Blue Madonna, page 24
Juliet gripped the handle and pulled the door forward. Stiff on its hinges, it creaked and groaned. I set Brookes down and motioned that I’d go first. There were no objections. I felt around inside, expecting to find the chute to slide down, like we had at our place back in Boston. My hand clutched air. The rattle of gunfire increased, and I was conscious of the ten minutes ticking by. I stuck my head into the pitch-black basement, getting my shoulders through so I could chance a quick look with the flashlight. I flicked on the beam and shielded it as best I could.
The basement was a jumble of junk. I switched off the light, trying to accustom my eyes to the complete darkness. I turned it on again. The junk wasn’t junk. There was an upright piano, a tables and chairs, upholstered couches, armoires, china, candlesticks, small statues, stacks of paintings, all crammed into every square inch of the cellar. Below me was an ornate writing desk next to a fancy side table with a set of cut-crystal glasses on a silver tray. One step, and I’d send everything crashing.
“No room,” I whispered after I wriggled out. Shots still rang out, but they were random. “The place is filled with loot. Expensive loot.”
“Bâtards!” Christine muttered. “From the houses of Jews and Résistants, no doubt. Now what?”
“We walk in the front door, of course,” Juliet said, standing up straight. “I’ll bet Rivet took everyone with him. Safety in numbers. Come, as if we own the place.”
There was nothing to do but follow. I hoisted Brookes over one shoulder and prayed that no dutiful fascist had taken the time to lock the door. Hands stuffed in her pockets, Juliet sauntered out from the side street, took the few steps up to the entrance, and grabbed the handle.
It turned. Juliet shut the door quietly behind us, and the latch gave off a metallic snap drowned out by a renewed volley of gunfire and the sound of grenades. The dimly lit foyer gave way to an open space, likely where the congregation had peaceably worshipped for decades. Now it was a warren of desks and tables, the raised platform up front an armory. I knew that was where the rabbi read the Torah—I remembered that much from going to my pal Abe Tascher’s bar mitzvah. It held a Bren gun that had been in the midst of being cleaned. The Milice were mainly armed with weapons captured at supply drops, adding insult to lethal injury. Abe was flying B-24s out of Italy, last I heard, and I hoped he was hitting the goddamn Krauts hard.
A tap on the arm shook me out of my thoughts. Juliet pointed to an open door at the far end of the room. We headed that way as I gingerly maneuvered Brookes through the aisles, trying not to knock anything over.
“Let’s look for a door to the attic,” I whispered as we came to a halt. “That’s a logical hiding place.” Christine nodded and held the door fully open, one hand on the latch and the other gripping her Walther. I crossed the threshold into a small chamber where coats and uniform jackets were hung. It opened onto a wide hallway that ran to the back of the building. I saw the rear entrance, and the open door to what must have been the office Madame Morency described. Light spilled out into the hall.
Someone spoke.
“Allô, allô,” followed by the repeated clicking of a telephone receiver. They’d left someone behind, and with our luck tonight, he was calling for reinforcements.
Juliet pointed to the door opposite his, then pointed up. The way to the attic. There wasn’t much of an option, unless you counted on running back through the streets with a dead body as a swell notion. I set Brookes down as quietly as I could, letting the shots and the noise of the telephone mask the inevitable thump. I drew my pistol and strode into the office.
He wore the dark tunic of the Milice, their trademark oversized beret flopped down over one ear. That’s where I hit him. One hard swing from the butt of my pistol, and he was down for the count, if not the decade. I put the phone back on the cradle.
“Upstairs. Hurry,” Juliet said, giving my handiwork a quick glance. “Is he dead?”
“No. Don’t think so, at least,” I said, picking up Brookes for what I hoped was the last time.
Christine glanced in, then took the lead going up the attic stairs. Gutsy, since someone could be waiting. She got to the landing and waved us up. The coast was clear. Blankets were hung across the two round windows, and a single bulb glowed at the end of a cord. Four cots and a couple of chairs were arranged under one window, the rest of the attic taken up by boxes and the usual attic debris. No loot.
“Look here, wine bottles and tins of food,” Juliet said. “They must sleep here on night duty.”
“Or this is a hiding place for Allied airmen,” Christine said. “What do you think?”
“Perfect. But we have to hide the body. As if one of the Milice killed him in an argument and had to leave in a hurry once the shooting started.” I was beginning to think this plan had a chance. I carried Brookes over to the far end of the attic and unwrapped the sheets that covered him.
He looked so young. I couldn’t think about his cowardly act thousands of feet in the air, his bomber shot up and on fire. He was only a kid; that was all I could see. I hoped Fawcett would see that someday as well. I stacked boxes around Brookes and draped one of the sheets over him as if it were a hasty attempt at hiding a body.
“That is good,” Christine said. “I am sorry, young man.” She went quiet for a moment, then motioned with her pistol. “Come. We have to deal with the milicien downstairs. We cannot leave him.”
“We have to leave now,” I said as we clattered down the stairs. “What does it matter?”
“Because it will be obvious,” she said. “The guard is knocked out, and a mysterious body is discovered upstairs? Not even the Boche are so stupid.”
“But if the guard deserts, and a body is found, he is of course the culprit,” Juliet said. It made sense.
“What do we do with him?” I said.
“Take him with us. I know how to deal with him. But you carry him, Billy.” Christine smiled until the gunshots stopped.
“Let’s go,” I said, grabbing the unconscious man. The sturdy, well-built unconscious man. “Take his coat and weapon.” Juliet took his jacket and a Sten gun that was draped over the chair. Christine rifled through the desk drawers and found a small cashbox. It was unlocked, and she grabbed a fistful of francs. Her grin returned.
We went out the back. I had to stop and balance my load, doing the fireman’s carry again. This guy had fifty pounds on Brookes, and I felt every one. We crossed a street moments before two truckloads of Germans flew by, reinforcements who’d be too late. The good news was, no one was going to dare look out their windows with Krauts on the streets and the sound of gunfire still ringing in their ears.
“Stop here,” Christine said, as we came to the bridge we’d crossed on the way in. “Our thief is about to meet with an accident.” She eyed the steps leading down to the river. “It flows into the Eure River. With any luck, he’ll drift miles away. If not, it will seem that he ran into terrorists who robbed and killed him.”
“You want to execute him?” I said, his breathing body still across my shoulders.
“Yes. I do. For what they did in Coudray, if nothing else. This is what we do with the Milice. They are worse than the Germans. They are traitors who prey on their own kind. Now no more talk, into the water with him. Pretend you killed him when you struck him, if that makes you feel better.”
Juliet nodded toward the river. I knew they were right. But they weren’t the ones doing it.
I took the stone steps to the water’s edge and shrugged the heavy load off my shoulders. Blood matted his hair. His mouth gaped open. I was glad he wasn’t young. I put him face down in the cold water and shoved him off into the rippling tributary, an easier death than he had meted out to others.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Ausweis!”
I could hear the demand for identity papers from behind the backseat where I occupied Brookes’s former spot. It was morning, and we were on our way back to the château. The roadblock wasn’t surprising, not after last night’s shootout in town. I could make out some Krauts chattering to one another, keyed up, excited and frightened, not knowing if the Maquis might strike again. I preferred bored Germans to jumpy ones. Christine and Juliet answered in lilting and jaunty tones, not a care in the world, just two French girls out on an errand.
A hand thumped on the rooftop. I clutched my pistol, but it was only the signal to move on. Christine stepped on it, and I don’t think I breathed until I heard the crunch of the gravel drive under the tires and felt the automobile brake to a halt at the rear of the château. I unfolded myself from the hiding place and followed Juliet and Christine into the kitchen. The first thing I saw was Meyer, a basket of baguettes in his hands. He was wearing an old brown sweater over his wool shirt, frayed at the cuffs and dirty.
“What are you doing here?” Juliet asked, her gaze darting about, looking for Madame Agard.
“I came for breakfast,” he said. “You and Sonya weren’t around, so I wanted to see what we had to eat. Madame Agard just took these out of the oven.”
“Of course,” Juliet said. “Sorry. It’s been a long night. I didn’t realize you were so familiar with the tunnels.”
“Oh, I keep my eyes open, ma’am.” Meyer winked. He was one of those guys who sounded the most insulting when they were being polite.
“Where’d this come from?” I asked, fingering the worn fabric of his sweater.
“The count. He gave us some old clothes a while ago. Armstrong had this one, but I figured it was up for grabs. You got a problem with that?”
“No, merely curious,” I said. “Did Armstrong have any other stuff?” It would be normal procedure to check a victim’s effects, but I hadn’t thought of these guys as having anything but the clothes on their backs.
“Nah, only this sweater and an extra pair of socks, courtesy of the count. I gotta go. The guys are hungry,” Meyer said. “Open the door, will ya?”
I went ahead of him into the cupboard, pressing the panel that released the secret door. As he passed, a smattering of blue on one elbow caught my eye. Where had I seen that before?
I shut the door. Then Madame Agard burst into the kitchen, one hand held over her heart as if it might burst. “Sonya has been arrested,” she said. “Dieu nous aide.”
Never mind us. God help Sonya.
“I must go,” Christine said. “There are people to warn.”
“Be careful,” Juliet said, hugging her. “Take no chances yourself.”
“To live is to take chances,” she said. “When I telephone, I will tell you the book you wanted is still not available. If all is well, tell me you will wait for it.”
She rushed out as we hurried to the count’s library. Kaz and Topper were already there, worried looks on their faces.
“What happened?” Juliet asked, glancing out the window as if the Gestapo were coming up the drive.
“I received a message this morning from a friend at the gendarmerie in Épernon. Sonya was apprehended at a known meeting place for Resistance contacts,” Count Vasseur said, his voice weary.
“We have forty-eight hours at best,” Juliet said.
“What do you mean?” Kaz asked.
“No one is expected to withstand Gestapo torture,” the count answered. “We expect no more than forty-eight hours. Two days is enough time for everyone else in the network to disappear. After that, the captured agent may tell all they know.”
“If they haven’t already,” Juliet said. “No one can predict how long they will hold out.” She knew more than most.
“What will you do, Count Vasseur?” I asked. The rest of us could scatter and wait for the war to come our way, but not this elderly gentleman.
“What I can, young man. What I can. Today I will send Madame Agard away with little Justine. I have already sent the other staff home, giving them the long weekend. But now tell me, were you successful?”
“Yes, the body is hidden in the attic. You can tell Zeller that Rivet is using the Milice headquarters to hide escaping Allied airmen,” I said. “Any sense in asking him to help get Sonya out?”
“Sadly, no,” Count Vasseur said. “That would only draw attention to the château. Until our guests depart, we cannot afford to take such a risk.”
“We need to inform London,” Juliet said from her post by the window. The Madonna in blue hung over her shoulder. They both looked sorrowful. “Did the midnight sked come in?”
“Sked?” Kaz asked.
“Scheduled transmission,” Topper said. “Yes. It’s waiting for you to decode. If you want to transmit a message now, I’ll take the radio a mile or so into the woods. No sense letting the Jerries track our signal here.”
“Good idea,” Juliet said, facing us. She took a deep breath, then focused on what had to be done. If she was thinking of what Sonya might be enduring at this very moment, those thoughts had to be put away. “Topper, get one of the men to go with you, and tell the others to gather in the salon. And to take it seriously this time. I’ll code a brief message while you get the radio packed up. Billy, Kaz, keep a lookout up on the top floor. It will give us a few moments’ head start if the Germans come. Count Vasseur, make the call to Zeller. We should proceed as planned. There’s always the chance she was picked up in a routine roundup.”
When being picked up as a hostage or for slave labor transport to Germany was the good news, the bad news was very, very bad.
“It may not be the Gestapo,” Count Vasseur said, reaching for the telephone. “If it was the Abwehr, it could be worse. For us, that is.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“The Gestapo gets what it wants by torture for the most part,” Juliet said, locking eyes with the count. “They call their cells ‘kitchens,’ to give you some idea of what happens there. But the Abwehr uses skillful interrogation. They promise life and protection if you betray your network. Money, for those who care to earn it that way. All backed up by the fact that they will turn you over to the Gestapo if you fail to cooperate.”
“They are skillful, indeed,” Count Vasseur said. “Now excuse me. I must act as a Judas myself.”
“I’m going to check on Switch,” I said to Kaz as we left the room. “How are things here?”
“Everything was fine until this news,” Kaz said as we descended the steps into the grand hall. “Meyer has been testy, or I should say testier than usual.”
“Do you think he suspects anything?” I stopped in the center of the empty room, looking up at the portrait of the first count. The eyes were odd, at that.
“I can’t see how he would,” Kaz said. “I don’t believe Switch would say anything. He begged me for news once he had me alone. All I could suggest was to hope for good news in that sked.” Ever the lover of jargon, Kaz had picked up a new word.
“Well, remember, the walls have ears.” I stopped in my tracks. That reminded me of something. What was it?
“Don’t be long, Billy. I’ll be on the top floor, first door on the right.”
“Sure. Say, Kaz, did you mention to Switch that I’d been a cop before the war?”
“No, I didn’t. I am still keeping up the fiction that you are a disgraced scoundrel, and no friend of mine. Hurry up, please.”
“Okay,” I said as Kaz took the main staircase two at a time. I looked back at the painted count. What had Vincent said? Something about bringing ghosts back to life. I moved on, more concerned at the moment that we all might be ghosts by nightfall.
I found everyone in the salon, Meyer distributing the baguettes, Dogbite pouring water from a jug.
“Bread and water, that’s what we’re down to,” Meyer said. “And look at this bread! It’s grey and soft. When we gettin’ outta here anyway?”
“Madame Agard makes it with potatoes,” Dogbite said. “And rye. The lady does the best she can, but I have to say, it’d make better moonshine than bread.” That got a laugh and shut Meyer up.
“Once we get the message decoded, we’ll know more,” I said. “For now, everyone stay put. Hopefully we’ll be on the move soon.” Maybe one step ahead of the Krauts, but I thought it better to leave that part out. I glanced at Switch, who gave me the slightest of nods and looked away. Meyer kept his eyes on Switch as he ripped a piece off his baguette. Then he looked at me, the wheels turning.
“You get lost coming back here, Meyer?” I said to distract him. “You left the kitchen awhile ago.”
“Not that long,” he said. “You know how it is down there. One wrong turn, and it gets confusing fast.”
“Yeah, and dangerous, too. You heard about Sonya?” I said.
“Bad luck,” Fawcett said. “She was a good woman.”
“She’s not dead yet,” Babcock said. “Maybe it’s a false alarm. You know, like a mission being scrubbed at the last minute. Happens all the time.” It did, and so did the desire for normalcy, the wish for my friends and comrades not to die horrible deaths, the belief that it couldn’t happen to them. Or to me.
“Did one of you boys volunteer to go out with Topper?” I asked.
“Yeah, me,” Meyer said, gulping water as he stood up. He grabbed a half baguette and headed into the corridor. “This is his breakfast. I ain’t stealing rations, boys.” He winked at Switch, snickering at the inside joke. I was surprised he’d offered to go; this was the first time he’d done anything constructive. Maybe he wanted some fresh air. I didn’t really care as long as he watched Topper’s back.
I followed him to the radio room, where Juliet was hunched over sheets of paper. Topper snapped the suitcase closed, ready to go. Juliet finished a line of letters and checked her handiwork as Meyer grabbed a Sten gun and a couple of magazines.
