bet they won’t be paying their bills and if I don’t see my wages I’m out of here.’
‘That’s the breaks, I guess,’ Henderson said uncertainly as he turned towards the door. ‘You wouldn’t know how I can find out what room Mannstein’s in would you? I don’t want to go back upstairs and make myself look stupid.’
The woman tutted with contempt, but pointed towards a telephone on the wall. ‘Dial zero, zero for the front desk. They’ll give you his room number.’
As Henderson grabbed the phone, the laundress walked over to a clothes rail and grabbed a set of pressed overalls. ‘You’d better put them on,’ she said. ‘If the floor manager catches you in a public area without a uniform he’ll go spare.’
Then the woman looked at Marc. ‘We’ve never had a boy shoe-shine before. The only thing I’ve got that will fit you is a messenger’s uniform. But don’t go getting polish on it because it’ll never come out of white cuffs.’
‘Thank you.’ Marc nodded to her as he grabbed the hanger. His uniform comprised a white shirt, black trousers and a velvet waistcoat with gold buttons.
‘Very fetching,’ Henderson teased, as they stepped back into the corridor.
‘Did you get the room number from reception?’ Marc asked.
‘Six-one-two,’ Henderson replied. ‘Now we need somewhere to put these clothes on.’
They headed back upstairs and passed a janitor’s cupboard that was big enough to change in. Henderson closed the door behind them, switched on the light and unzipped the bag, taking out the compact machine gun and showing Marc how to take off the safety catch, fire and reload. On the way out, he grabbed a mop, plunger and bucket.
‘Now we’ve got to find the lift.’
The staff area on the ground floor was a warren and it took several anxious minutes of wandering badly-lit corridors until they found themselves near the hotel’s reception desk with the main elevators facing directly towards them.
Several Gestapo officers were returning to their rooms. The lift stopped at the second and fifth floors and on each the departing officers were saluted by two German infantrymen on guard duty.
‘Seems they’ve got this place sealed up pretty tight,’ Henderson said.
They were alone for the final ride to the top floor and Henderson used the opportunity to check that his silenced pistol was ready to fire.
‘You sure you’re OK with the machine gun?’ Henderson said. ‘Remember to hold it exactly how I showed you or you’ll rip your shoulder off.’
The two guards stepped forwards as the lift doors opened. ‘State your purpose,’ one guard said, in truly awful French.
Henderson began to mumble a convoluted explanation about blocked pipes in room 612 and how the messenger boy’s little arms would be needed to reach behind a sink and undo a valve. Of course, the Germans didn’t understand a word.
‘Blocked toilet,’ the German said irritably. ‘That’s all you need to tell me.’
Henderson nodded apologetically as he walked off with Marc in tow. But after a few steps he realised he’d gone the wrong way and he turned around. Once they’d passed the guards again, one spoke to the other in German.
‘Useless bloody French,’ he sneered. ‘Too much wine. It’s no wonder they lost the bloody war.’
Henderson and Marc both thought it best to pretend that they hadn’t understood and carried on towards Mannstein’s room. Fortunately there were several turns in the corridor and two sets of fire doors.
‘As soon as Mannstein opens the door I’m going to shoot him in the face,’ Henderson said. ‘Stand well back unless you want to get splattered in blood.’
‘Right.’ Marc nodded, taking a deep breath as he poised his knuckles in front of the door. Henderson dropped his bucket and mop and pulled the silenced pistol.
Marc knocked and waited.
‘Who is it?’ a German said.
‘Messenger boy,’ Marc shouted.
Henderson panicked. ‘That’s not Mannstein,’ he gasped.
Marc didn’t have time to ask what to do as a Gestapo officer opened the door. ‘Message from Oberst Hinze—’ he began.
But before Marc knew it, Henderson had fired his shot and a mist of the officer’s blood had spattered his face. Marc was stunned as Henderson burst into the room, just in time to hear Mannstein cry out and run for the bathroom. The bolt slid across the door a second before Henderson barged into it.
‘I just want to talk, Mr Mannstein,’ Henderson lied. ‘It’s not too late. I can still get you out of France.’
Inside the bathroom, Mannstein was going frantic. Banging against the wall, stamping on the floor and screaming for