Nagel smiled thinly. “By all means.”
Kruger unlocked the next door they came to, and Steiner pushed Chavasse inside.
The room was quite comfortably furnished and seemed normal except for the bars on the windows. Hardt was lying on the bed, and he swung his legs to the floor and rose to meet them.
His right arm was in a sling and his face looked drawn and pale. He stared somberly at Chavasse, eyes a little feverish, and a savage smile touched the corners of his mouth. “So they managed to catch up with you, Paul?”
Chavasse nodded. “I’m afraid so. Are you all right?”
Kruger moved forward. “He is doing extremely well, aren’t you, Herr Hardt? A minor flesh wound in the shoulder. I attended to it myself.”
“Without an anesthetic.” Hardt looked across at Chavasse. “He still hasn’t grown up. Enjoys pulling the wings off flies and all that sort of thing.”
Kruger deliberately placed his hand on the injured shoulder and squeezed. Hardt fell back onto the bed. “I shall be in again later,” Kruger said. “When I have finished with you, you will have learned how to curb your tongue.”
He pushed Chavasse out of the door and told Steiner to lock it. They walked along to the other end of the gallery and paused outside the last door.
Nagel said, “You can have five minutes, Herr Chavasse. For Muller’s sake, I hope he listens to you.”
Kruger unlocked the door and Steiner pushed Chavasse violently inside. The door closed behind him and he went forward.
It was a bare, unfurnished room. In the center a strong, metal operating table was bolted to the floor and leather straps hung from it, presumably used to hold the patient in position.
Muller was lying on a trundle bed in the far corner under a barred window. Chavasse went across and sat on the edge of the bed, and after a while Muller opened his eyes and stared up at him.
He seemed to be in his early forties and had a gaunt, skull-like face that was covered with skin the color of parchment. There were no visible marks, and Chavasse leaned forward and gently lifted the sheet. Muller was completely naked and his body was crisscrossed with great livid bruises and angry red weals. He had obviously been terribly beaten.
He stared vacantly at Chavasse for a moment and then something seemed to click, and fear appeared in his eyes. He tried to draw away with a tiny moan, and Chavasse said gently, “Don’t worry, Muller. I’m not one of them.”
Muller moistened cracked lips. “Who are you?”
“Paul Chavasse, the man you were supposed to meet on the North-West Express at Osnabruck.”
Muller shook his head weakly. “Why should I believe you?”
Chavasse leaned closer and pointed to his wounded face. “Who do you think gave me this?” Muller frowned and looked half-convinced and Chavasse went on. “I even know about your sister – they don’t know about that. She was working at the Taj Mahal under the name of Katie Holdt.”
Muller reached out and clawed feebly toward Chavasse. “For God’s sake, you mustn’t tell them that. I beg you not to tell them.” There were tears in his eyes. “It is only for my sister’s sake that I have kept quiet. I know what they would do to her.”
Chavasse eased him back against the pillow and said reassuringly, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell them about her. Has she got the manuscript?”
Muller nodded feebly. “I thought no one knew of her existence. She was supposed to have died in the bombing in 1943.”
“And Bormann,” Chavasse said, “where is he?”
“That’s the big joke,” Muller said, “the best joke of all. He died three months ago in a little village in the Harz Mountains.”
“You were his orderly during the war,” Chavasse said. “What happened afterward?”
Muller moistened his lips again. “Bormann had money salted away in Portugal. We lived there under assumed names and I acted as his valet. When his health started to fail and he knew he was dying, he decided to return to Germany. He spent the last year of his life writing the manuscript. He called it his testament.”
Something seemed to rattle in his throat and he closed his eyes. As Chavasse stood up, the door opened and the others moved in. Nagel was smoking a cigarette in a long holder. “Have you anything to tell me, Herr Chavasse?”
Chavasse shook his head. “Not a thing.”
Nagel sighed. “What a pity – in that case…”
He made a slight gesture with one hand and Hans, who had moved behind Chavasse, grabbed his arms and jerked them behind his back. Steiner moved in very fast, his great hands clenched. “Now comes the rest of the debt I owe you,” he said coldly, and Chavasse rocked back against Hans as a fist crashed against his already damaged right cheek, sending waves of pain moving through him.
He lifted both feet and slammed them into Steiner’s stomach as the big German moved in again. Steiner was thrown back against the operating table. For a moment, he hung there, and then he moved forward, a terrible look on his face.
As Chavasse started to struggle, Hans slid one forearm across his throat and squeezed and Chavasse started to choke. Steiner’s first blow landed in his stomach and was followed by another and still another until Chavasse slid to the floor.
Steiner kicked him in the side of the neck, and as he drew back his foot again, Nagel said sharply, “That’s enough. We want him alive for the moment.”
Chavasse kept his eyes closed and breathed deeply, fighting the pain that flooded over him, fighting to stay conscious.
He was aware of Muller’s groans as they dragged him from the bed and strapped him to the operating table.
Nagel said, “Muller, can you hear me?” There was a moan and he continued. “Muller, I’ve been very patient with you, but I’m beginning to run out of time.”
“Shall we start?” Steiner said.
Chavasse forced open his eyes. Steiner and Hans were both stripped to the waist and holding long rubber truncheons.
Nagel leaned over the table. “We know about your sister, Muller,” he said. “Katie Holdt she calls herself, I believe. She’s got the manuscript, hasn’t she, Muller? Tell us where she lives. I only want the manuscript. I’ll see nothing happens to her.”
Again there came that curious rattling sound in Muller’s throat. Nagel gave an exclamation of annoyance and stood back. “Carry on!” he said to Steiner and Hans, and turned away.
Chavasse closed his eyes again at the first sound of a rubber hose curling around flesh and bone, and then Muller screamed and the blows and the screaming seemed to mingle endlessly, and Chavasse gritted his teeth and tried to shut out the sounds and then slid into darkness.
CHAPTER 10
He regained his senses slowly and lay unmoving on the floor, eyes tightly closed. He could not have been unconscious for long because they were all still in the room.
The sound of the beating had stopped and Nagel seemed angry. “Are you sure he’s all right?” he asked.
There was a moment’s silence before Kruger replied, “He’s still alive, if that’s what you mean.”
“The stubborn fool,” Nagel said angrily.
“Shall we start again?” Steiner said.
Nagel made an impatient sound. “He’s no use to us dead and he will be if you give him any more. Leave him alone for now. We have important things to talk over, remember.”
“What are the plans for tonight?” Kruger said.
“That is what I propose to discuss,” Nagel told him. “The reception starts at seven. Dinner will be at eight, and Hauptmann will make his speech at nine-thirty precisely.”
“At what time do you wish me to be there?” Steiner said.
“Nine o’clock. You will wait in the bushes below the terrace of the ballroom. There will be a table on the terrace especially prepared for Hauptmann. I shall take him out there at nine-fifteen, on the pretext that it will give him a chance to collect his thoughts while we are getting the other guests seated for his speech.”