“Then what do you suggest?”

Hardt seemed to be thinking hard. After a while, he appeared to come to a decision. “Before I say anything more, I want to know if you are prepared to work with me on this thing.”

Chavasse immediately saw the difficulty and stated it. “What happens if we find the manuscript? Who gets it?”

Hardt shrugged. “We can make a copy.”

“And Bormann? We can’t copy him.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Chavasse shook his head. “I don’t think my Chief would see things your way.”

Hardt smiled coolly. “The choice is yours. Without my help, you’ll get nowhere. You see, I have an ace up my sleeve. Something which will probably prove to be the key to the whole affair.”

“Then what do you need me for?” Chavasse said.

Hardt shrugged. “I told you before, I’m sentimental.” He grinned. “Okay, I’ll be honest. Things are moving faster than I thought they would, and at the moment I haven’t got another man in Hamburg. I could use you.”

The advantages to be obtained from working with Hardt were obvious and Chavasse came to a quick decision. He held out his hand. “All right. I’m your man. We’ll discuss the division of spoils if and when we get that far.”

“Good man!” Hardt said. “Listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you. Muller had a sister. Now, we know it, but I don’t think the other side do. He always thought she was killed in the incendiary raids during July 1943. They only got together again recently. She’s working as a showgirl at a club in the Reeperbahn called the Taj Mahal. Calls herself Katie Holdt. I’ve had an agent working there for the past week. She’s been trying to get friendly with the girl, hoping she might lead us to Muller.”

Chavasse raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Is your agent a German girl?”

HARDT shook his head. “Israeli – born of German parents. Her name is Anna Hartmann.” He pulled a large silver ring from the middle finger of his left hand. “Show her this and tell her who you are. She knows all about you. Ask her to take you back to her flat after the last show. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”

Chavasse slipped the ring onto a finger. “That seems to settle everything. What time do we get to Hamburg?”

Hardt glanced at his watch. “About two hours. Why?”

Chavasse grinned. “Because I’ve been missing a hell of a lot of sleep lately, and if it’s all right with you, I’m going to make use of your top bunk.”

Hardt smiled and he got to his feet and pushed the mounting ladder into position. “You know, I like your attitude. We’re going to get on famously.”

“I think we can say that’s mutual,” Chavasse said.

He hung his jacket behind the door and then climbed the ladder and lay full length on the top bunk, allowing every muscle to relax in turn. It was an old trick and one that could only be used when he felt easy in his mind about things.

Because of that special extra sense that was a product of his training and experience, he knew that for the moment at any rate, the affair was moving very nicely. Very nicely indeed. He turned his face into the pillow and went to sleep at once.

Chavasse looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was wearing a white Continental raincoat and green hat, both of which belonged to Hardt. He pulled the brim of the hat down over his eyes. “How do I look?”

Hardt slapped him on the shoulder. “Fine, just fine. There should be a lot of people leaving the train. If you do as I suggest, you’ll be outside the station in two minutes. You can get a taxi.”

Chavasse shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. It’s a long time since I’ve been to Hamburg, but I can still find my way to the Reeperbahn.”

“I’ll see you later then.” Hardt opened the door and looked out and then he stood to one side. “All clear.”

Chavasse squeezed past him and hurried along the deserted corridor. The train was coming slowly into the Hauptbahnhof and already the platform seemed to be moving past him. He passed through one coach after another, pushing past people who were beginning to emerge from their compartments, until he reached the far end of the train. As it stopped, he opened a door and stepped onto the platform.

He was first through the ticket barrier, and a moment later he was walking out of the main entrance. It was two-thirty, and at that time in the morning the S-Bahn wasn’t running. It was raining slightly, a warm drizzle redolent of autumn, and obeying a sudden impulse, he decided to walk. He turned up his coat collar and walked along Monckebergstrasse toward St. Pauli, the notorious nightclub district of Hamburg.

The streets were quiet and deserted, and as he walked past the magnificent buildings, he remembered what Hamburg had been at the end of the war. Not a city, but a shambles. It seemed incredible that this was a place in which nearly seventy thousand people had been killed in ten days during the great incendiary raids of the summer of 1943. Germany had certainly risen again like a phoenix from her ashes.

The Reeperbahn was as he remembered it, noisy and colorful and incredibly alive, even at that time in the morning. As he walked amongst the jostling, cheerful people, he compared it with London at almost three in the morning. What was it they called the heart of St. Pauli – Die Grosse Freiheit – The Great Freedom? It was an apt title.

He walked on past the garish, neon-lit fronts of the nightclubs, ignoring the touts who clutched at his sleeve, and passed the Davidstrasse, where young girls could be found in the windows, displaying their charms to the prospective customers. After asking the way, he found the Taj Mahal in an alley off Talstrasse.

The entrance had been designed to represent an Indian temple and the doorman wore ornate robes and a turban. Chavasse passed in between potted palms, and a young woman in a transparent sari relieved him of his hat and coat.

The interior of the club was on the same lines – fake pillars along each side of the long room and more potted palms. The waiter who led him to a table was magnificently attired in gold brocade and a red turban, although the effect was spoiled by his rimless glasses and Westphalian accent. Chavasse ordered a brandy and looked about him.

The place was only half-full and everyone seemed a little jaded, as if the party had been going on for too long. On a small stage, a dozen girls posed in a tableau that was meant to represent bath time in the harem. In their midst, a voluptuous redhead was attempting the Dance of the Seven Veils with a complete lack of artistry. The last veil was removed, there was a little tired clapping from the audience, and the lights went out. When they came on again, the girls had disappeared.

The waiter returned with the brandy, and Chavasse said, “You have a Fraulein Hartmann working here. How can I get in touch with her?”

The waiter smiled, exposing gold-capped teeth. “Nothing could be easier, mein Herr. The girls act as dance-hostesses after each show. I will point Fraulein Hartmann out to you when she comes in.”

Chavasse gave him a large tip and ordered a half bottle of champagne and two glasses. During his conversation with the waiter, a small band had been arranging itself on the stage, and now they started to play. At that moment, a door by the entrance to the kitchens opened and the showgirls started to come through as if on cue.

Most of them were young and reasonably attractive and wore dresses that tended to reveal their charms. They were all stamped in the same mold, with heavily made-up faces and fixed, mechanical smiles for the customers.

He was conscious of a vague, irrational disappointment at the thought that one of them must be the girl he was seeking, and then, as he was about to turn away, the door swung open again.