved in. Wasn’t he in the bunker with Hitler and Bormann till the very end?”
The Chief turned and nodded. “We know that for certain. He was last reported trying to break out of the city in a tank. What actually happened, we don’t know, but certainly his body was never identified.”
Chavasse shrugged. “That’s hardly surprising. A lot of people died when the Russians moved in.”
The Chief moved back to the desk and sat down. “From time to time there have been vague rumours about Schultz. One of them said that he was living in the Argentine, another that he was farming in Ireland. We checked these stories very carefully, but they proved to have no foundation in fact.”
A cold finger of excitement moved inside Chavasse and he straightened slowly. “And now you’ve had another report? Something a little more substantial this time?”
The Chief nodded. “Do you know Sir George Harvey?”
Chavasse frowned slightly. “Wasn’t he Minister of Intelligence for a time in the Coalition Government during the war?”
“That’s the man,” the Chief said. “He retired from politics after the war to concentrate on his business interests. Yesterday, he went to the Foreign Office with a very strange story. The Foreign Secretary sent him straight to me. I’d like you to hear what he has to say.”
He pressed a buzzer on his desk twice. After a moment, the door opened and Jean ushered in a tall, greying man in his early sixties. She went out, closing the door softly behind her and the Chief got to his feet. “Come in, Sir George. I’d like you to meet Paul Chavasse, the young man I was telling you about earlier.”
Chavasse stood up and they shook hands. Sir George Harvey had obviously kept himself in good condition. His handclasp was strong, his face tanned and the clipped moustache gave him a faintly military appearance.
He smiled pleasantly and sat down. “I’ve been hearing some very complimentary things about you, Mr Chavasse.”
Chavasse grinned and offered him a cigarette. “I’ve had my share of luck.”
Sir George took one and smiled again. “In your game you need it, my friend.”
The Chief struck a match and held it out in cupped hands. “I wonder if you’d mind telling Chavasse here exactly what you told me, Sir George?”
Sir George nodded and leaned back in his chair. He turned slightly towards Chavasse. “Among my many business interests, Mr Chavasse, I hold a great number of shares in a publishing house which shall remain nameless. Yesterday morning, the managing director came to see me with an extraordinary letter. He and his board felt that it should be placed before the Foreign Secretary as soon as possible, and knowing that I was a personal friend of his, they asked me to handle the affair.”
“Who was the letter from?” Chavasse said.
“A German called Hans Muller,” Sir George told him. “This man states in the letter that Caspar Schultz is alive. He says that Schultz lived in Portugal until 1955 when he returned to Germany where he has since been living quietly under an assumed name.”
“But what does he want with a publishing firm?” Chavasse asked.
“I’m coming to that,” Sir George told him. “If the letter is to be believed, Caspar Schultz has written his memoirs and wants them published.”
“With Muller acting as middle-man?” Chavasse said. “But why hasn’t he tried a German publisher? I should have thought that such a book would have been an even bigger sensation over there than in England.”
“Apparently Muller did just that,” Sir George said. “Unfortunately he chose the wrong publishers. He wrote them a similar letter and, within hours, had the Nazi underground hot on his trail. According to Muller, Schultz has written in what might be described as an extremely illuminating manner about many people in Germany who up to now have always affirmed that they never really supported Hitler. Very important people, I might add. He even deals with Nazi sympathizers here in England and includes a chapter on the man who was prepared to act as Quisling in 1940 when the German invasion was expected.”
Chavasse whistled softly. “Does he give any names in the letter?”
Sir George shook his head. “No, he simply states that he has the manuscript and that it is handwritten by Schultz himself—a fact which can of course be verified—and that there is only one copy. Needless to say, the sum of money he mentioned was rather large.”
“I’ll bet it was,” Chavasse said. “If only the poor fool realized it, he’s carrying a time bomb around with him.” He turned to the Chief. “I haven’t worked in Germany for nearly three years. How strong are the Nazis now?”
“A lot stronger than most people realize,” the Chief said. “Ever since the German government set up the office for the Detection of War Crimes at Ludwigsburg, it’s been engaged in a battle of wits with the Nazi underground. Senior ex-S.S. officers have managed to infiltrate into the police. Because of this, the Nazi intelligence service has been able to warn a number of former S.S. camp officials who were about to be arrested. This has given many of them a chance to escape to the United Arab Republic.”
“But there are still plenty left in high places?”
“That fact is impossible to dispute. They’re in the government, in big business.” The Chief laughed ironically. “Muller must have found that out to his cost when he wrote to that German publishing company.”
“Does he name the firm?”
The Chief shook his head. “He didn’t even give his own address. Said he’d get in touch by phone.”
“And did he?”
The Chief nodded. “Six o’clock last night on the dot, just as he said he would. The managing director took the call. He told Muller they were definitely interested and made arrangements for a director of the firm to meet him.”
“And that’s me, I suppose.”
“Correct!” the Chief said. “I want you to cross to the Hook of Holland by the afternoon boat. You’ll catch the North-West Express for Hamburg.” He opened a drawer and took out a large envelope. “You’ll find everything you need in there. New passport in your own name, but changing your occupation to publisher, money for expenses and a few other things that might come in useful.”
“Why the night train to Hamburg?” Chavasse said.
“I’m coming to that,” the Chief told him. “I’ve got you a first-class sleeping car berth in a reserved compartment. You’ll find the tickets in the envelope. Muller will board the train at Osnabruck a few minutes before midnight and come straight to your compartment.”
“And what do I do with him once I’ve got him?”
The Chief shrugged. “It’s entirely up to you. I want that manuscript, but more than that I want Schultz. As it happens, Sir George is going to Hamburg on the same train to attend the United Nations Peace Conference. That’s one of the reasons I’ve rushed these arrangements through without discussing them with you. String Muller along. Tell him you must see the manuscript or at least part of it. If necessary, call Sir George in to meet him. Tell him that Sir George has a big interest in the firm, that the publishers have asked him to accompany you as an evidence of their good faith.”
Sir George got to his feet. “Yes, indeed, Mr Chavasse. You can rely on me to do anything I can to help.” He smiled. “It’s like old times, being on the inside of a thing like this, but now if you’ll excuse me I really must go. The train leaves Liverpool Street at ten and I’d like an hour or two in bed before then.” He held out his hand with a smile. “If you’ll take my advice, young man, you’ll do the same thing. You look as if you could do with it. I’ll see you on the train, I hope.”
The Chief ushered him out of the door and then came back. He sat down behind his desk. “Well, what do you think?”
Chavasse shrugged. “It all depends on Muller. Have we got anything on him?”
“I’ve had the files checked,” the Chief said, “but this seems to be the first time we’ve come into contact with him. Of course we’ve no description and he may have used another name previously.”
“Did he say what his connection was with Schultz?”
The Chief shook his head. “That also is a complete mystery, I’m afraid.”
Chavasse picked up the envelope which contained his passport and tickets and slipped it into his pocket. “What about German Intelligence? Will they be in on this?”
The Chief shook his head. “I thought about that, but decided against it for the moment. I don’t want things to get confused. If the affair gets out of hand and you decide you need some local help, telephone me here. Ask for Mr Taylor and use the name Cunningham. Just say that business is booming and you could use some help. I’ll bring German Intelligence into it at that point.”
Chavasse nodded slowly and got to his feet. “That seems to be everything. I think I’ll take Sir George’s advice and go back to bed.” He started to move to the door and then paused. “By the way, how much can I count on him?”
“On Sir George Harvey?” The Chief shrugged. “Well, he’s an important man and we don’t want any international scandals. I think you’ll find he’ll do anything within reason to help. He was a great success at the Ministry during the war, you know.”
Chavasse nodded. “I’ll try not to use him if I can help it, but he might be just the extra thing needed to make Muller believe I’m on the level.”
“That’s what I thought,” the Chief said. He came round the desk and held out his hand. “Anyway, good luck, Paul. I think you’ll find this is a pretty straightforward one. Whatever happens, I’ll see you get that holiday after it’s all over.”
Chavasse opened the door and half-turned, a curious smile on his lips. “I’m sure you will,” he said dryly and closed the door before the Chief could reply.
Jean Frazer had gone and judging by the neat and orderly condition of her desk top and the cover on the typewriter, she was not coming back. He went slowly downstairs, his mind going back over the interview, recalling each remark made by the Chief and Sir George, shaping them into a coherent whole.
The car was waiting for him outside and he climbed in beside the driver and sat hunched in his seat, wrapped in thought, all the way back to the flat. One thing puzzled him. Assuming the whole thing was genuine and not a hoax, then why had Caspar Schultz decided on this time rather than on any other to offer his memoirs for publication?
The war had been over for fifteen years—years during which Schultz had successfully evaded discovery by the intelligence agents of all the Great Powers. Why then should he now set on foot an undertaking which by its very nature would start the most colossal manhunt in history with himself as quarry?
He was still thinking about it as he undressed at the flat, but it was a problem which could have no solution for the time being. Only Hans Muller could supply the answer.
He brewed a pot of coffee and got into bed. It was just after three a.m. and the rain drummed steadily against the windows. He lit a cigarette and opened the envelope which the Chief had given him.
They’d done a good job on the passport. It had been issued four years previously and was true in all personal particulars except for his occupation. He had apparently been to the Continent several times during the period and once to America. He memorized the dates quickly and then examined the other documents.
His tickets were all in order and so were the traveller’s cheques. There was also a current driving license and a member’s ticket for a city luncheon club. Finally, he had been supplied with several letters which purported to be from business contacts and one couched in affectionate terms from a girl called Cynthia.
He read it through with interest. It was good—very good indeed. He wondered whether the Chief had got Jean Frazer to write it, and there was a smile on his face when he finally switched off the lamp and turned his face into the pillow.
2
The train started to slow down as it entered the outskirts of Rheine and Chavasse put down the book he had been reading and checked his watch. It was eleven p.m. They were due at Osnabruck in just under an hour.
He pulled on his jacket and went out into the corridors as the train came to a halt. The sleeping-car attendant who was standing nearby, opened one of the doors and stepped down on to the platform. Obeying a sudden impulse, Chavasse followed him and stood there, hands in pockets, drawing the cold night air deep into his lungs.
The platform was almost deserted and no one seemed to be getting on or off. He was about to get back into the train when a group of men emerged from the waiting room and came towards him.
The one who led the way was a tall, heavily-built man with an iron-hard face and eyes like chips of blue ice. Behind him came two attendants in white coats carrying a man on a stretcher. The man who brought up the rear wore a Homburg hat and an expensive overcoat with a fur collar. His gaunt, fleshless face was half-covered by a carefully trimmed black beard which looked as if it had been dyed.
Chavasse moved out of the way and the two attendants carefully manœuvred the stretcher on to the train and into the next apartment to his own. The other two men followed them in and closed the door.