The Escape - Robert Muchamore Page 0,53

of the grand Mercedes saloons used by senior German officers.

‘There’s four regular soldiers guarding the entrance,’ Marc noted, as Henderson turned into a narrow side street and pulled up.

‘I saw them,’ Henderson said warily.

He stepped out of the tiny car and looked up and down the street. ‘We’ve got to get in there before curfew or we’re buggered.’

Henderson took out a duffel bag containing the partially-assembled Sten gun and handed it to Marc.

‘How do we get inside?’ the boy asked, as the weight of the bag practically wrenched his arm from its socket.

‘Every posh hotel has a staff entrance. It’ll be around the back.’

‘But they might be guarding that too,’ Marc said. ‘And if we get in, how the hell are we going to get away again when the whole city is under a curfew?’

‘Good questions,’ Henderson said, as they walked briskly towards the back of the hotel. ‘I’ll let you know the answers just as soon as I think of them.’

A left turn took them on to a concrete ramp, misted with steam curling out of the hotel kitchen and stinking of the rubbish overflowing from giant metal bins. Three kitchen staff stood in an open doorway smoking cigarettes and a bored-looking German guard sat on a step behind them.

‘Act as if we do this every night of our lives,’ Henderson said to Marc, as they approached the door.

‘Evening, gents,’ Henderson said brightly, nodding to the smokers.

They looked a touch mystified, but it was a big hotel and they didn’t know everyone who worked there. The German stretched out his leg to stop them and spoke in bad French.

‘My French not too good,’ Henderson said, pointing jovially towards himself. ‘I night porter. My son is shoe-shine.’

The German didn’t seem happy to have drawn guard duty on his first night in Paris and he looked up miserably and pointed into the kitchen with his thumb. ‘Go ahead.’

Savage heat blasted Marc as he stepped inside. A filthy corridor took them into the hotel kitchen proper, where three men as rough as any Marc had seen leaving the Dormitory Raquel stood in front of a trough, scrubbing massive pots. Another man barged past, carrying a crate filled with empty champagne bottles.

It seemed impossible that anything could be hotter, but as they reached the centre of the kitchen Marc felt as if the sun had crash-landed on his head. It seemed impossible to breathe, let alone work in such heat, but dozens of kitchen staff carted ingredients, chopped, boiled, seared and dragged heavy trays out of ovens.

Marc and Henderson caught a few odd glances, but nobody had time to stop and ask questions. When the waiters passed through the swinging doors leading into the restaurant they were able to glimpse a room filled with black uniforms. At the far end, someone was making a speech to a chorus of drunken laughter.

‘It’s good if they’re pissed,’ Henderson said, smiling as he stepped out of the kitchen into a narrow corridor with great clumps of mildew growing on the walls. ‘Remember, Marc: confidence is key. Always look like you know where you’re going, even if you haven’t got a clue.’

Marc was scared and felt slightly woozy, but at least the corridor was merely stifling, rather than unbearable. They walked twenty metres until they came to a wooden staircase that went down to the hotel basement. A door at the bottom led them into a room containing two giant washing machines. Beyond the machines a woman worked flat out, stretching white hotel sheets over a steam-press, then taking off the flattened sheets and folding them into neat squares.

She stared oddly at Marc and Henderson. Clearly she didn’t get many visitors.

‘Hello,’ Henderson said. ‘We just started work here. I’m supposed to unblock a toilet for someone called Mannstein.’

The woman raised a single eyebrow. ‘How the hell does that bring you down here?’

‘I just came along the corridor.’

She looked at Marc. ‘And you’ve brought your son to work?’

‘Shoe-shine,’ Marc said.

‘We’ve never had that before,’ the woman said. ‘Night porter does the shoes when reception is quiet.’

‘They wanted him special,’ Henderson said. ‘All those Germans need their boots cleaned.’

‘Germans,’ the woman said, as she spat on a sheet before folding it. ‘I’ve been having a nice time these last weeks with Paris so quiet. Now they’re turning everything upside down. Threw out all our guests, including residents who’ve lived here for years, then went down to the cellar and dragged up all the best wines and champagne. You can