The Bormann Testament Read Online Free Page B

all.”
    Chavasse glanced at his watch. In exactly twenty minutes, they would be in Osnabruck. He opened the door and moved out into the corridor. “Whatever happens, I’ll keep in touch. Where are you staying in Hamburg?”
    “The Atlantic,” Sir George said. “By all means, contact me there if you don’t need me tonight to help deal with Muller. I’ll be interested to know what happens.”
    Chavasse closed the door and moved back along the corridor. As he paused outside his compartment, he heard a faint sound of movement inside. He flung the door open and moved in quickly.
    The American Army sergeant turned from the bunk, an expression of alarm on his face. He lurched forward and stood swaying in front of Chavasse, one hand braced against the wall. He seemed completely befuddled.
    “Guess I made a mistake,” he said thickly.
    “It seems like it,” Chavasse replied.
    The American started to squeeze past him. “I don’t feel so good. Travel sickness—it always gets me. I had to go to the can. I must be in the wrong coach.”
    For a brief moment, Chavasse stood in his way, gazing into the eyes that peered anxiously at him from behind thick lenses, and then he moved to one side without a word. The American lurched past and staggered away along the corridor.
    Chavasse closed the door and stood with his back to it. Everything looked normal enough, and yet he felt vaguely uneasy. There was something wrong about the American, something larger than life. He was more like a figure from a cheap burlesque show—the pathetic clown who spent his life walking into bedrooms where showgirls were pulling on their underwear and then blundered around shortsightedly while the audience roared.
    Chavasse’s suitcase was on the top bunk and he took it down and opened it. It was still neatly packed, just as he had left it, except for one thing. His handkerchiefs had originally been at the bottom of the case. Now they were on top. It was the sort of mistake anyone might make, even an expert, especially when he was in a hurry.
    He closed the case, put it back on the top bunk, and checked his watch. The train would be in Osnabruck in fifteen minutes. It was impossible for him to do anything about the American until after he had seen Muller.
    There was a discreet tap on the door and the attendant entered, a tray balanced on one hand. “Coffee, mein Herr ?”
    Chavasse nodded. “Yes, I think I will.” The man quickly filled a cup and handed it to him. Chavasse helped himself to sugar and said, “Are we on time?”
    The attendant shook his head. “About five minutes late. Can I get you anything else?” Chavasse said no, and the man bade him good night and went out, closing the door behind him.
    The coffee wasn’t as hot as it could have been and Chavasse drained the cup quickly and sat on the edge of his bunk. It was warm in the compartment, too warm, and his throat had gone curiously dry. Beads of perspiration oozed from his forehead and trickled down into his eyes. He tried to get up, but his limbs seemed to be nailed to the bunk. Something was wrong—something was very wrong, but then the lightbulb seemed to explode into a thousand fragments that whirled around the room in a glowing nebula, and as he fell back across the bunk, darkness flooded over him.
     
    AFTER a while, the light seemed to come back again, to rush to meet him from the vortex of the darkness, and then it became the lightbulb swaying rhythmically from side to side. He blinked his eyes several times and it became stationary.
    He was lying on his back on the floor of the compartment and he frowned and tried to remember what had happened, but his head ached and his brain refused to function. What am I doing here? he thought. What the hell am I doing here? He reached for the edge of the bunk and pulled himself up into a sitting position.
    A man was sitting on the floor in the far corner of the room by the washbasin. Chavasse closed his eyes and breathed deeply.