Claire beckoned them to follow her. Marie was shaky on her legs so between them, Claire and Alain Senior helped her across the room. The steps leading from the basement were wooden but they were new and they were solid. With Marie sandwiched between them, Claire and Mitch’s father left the basement without making a sound. Once they were in the kitchen, Claire closed the door, locked it, and returned the key to the nail on the doorframe. If Beckman walked past the door, there would be nothing different for him to see.
Claire took her handkerchief and a small revolver from the inside pocket of her jacket. She looked around the kitchen, wrapped the gun in the hankie and placed it in an earthenware jar with flour written on the front.
Satisfied that Beckman was not likely to bake a cake anytime soon, so he would have no reason to look in the flour jar, Claire pushed it back in line with several other jars and directed her father and mother-in-law out of the house. Using the keys she had used to unlock the door, Claire double locked it. Again, if for any reason Beckman came into the kitchen he would neither see nor find anything amiss.
‘Someone is waiting for you on the other side of the garden gate,’ Claire whispered. ‘She will take you to our hotel. Walk down the right side of the garden,’ Claire instructed, ‘and stay behind whatever foliage you can. When you reach the gate don’t look back; go through it quickly and quietly.’
Marie leant forward to kiss her. ‘No time,’ Claire whispered. ‘I’ll see you at the hotel when this is over.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Claire leaned against the side of the house and closed her eyes. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly and calmly. Mitch’s folks were safe. Now all she had to do was go back into the house without being seen. She visualised the interior of the rest of the house. Could she go in through the kitchen and get to the front door via the hall? She could, but she couldn’t risk Beckman seeing her, or he’d guess she’d freed the hostages. On the other hand, if the living room door was shut... No! Claire shook her head. A stupid idea. It was too risky.
She would have to go in by the front door. She couldn’t use the service lane and approach the house from the road because Chief Jacobs, or someone in authority, would stop her. She had no choice. She would have to make a bolt for it. The door was seconds away. Once she was inside the porch neither the police nor the military could do anything about it.
She ran her hand over the lockpicking keys in her pocket. If necessary she could use them as a weapon. Then she thought better of it. Beckman would more than likely search her - and it wouldn’t take a genius to guess why she had them on her. She took the keys from her pocket and forced them into a narrow gap between a regular house brick and a blue airbrick. She looked at the bricks from the left and the right; the keys couldn’t be seen. To be on the safe side she plucked a small plant from a patch of garden further along the wall and placed it in front of the airbrick, pressing the soil around it with the toe of her shoe.
It was time she made her move. She didn’t want Mitch to persuade Beckman to let his parents go. The last thing she needed was for the mad Nazi to go down to the basement and find Alain and Marie Mitchell had gone.
Staying close to the side wall, Claire edged her way to the front of the house. She took a deep breath, put her hands up, in the hope she wouldn’t be shot by a sniper, and ran like a hare around the corner of the house. Within seconds she was in the porch hammering on the front door with her fists.
The door opened. Beckman gave her a cursory glance and barked, ‘Don’t move!’ Holding a gun on her, he patted her down on the right side of her body. ‘Turn round,’ he said. When she turned he did the same to her left side, checking her pocket and then thrusting his hand between her legs. Claire gritted her teeth and tensed.
She looked out at the sea of faces watching from behind a couple of dozen cars, and she prayed there wasn’t a trigger-happy cop looking through the sights of his rifle. If there was, and he fancied himself as a hero, he’d have to be a bloody good shot not to hit her. Beckman pulled her round to face him, grabbed her by the collar of her coat with one hand, and held his gun to her head with the other. ‘Come!’ he ordered. ‘Nearer!’ Claire stepped over the threshold. Almost touching Beckman, she could smell an overpowering fragrance of sweet cologne, feel his chest rise and fall as he breathed, and taste his stale breath. She held her own.
Now only his head would be visible above hers as he scanned the upper windows of houses on the other side of the road. Damn, she had given
