Chasing Ghosts

by Madalyn Morgan

  The back door of the Mitchell house was on the side, accessed by a paved path. She had a clear view of it. She looked at the upstairs windows - one bathroom and one landing. You would have to stand in the bath to look out of the bathroom window - and then you’d only see the rooftops and chimneys of the neighbouring houses. The same with the tall window on the landing.

  A movement in an upstairs window of the house opposite caught her eye. A glint of something metal was all she needed to see to know snipers were in place. She looked at the bedroom windows of the house next door. The same. She wasn’t sure whether she felt safer knowing trained marksmen were focused on Beckman or not. But she needed to trust they knew what they were doing, the way she had trusted her comrades in France.

  In the muffled discussion coming from the road at the front of the house Claire heard Mitch’s voice, speaking into a loud hailer. ‘You wanted to talk to me, Professor Beckman?’ There was no reply. ‘Let my parents go and I’ll come in.’

  Claire held her breath and inched forward. She looked to the left, then right. There was no cover on the left, but on the right there was an ornate wooden trellis. It stood six feet tall and masked the garbage bin from the street. From where she was standing she could see a space at the back of the bin where she could hide, where she would be near enough to see and hear Mitch. She crossed the narrow gap between the shed and the trellis and crouched down behind the bin.

  ‘Beckman? Can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes!’ The professor shouted, his voice sending shivers down Claire’s spine.

  ‘Let my parents go, and I’ll come in.’

  ‘If I let them go I have no bargaining power. Do you think I am stupid?’

  ‘No. I never have. But this is between you and me. My folks have nothing to do with it.’

  Claire could hear a hushed conversation between Mitch and several other men. She got to her feet and peered through the diamond-shaped pattern of the trellis. The police chief was speaking animatedly. Listening to him was a high-ranking air force officer and two older men in civilian clothes who, Claire assumed, were from the Jewish Council.

  She looked back at Mitch. His attention was suddenly taken by someone in the crowd. He looked, and looked again, then for the briefest moment he smiled. He has seen Céline, Claire thought. He knows I’m here. Claire’s heart began to hammer in her chest and the butterflies in her stomach took flight. She loved her brave husband as much today as she did when she first fell in love with him a decade ago. But, she told herself, if I am going to be any use to him, I need to use my brain not my heart.

  ‘I need to see for myself that my parents are alive,’ Mitch shouted. ‘Just bring them to the window.’

  ‘I cannot do that, Captain Mitchell. They are not in this part of the house,’ Beckman said.

  There was a pause in the negotiations. Mitch consulted Chief Jacobs, then said, ‘How can I be sure they’re alive if you won’t let me see or speak to them?’

  ‘Because I give you my word.’

  Mitch handed the loudhailer to Chief Jacobs and put his hands above his head. ‘Yes. Okay, I’m coming in.’

  The ‘yes’ was for Claire. She watched Mitch walk up the drive towards the front door. Without looking in her direction, he coughed, looked down, and put his left hand to his mouth. She saw that his forefinger and middle finger were straight while the others were slightly bent. That was what she had hoped to see. Two fingers, two people. He looked down, which meant below floor level. Mitch had told her his family were in the basement, and she was to get them out.

  When Mitch disappeared from view, Claire returned to the back of the shed and slipped unseen to the back door. She took out the set of lock-picking keys that Thomas Durand had given her in France and set about unlocking the door. She heard a click, turned the doorknob and pushed. It didn’t open. She put the picks in again and turned them again. A second click. The door opened.

  Without making a sound Claire moved through the kitchen to the basement door. It was locked, but the key hung on a piece of string on the doorframe. She opened the door and with as much stealth and speed as she had ever had she flew down the stairs. Mitch’s father looked up and blinked rapidly. His wife looked as if she was going to cry. Claire put her forefinger to her lips. ‘Shush…’ She tiptoed across the stone floor. They were each tied to a chair by their wrists and ankles with strong garden twine. Claire untied Marie first. She put her forefinger to her lips again, indicating not to make a sound. She then took the twine from around Mitch’s father’s wrists and ankles. He was bound tighter than his wife. His wrists were bleeding where the twine had cut into the skin.

  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 corn
er 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 him an opportunity to see what he faced, or at least some of it. ‘Get in!’ he ordered, backing up and dragging Claire with him. He spun her around again, so she was facing the posse of police and military officers who, hands on their guns, looked considerably nearer than when she had watched them from the side of the house. Chief Jacobs, his face white and lined with worry, lumbered across the path as if he was going to storm the building.

  ‘Shut the door!’ Beckman shouted. Claire slammed it as fast as she could, lest Beckman put a bullet through the Police Chief. It would have been easy for him to do, but then he would probably have caught one himself.

  The curtains at the small windows on either side of the front door were drawn, making the entrance hall dark, but the door to the living room was open. A beam of light shone out of it illuminating the polished block-wood floor of the hall. Beckman pushed her into the sitting room. The curtains at the bay window were drawn, a precaution against a sniper’s bullet.

  With the gun still aimed at her head, Beckman gave Claire another shove and she staggered into the middle of the room. She took her time regaining her balance so she could survey her surroundings. Beckman standing behind her, Nurse Bryant sitting on the sofa, and Mitch in an armchair with his back to the window. It would be Mitch who took a bullet if-- Claire shook her head to rid the image of her husband being shot in the back of the head. ‘Thank goodness those two are safe,’ Claire said, to Beckman, nodding as if to reaffirm the nurse and her husband’s safety. Beckman didn’t reply, but Mitch cleared his throat, which told Claire he understood it was his parents who were safe.

  ‘Silence!’ Beckman lifted his gun. Mitch leapt out of the chair, but he wasn’t fast enough. In a second Beckman had the gun pointing at him. ‘Sit down!’ Without taking his eyes off Claire, Mitch backed off and returned to his seat next to the window. ‘You too,’ he said, bringing the gun back to Claire. She held her hands up and sat on the settee next to the nurse.

  ‘What are you doing here, Claire?’ Mitch said, feigning an emotion between worry and anger.

  She looked at Beckman, waiting for him to shout Mitch down, or order her not to speak. He did neither. Instead, he said, ‘Yes, Mrs Mitchell, what are you doing here?’

  ‘The same as your woman is doing,’ Claire said, ‘I am supporting the man I love.’ Beckman’s eyes flitted from Claire to Nurse Bryant. He said nothing. Claire turned her back on him and smiled at the nurse. ‘You were very kind to me on the day my husband had to stay on the ward.’ Nurse Bryant looked up at Beckman doe-eyed. Claire smiled. ‘You love your boss very much, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re a lucky man, professor.’

  Beckman grunted.

  Claire looked across at Mitch and raised her eyebrows. She needed his help. Her plan to stir up trouble between Beckman and the nurse wasn’t working.

  ‘So?’ Mitch said, ‘what is it you want, Beckman?’

  Beckman pulled in his stomach and stood tall. ‘A new passport and two tickets to Argentina.’

  ‘Don’t you mean, two passports?’ Mitch said.

  ‘No. One passport, but two tickets - one single and one return.’ He looked at Mitch and grinned. ‘You will use your own passport.’ Mitch’s mouth fell open. ‘Oh,’ Beckman said, laughing, ‘didn’t I say? You, Captain Mitchell, are coming with me. That way I will be guaranteed a safe passage.’

  ‘That wasn’t part of the agreement.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘You know it wasn’t. We agreed that you’d let my parents go if I got you a passport and a ticket to a pro-Nazi country--’

  Nurse Bryant looked from Mitch to Beckman. ‘What about me, Lucien?’

  ‘You?’ Beckman set his jaw and looked at the nurse with distaste. Then his face softened. ‘I will send for you when I am settled.’

  ‘But you promised to take me with you,’ Nurse Bryant said, near to tears. ‘You promised we would go to Argentina together, and when you had proved you were innocent of these-- false charges, you would take me home with you to meet your family in Switzerland.’

  Beckman laughed. ‘You are deluded, woman.’

  ‘But-- I love you, Lucien. Haven’t I proved that to you?’

  Claire glanced at Mitch. He pressed his lips together and raised his eyebrows as if to say, maybe we were wrong, perhaps the nurse did kill Beckman’s secretary. ‘He can’t afford to take you with him now you have killed for him,’ Claire said. Beckman looked at her, his eyes blazing with anger.

  ‘What? I haven’t killed anyone,’ Nurse Bryant cried.

  ‘Silence!’ he shouted to Claire. ‘And you,’ he said, pointing the gun at the nurse, ‘stop whining. No one has killed anyone.’

  ‘Your secretary was found on the floor of her office the morning after you left. She had been murdered.’ Claire looked at Nurse Bryant. ‘And your fob-watch was found under her body,’ Claire said. ‘How could it have got there? Perhaps Doctor Beckman’s secretary loved him and wanted to go to Argentina with him, too. Is that why you killed her?’

  ‘I didn’t kill your secretary, Lucien. And who is Doctor Beckman?’

  ‘Enough! Beckman said to the nurse, ‘keep your mouth shut. Don’t say another word.’ He turned to Claire. ‘You think you’re so smart, don’t you?’ Claire didn’t think she was smart. She was scared to death that she had gone too far and Beckman would put a bullet in her.

  Suddenly Chief Jacobs voice, deep and slightly muffled, boomed into the room. ‘What is going on in there? What are your demands, Doctor Beckman?’ Claire sighed with relief. For the moment Beckman’s attention was on the police chief and not on her or the nurse.

  ‘You?’ he said, to Claire, ‘go to the kitchen and make me coffee and sandwiches. You go with her,’ he said, flicking his head at Nurse Bryant. ‘And while you’re there take a look in the basement, make sure the old folks are still alive.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Watching Claire all the time, Nurse Bryant crossed to the basement door. The feeling of hot nauseous panic rose from Claire’s stomach to her throat. She couldn’t let the nurse go down to the basement.

  ‘Nurse?’ she said, distracting her. ‘What shall I do first?’

  ‘Make the coffee.’

  Turning away from the basement door, the nurse went into the larder. This might be the only chance Claire had to retrieve her gun. Her temples throbbed. In one fluid movement she took the lid off the flour jar, took out the gun, unwrapped it, and slipped it into her pocket. Returning the hankie coated in flour to the jar, she pushed it back in line with the other jars.

  ‘Milk,’ Nurse Bryant said, leaving the larder and closing the door. She handed Claire the milk and pointed to the spilt flour on the worktop. ‘The wrong jar,’ she said, ‘the coffee is in this jar.’ The nurse picked up the jar next to the one containing flour. See, it says, coffee!�
� She stood it next to the milk. ‘Lucien likes cream in his coffee,’ the nurse said, as if she was imparting privileged information. ‘but there isn’t any, so he’ll have milk. I won’t be long.’ she said, heading back to the basement door.

  Claire flicked the electric switch on the wall behind the kettle, then hastily opened the cutlery drawer and took a knife from it. ‘Shall I make a start on the sandwiches while the kettle’s boiling?’ she asked, waving the knife in the air.

  ‘Give me that!’ the nurse shouted. Turning away from the basement again she stomped across the kitchen and grabbed the knife out of Claire’s hand. ‘I will make Lucien’s sandwich, you make the coffee.’

  The colour had drained from the nurse’s face. Claire could see fear in her eyes. ‘I wasn’t going to hurt you, Nurse Bryant,’ she said. The nurse gave her a sideways glance and flicked her head back. ‘I’m sorry if that’s what you thought.’ Had Claire wanted, she could have overpowered the nurse half a dozen times since they’d been on their own in the kitchen. But she needed the nurse onside. She wanted her to see what a murdering animal Beckman was.

  ‘You are innocent, I know you are.’ Claire switched off the kettle and busied herself putting out cups and saucers. ‘The police think you killed Beckman’s secretary, but Mitch and I think it was Beckman who killed her. You know he killed her, don’t you?’

  ‘I know no such thing,’ the nurse said, giving Claire a defiant look.

  ‘Well if he didn’t kill her, and you didn’t kill her, who did?’

  ‘I only have your word that Lucien’s secretary is dead. How do I know what you’re saying is true?’

  ‘Because she knew from the recordings of Mitch under hypnosis, which she typed up after each session, that Mitch had recognised his doctor from the war. The man you know as Doctor Lucien Puel is an imposter.’ Claire saw a flicker of fear cross Nurse Bryant’s face, so she carried on. ‘The man you are in love with, who has manipulated you and made you believe that he is in love with you is a Nazi, a criminal by the name of Heinrich Beckman.’