Chasing Ghosts

by Madalyn Morgan

  Eleanor Cheval was ready for the fight. Claire too was ready. Full of admiration for this courageous woman whose enthusiasm was rubbing off on her, Claire was laughing when the door of the music room crashed open.

  Mitch rushed in, his face was as white as a sheet. ‘Heinrich Beckman is holding my father and step-mother hostage. Guillaume is taking me to Orly airport, I’m flying to Canada tonight.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ Claire said. She reached over the arm of the settee and grabbed her handbag. Ripping a page from her notebook, she scribbled down Antoinette Marron’s name and telephone number. Beneath it she wrote Thomas Durand and his telephone number. ‘Would you telephone my friend Antoinette? Tell her what has happened. Tell her we won’t be coming to Paris now, and,’ Claire took a panicky breath, ‘ask her to let Édith Belland and my sister Bess know? She has their numbers.’

  Eleanor assured Claire that she would telephone Antoinette Marron as soon as she and Alain left. ‘And Thomas? What do I tell him?’

  ‘Tell him to meet me at Orly airport.’ Claire thought for a second. ‘I don’t know what time we’ll arrive, but Thomas will work it out if you tell him what time it was when we left here. And, tell him to bring me a key kit.’

  Eleanor knew, as Thomas would know, that a key kit was for picking locks. She nodded that she understood. ‘Thank you, Eleanor,’ Claire said, and kissed her goodbye.

  ‘Jusqu'à ce que nous nous réunissions de nouveau.’

  ‘Yes, my friend. Until we meet again.’

  Guillaume was in his car with the engine running and the doors open. Mitch kissed Eleanor goodbye, grabbed Claire’s hand, and together they ran out of the château and down the steps. No sooner had they jumped into the car than Guillaume put his foot on the accelerator. Eleanor, from her wheelchair at the top of the steps, lifted the sheet of note paper that Claire had given her with one hand and blew kisses with the other.

  Claire opened the window and waved back. ‘Thanks for everything. See you at the trial.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ‘How did you find out Beckman was at your father’s house?’

  ‘I telephoned Commander Landry to tell him you had documents that would prove my innocence and that Puel was really Heinrich Beckman, and he already knew.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Yes. He said you sent him a telegram.’

  ‘I wrote a telegram, and I tried to send it, but the guy in the post office had shut shop for the day and wouldn’t open up for me. I pushed it through the letterbox and when he ignored it, I called him a bastard and kicked the door.’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘He must have come back, looked at the address, and because it was an RAF aerodrome realised its importance.’

  ‘Thank God he did.’ Mitch sighed. Claire looked at her husband. He had dark circles under his eyes and his face was set in a heavy frown.

  ‘How did the commander find out Beckman was keeping your parents prisoner?’

  ‘Dad rang our house, on Beckman’s orders. I expect Beckman blames me for the situation he’s now in. Anyway, when Dad couldn’t get hold of me he rang Grandma Esther and asked her if she knew where I was. She said she didn’t, but could find out, and asked Dad to telephone her again the next day. She knew from your phone call that I was in France, but she didn’t know how to get in touch with me, so she had no choice but to telephone the commander and tell him what was going on in Canada.’

  ‘Thank God she did.’

  ‘Landry said when he got your telegram, he contacted the War Crimes Committee. They gave him Guillaume’s telephone number and the rest you know.’

  Claire nodded, then smiled at Guillaume Cheval who was looking at her in the reverse mirror. ‘Where are we going, Guillaume?’ she asked, when they turned right at a T-junction that was signposted Paris left.

  ‘To the hotel to pick up your suitcases and from there to Orly Airport. There’s a Trans-Canada Airlines flight at five-twenty to Montréal.’

  Alain looked at his watch. ‘We’re cutting it fine. Will we make it?’

  ‘We should. But, if you miss the Trans flight, there’s a Canadian Pacific plane due out at 6.30. Both planes have to refuel in Northern Ireland and again in the USA, so...

  ‘When you land in Montréal you’ll be met by Canadian military intelligence. The Chief of Police may, or may not, be there. It depends on the situation at your parent’s house as to whether Chief Jacobs will be at your hotel when you arrive. He might leave it until the morning. You’ll be taken to the hotel, where someone will brief you. Have something to eat and I suggest you have an early night. It may be the last night’s sleep you have for a while. Negotiations in these kinds of situations can take a long time. In the morning, you will be taken to your father’s house.’

  ‘And Claire? What time does she leave?’

  ‘Not sure. I’m sorry, Claire, there wasn’t time to organise a flight for you. There is a plane to London-Croydon this evening, at around eight o’clock. We’ll book you a seat as soon as we’ve seen Alain off. Commander Landry has already dispatched a car to collect you. One of his officers will meet you from the plane and drive you to Oxford.’

  ‘I’m going to Canada with my husband,’ Claire said to Cheval’s reflection in the reversing mirror. ‘I’m going to Canada!’ she said again, this time to Mitch.

  ‘Honey, it’s too dangerous. I need to know that you and Aimée are at home and safe. If anything should happen to me--’

  ‘Nothing is going to happen to you.’ Mitch took hold of Claire’s hand. ‘No, Mitch!’ She snatched her hand away. ‘I promised Aimée I would find you and I would bring you home, and that is what I am going to do!’

  ‘But if we are both--’

  ‘Stop it! Nothing will happen to either of us, because I intend to keep my promise to our daughter!’

  Claire was first through the door of Le Petit Château Hotel, and first to reach reception. She was not going to be left behind in France or sent back to England, she was going to Canada. Mitch would need her, and she needed to be with him. When the manager appeared, Claire asked for the keys to both their rooms. When she was given them, she passed them to Mitch. ‘My suitcase, as you know, is already packed and is just inside my room. When you have packed your case pick mine up. I’ll pay our bills. Don’t be long,’ she called after him, ‘I’ll see you in the car.’

  Claire, a worried expression on her face, explained to Thomas’s old Resistance friend that she and her husband had been called back to London because her mother had been taken ill. Sympathetic to Claire’s plight, he didn’t ask her to pay for the coming night, or the following night, which she had only booked that morning.

  Claire paid, thanked the man for his kindness and hightailed it out of there to Guillaume Cheval who was waiting in the car.

  ‘How are we doing for time?’ Mitch asked, throwing their suitcases into the boot of Guillaume’s car and leaping into the back seat next to Claire.

  ‘We are in good time. We should reach Paris-Orly airport in just over an hour.’

  Guillaume dropped Claire and Mitch off at the entrance to Orly airport. With only time for a brief goodbye, he shook Mitch’s hand and gave him a customary hug. ‘Be careful,’ the Frenchman said, his voice hoarse with emotion. Mitch nodded but couldn’t speak. Guillaume hugged Claire. ‘Take care.’

  ‘I will.’

  As they entered the Departure Hall Claire spotted Thomas leaning against the Trans-Canada Air Lines desk. She waved, and he walked quickly to the centre of the hall. Claire ran to meet him. ‘There’s no need for Mitch to know about the keys,’ she whispered, hugging her friend.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. She knew what Thomas had to do and held him until she felt the weight of the lock picking keys in her coat pocket. Mitch joined them with Claire’s ticket. ‘Darling, this is my friend Thomas Durand.’ Mitch put down the suitcases and shook Thomas’s hand.

  ‘Thank you for looking after her,’ Mitch said, ‘and thank
you for telephoning me at the hotel.’

  Thomas gave Mitch a friendly nod and looked at Claire. ‘No problem.’

  While they were talking two airport officials arrived, asked Mitch and Claire their names and after a quick look at their passports, each picked up a suitcase. ‘The plane is on time, Captain,’ the older of the two men said, ‘we would like to get you on board before the rest of the passengers.’

  The plane to Montréal left on time. Once they were settled in their seats, Claire and Mitch slept.

  Claire woke to the sound of a stewardess asking passengers if they would like tea or coffee. ‘Coffee for me please,’ she said and nudged Mitch. ‘Do you want a coffee, darling?’ He nodded sleepily.

  When the stewardess moved on, Mitch rubbed his eyes. ‘It’s my fault Beckman’s secretary is dead.’

  ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘I told you she came into the office while I was copying my medical report and Beckman’s letter and she didn’t try to stop me. It’s hard to explain, but she looked at me as if she agreed with what I was doing. When I’d finished she took the original papers from me and put them in another envelope. It appeared to be identical to the one I had ripped open, but Beckman must have noticed there was a difference because it got her killed.’

  ‘By Beckman’s nurse?’ Claire queried, more to herself than to Mitch.

  Mitch shook his head. ‘Doesn’t ring true, does it?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ Claire agreed. ‘But if she loved him--?’

  The stewardess brought their drinks and Claire relaxed back in her seat to enjoy her coffee.

  ‘What did Thomas Durand put in your pocket?’

  Claire choked. ‘This coffee is hot!’

  Mitch rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll ask you again. What did--?’

  ‘All right!’ It was pointless lying to Mitch, he knew her too well. ‘Lockpicking keys.’

  ‘Lockpicking--?’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’ Claire put her coffee cup on the tray in front of her and reached into her coat pocket. ‘These,’ she said, showing him a leather pouch with a pattern of the fleur de leys embossed on it. The small red case looked like a lady’s purse, or a manicure set. Opening it, she jangled the long needle-like keys in front of him.

  ‘I wish I hadn’t asked.’ He put out his hand and Claire whipped them away.

  ‘Do you know how to use these?’

  Mitch didn’t answer.

  ‘Well I do, so they’re staying with me.’

  ‘Why do you want-- No! No way!’ He looked around to see if anyone was listening. No one was. He lowered his voice anyway. ‘You are not getting involved in the situation at Dad’s house.’

  Claire returned the lockpicking keys to her pocket. Her argument was, the years he had spent in the prison in France were the years she had spent working with the French Resistance, and, although she didn’t want to say it, she could probably handle herself better than him in a hostage situation. She could open locked doors better. André Belland taught her, and he had taught her well.

  She was saved from saying anything when the stewardess arrived with their meal.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Today the weather in Montréal was bright and sunny, though a little colder than in Paris-France. If you haven’t already changed your watches to conform to the time difference, I suggest you do so now. We are now making our descent. I won’t be speaking to you again as we will soon be in our landing pattern. It was a pleasure to have you aboard. We hope to have you with us again, soon. Thank you.”

  Claire looked at her watch. It was 3.30am. The flight, with landings to refuel in Northern Ireland and Detroit had taken ten hours. They both wound their watches back six hours to 9.30 in the evening. Mitch buckled his safety belt and leaned back in his seat. ‘Are you all right, Mitch?’

  ‘Yes, honey. I’m just worried about Dad and Marie.’ Claire held his hand, as she always did when they took off or landed. She liked flying, she just didn’t like taking off and landing. The rise and fall in altitude hurt her ears and made her deaf. She was deaf now and would be until she was on the ground. She swallowed a couple of times, hoping her ears would pop. They didn’t.

  Claire felt the aeroplane land, the wheels bump as they touched down, and the pull of air from the reverse thrust. She looked out of the window. As the plane taxied towards the airport building the sprinkling of tiny lights she saw from a distance grew bigger until she could see they were lights to guide the plane towards the arrivals building of Montréal Dorval Airport.

  CANADA

  SPRING 1950

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  A waft of fresh spring evening air gusted into the aeroplane as the exit door at the front of the cabin opened.

  ‘If you would like to follow me, sir, madam?’ a stewardess said, ‘Two RCAF officers are waiting to escort you from the plane.’

  Mitch stood up and stepped into the aisle. Claire edged out of her seat sideways until she was able to bend down and pick up her handbag. She joined Mitch and the stewardess in the narrow passage between the door and the galley kitchen. Mitch took Claire’s hand, letting go only to salute the two officers at the exit.

  ‘Officer Boucher, sir,’ the female officer said, saluting Mitch.

  ‘Officer Lloyd,’ the male officer said, following Officer Boucher’s lead.

  Then the officers turned and saluted Claire. She returned the gesture. It had been six years since anyone had saluted her - and then it was only when she was wearing her WAAF uniform, which, once she had been recruited by the SOE, wasn’t often.

  Officer Boucher escorted Claire down the steps, while Officer Lloyd walked alongside Mitch. ‘We need to pick up our cases,’ Claire said, when they were on the tarmac.

  ‘Already in the car, Mrs Mitchell,’ Officer Boucher said.

  Claire looked over her shoulder at Mitch. He winked and she gave him a nervous smile. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To a hotel, Mrs Mitchell.’

  Claire sighed. She wasn’t going to get anything out of the female officer. She probably hadn’t been told the name of the hotel or its location, Claire thought.

  The car, a standard RCAF six-seater black saloon, was waiting for them when they came out of the airport. The driver, standing at the back of the car, opened the boot and stowed the suitcases. Claire and Mitch got into the back of the car, the driver took up position behind the steering wheel and waited for his fellow officers. Lloyd sat in the front next to the driver, Boucher in the back next to Claire. When everyone was seated, the driver pulled into the stream of traffic leaving the airport. Claire, leaning forward, looked past the officer and out of the window. There were vehicles on either side of them. In a slow-moving convoy, they were heading into Montréal.

  When they arrived at the hotel, they were met by a police sergeant who, after introducing himself, ushered Mitch and Claire into the hotel and, bypassing reception, pressed the button for the lift. As the lift rose to the sixth floor, Claire took hold of Mitch’s hand. She gave it a squeeze to reassure him everything would be all right. Whether it would or not remained to be seen. She tried to imagine how she would feel if it was her mother, or one of her sisters and their husbands, being held prisoner by a madman like Beckman, but she couldn’t.

  The hotel suite was modern and spacious. There was a sitting room, double bedroom, and a reasonable sized bathroom. No sooner had they taken off their outdoor clothes than there was a knock at the door. Officer Lloyd opened it and Montréal’s Chief of Police entered with the sergeant who had met them.

  ‘Let’s get down to business, shall we?’ Chief of Police Sam Jacobs introduced himself, then pulled out a chair from beneath the dining table. Mitch pulled out another. When Claire took the sofa, sitting on the end nearest to the table, the men sat down.

  ‘Your parents house is surrounded. I’ve got armed police on the ground and an elite task force of specially trained officers with snipers in the upstairs windows
of the neighbouring houses. The German won’t get away this time,’ Chief Jacobs said.

  ‘Has Beckman said anything about my father and mother? Has he made any demands, other than wanting to talk to me?’

  ‘He told the police negotiator that the hostages were in the basement. We have no proof of that, but we can’t see them in the room where Beckman and the woman are.’

  ‘Nurse Bryant, who worked for him?’

  The Chief of Police nodded. ‘We haven’t seen much of her in the last four hours. I guess she’s either in another room or she’s keeping out of sight.’

  Claire was visualising the layout of the house, where the basement door was in reference to the sitting room and the dining room, which were both at the front of the house, both with big windows. ‘Which room is Beckman in?’ she asked the chief. ‘When you look at the house, is he in the room on the right of the front door or the left?’

  ‘The right.’

  ‘That means he’s as far away from the basement door and the kitchen as he could possibly be, Mitch.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking.’

  ‘He seemed happy to talk to the police negotiator,’ Chief Jacobs said. ‘In fact, our guy thought he had Beckman’s confidence, was getting through to him, but--’ The Police Chief shrugged, ‘the next time the negotiator spoke to him, Beckman said he was bored and wasn’t going to talk to anyone but you, Captain Mitchell.’

  ‘Beckman was playing with your negotiator.’

  ‘I should have got someone else, someone more experienced,’ the chief said.

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up, Chief. And don’t blame your negotiator. Beckman’s a controlling liar. He’s an expert confidence trickster. When do I get to talk to him?’

  ‘Tomorrow. The negotiator will brief you on his findings.’

  ‘I meant when do I get to talk to Beckman?’.

  ‘As soon as it’s light. Once my men have changed shifts - when the guys on duty tonight have left and the day shift is in position - it will be safe for you to negotiate.’