Claimed by the Secret Agent by Lyn Stone Page B

abide by an order that she sit this one out, though. He had a bad feeling about her coming along, but he’d just have to stay between her and danger and hope for the best.
    “So, old Dr. Shute is dead and someone’s still picking up his mail in town. A relative, maybe? Or has someone taken over his identity?” Marie asked. “This could be headquarters for the Hoofstads, or a satellite group.”
    “I guess we’ll find out,” Grant surmised. “It would be a perfect setup, but we can’t jump to any conclusions. It’s a fairly safe assumption that the mail was once delivered out there. Then someone changed that by renting a box in town and using Shute’s name. Could be a relative. We need more information about the clinic and what its purpose was. An interview with Pieter’s grandfather would be helpful. We probably should have done that before checking out the place.”
    “There’s the time factor,” Marie reminded him. “Cynthia Rivers could be killed while we run around asking questions. What if she’s being held there? As soon as the kidnappers realize there’ll be no ransom for her, she’s had it.”
    Grant couldn’t argue that. “How do we find the turnoff?”
    “It’s the fourth road to the left. I’m counting. Howdo you think the old grandfather knew about the place? The directions are roughly drawn but pretty explicit for all that. I wonder what sort of clinic it was.”
    “Could be anything. Tuberculosis was rampant before and after World War II, so it could be a sanatorium. Or mental-health facility. Home for unwed mothers. Too far out of town to be a regular doctor’s practice. Doesn’t really matter what it was, only what it is now and who’s living there.”
    “How do we go in?” She was too antsy, almost bouncing in her seat. Her eagerness to get that clerk to safety could jeopardize everything if she didn’t calm down.
    “We don’t go in,” Grant told her. “We’re scoping it out, that’s all. Tonight’s better for the intrusion. I’ll bring in some backup if we suspect anything fishy.” He gave her a warning look. “You’ll stay in the car, keep your head down and let me see if anyone’s there.”
    “I will not!”
    “And what if Onders comes to the door?”
    “Oh.”
    “Think, Marie,” he insisted. “You’re too close to this to stay objective. Let me handle this.”
    “All right,” she agreed, settling back in her seat and studying the map. “At least initially.”
    Grant drove down the driveway to the front of the old place. It was a gray, two-story stone building, with lots of windows on the first floor. It appeared deserted. There could be vehicles hidden from view in the three small outbuildings.
    He parked in the circular driveway that fronted thehouse, stopping well past the entrance. Marie rolled down her window and remained low in the seat.
    “Go ahead. If anyone answers the door, you can ask directions or something. I’ll stay down,” Marie promised.
    He pounded on the door several times and was about to give it up when he heard scuffling footsteps inside.
    A short, thin, gray-haired man opened the door. Dressed in a ratty robe and slippers, he peered silently up at Grant over wire-rimmed glasses. The eyes were dark, almost black, the complexion sallow.
    “I wonder if you could help me, sir,” Grant said in English. “Is there a petrol station nearby?”
    “Six kilometers that direction on the main road,” the old fellow said, pointing. “You are American?”
    “Canadian, on holiday. Grant Tyndal from Toronto. And who may I thank, sir?” Grant asked, smiling broadly. He detected an accent. British, he thought, but not precisely that.
    “Dr. Shapur,” the man informed him.
    Grant offered his hand and met reluctant acceptance. “What a grand old house you have here, doctor. I have always been interested in architecture. Is it prewar by any chance?”
    “Yes.” The word was clipped, impatient. Perhaps he was frightened. Or a little off