Blue Madonna (15 page)

“Yeah, I'm a crooked officer who was busted down and given one last chance.”

“Fits you well, Billy.” She smiled and winked. No kiss, but we had a funeral to attend, so I understood. Although I smarted a bit over her relief that I wasn't a real Jed. Sure, it was dangerous, but did she think I couldn't handle it?

I followed her to the salon where everyone was gathered, staring at the white shroud with the deep-red stain.

Chapter Eighteen

We filed through
the labyrinth of tunnels, emerging into the dusky light via the root cellar. Dogbite had the shroud by the legs, with Meyer and Switch fumbling at the shoulders, the dead weight causing them to stumble in the narrow passages. Outside, they set down their load, Meyer giving out a loud grunt.

“Quiet,” Babcock whispered.

“Officer or not, you ain't my skipper,” Meyer snarled. “And a Canuck to boot.”

“Shut up,” I said, wanting to get this over with before a fight broke out. Switch gave Meyer a nod, and they picked up the body, following Juliet and Sonya, who bore the ax and shovel like a couple of gravediggers. We crouched as branches pulled at our sleeves and snapped at our faces, closing green ranks behind us like sentinels.

“Here,” Juliet said, as we emerged into a glade. The fading light cast a silvery glow on the birch trees, their delicate leaves dancing in the breeze. She and Sonya laid the tools on the ground, offering them to the men. I took up the ax and began to cut into the soil, snagging roots and rocks as I went. Brookes grabbed the shovel and followed me as I broke ground, digging out the earth as I loosened it.

“Anyone want to take over?” Brookes asked ten minutes into our labors. He was sweating in the cool evening air, his thin frame not made for grave digging. No one answered him. Not the most popular guy in this hotel. Babcock stepped up to spell me on the pickax, but Brookes was left to his shovel.

As I stepped away from the widening hole, I saw Vincent shuffling forward, carrying an ornately carved wooden chair with ruby-red upholstery. A bit fancy for the woods, probably a Louis something-or-other. He set it down, carefully checking to be sure the legs were steady. Behind Vincent, an elderly woman came into view, clutching a shawl and stomping through the bushes in scuffed but sturdy shoes. On her arm was an even older man, a black cape on his shoulders and holding a cane with a silver handle. His goatee matched the handle, but the rest of his face was hidden by a fedora pulled low across his forehead. Vincent helped settle him into the chair, then stood at his side, flanked by the grey-haired woman.

“The count,” Juliet whispered. “And that is Madame Agard, the cook.” No one else paid them any mind, as if the viewing of clandestine interments was standard procedure. Quite possible, I thought as I began to walk toward the count, ready to shake hands or kiss cheeks as the situation demanded.

“No,” Juliet whispered, pulling me back. “Do not speak to him yet. I will introduce you later.”

She returned her gaze to the grave as Kaz raised an eyebrow and gave a barely perceptible shrug. This wasn't the time for questions, but I had a few.

Brookes stopped, leaning on his shovel and breathing hard. I took it from him, clapped him on the shoulder, and told him to take five. He grinned weakly, obviously not used to friendly gestures. Fawcett took over for Babcock with the pick, and we quickly enlarged the hole, getting a couple of feet down.

“Keep digging,” Sonya said. “There are animals in these woods. Wild boar, badger, fox. Bury him deep.”

Fawcett took a deep breath and swung the pickax in huge arcs, breaking up clods of soil and moving back as I followed, digging out and deepening the grave. I worked at the sides, driving the spade into the earth and prying up stones Fawcett's pick had missed. One of them didn't come out easily. I pressed down on the handle and tried to force it, only to be thrown backward when it finally popped out and rolled between my legs.

It was no rock. It was a skull.

“What the bloody hell?” Topper exclaimed, squatting over the hole for a closer look. I scrambled out of the now twice-dug grave, wiping away the dirt clinging to the skull as best I could and handing it to Kaz, who examined it in the lingering light.

“Is this a graveyard?” I asked Juliet. “Have other escapees been buried here?”

“We've buried no one here,” she said, glancing at the count.

“That stands to reason,” Kaz said. “This unfortunate person has been buried quite some time. Perhaps in a past war, but not this one. Look at the coloring—almost dark brown.”

“Puis-je
,
monsieur?”
Vincent had left his post with the count and appeared at Kaz's side, his palm outstretched. Blue flecks of paint decorated his fingers and the sleeve of his jacket.

“Mais oui
,
”
Kaz answered, placing the skull gently in Vincent's hand. It was missing its jaw, but I'd had enough of digging and had no desire to go bone collecting. Besides, we had a whole body to deal with. After more excavation without discovering any other skeletal remains, Sonya approved of the depth.

Dogbite and Switch laid Armstrong in the ground. Meyer joined them, the rest of us lined up on the other side of the grave. The count remained in his chair, stroking the dome of the cracked brown skull with his wrinkled hand. Madame Agard was wide-eyed, while Vincent's face was a blank.

“Does anyone wish to say a few words?” Sonya asked, looking at Armstrong's crewmen. Silence draped itself over the grave. Meyer grimaced, seeming more likely to spit into the grave than say anything over it. Switch shook his head slowly, glancing at Dogbite.

“Aw, shit, I was with him the longest,” Dogbite said. “Might as well say my respects out loud. I was proud to fly with him. He was a good pilot, always brought us home, and only a few fellas got killed or hurt real bad. Lotta pilots done worse. The skipper wasn't a guy who made friends easy. Didn't drink much, kept to himself. Didn't visit whores, stayed faithful to his girlfriend. You mighta thought him boring, which he was, 'cept that lively don't mean a thing stacked up against good flyin'. Me an' Riley came over from the States with the lieutenant, and since then the three of us been through hell and half of Georgia together. Now Lieutenant Armstrong, he's in the ground, and I don't know where Riley's got himself to. Hope he's alive, 'cause sad to say, I think he's the only other person who'd care. But I give a damn, and when I find the bastard who shot my skipper, I'll kill him, skin him, and leave his carcass for the badgers to gnaw on. That's a goddamn promise.”

Dogbite strafed the group with his eyes, not stopping until he took in the count and his entourage. Then he began to shovel and didn't stop until the ground was smooth and even, leaving only the darkened soil to betray the burial site. We stood in silence, gazing at the turned earth, and I was curious who else was wondering when their turn might come, and if any better words could be spoken over their grave. After a minute, by unspoken consent, we turned to go.

The count was gone, his chair empty, no trace of the skull left behind.

The last time I'd looked, while Dogbite was still shoveling, the count and his acolytes were still there. Now the three of them had vanished into the gloaming.

I shivered. No one spoke, nervous glances darting to the freshly dug grave and to the edge of the darkening wood. Watching for the ghost from another time, another war, who might rise from the violated tomb as his skull was marched off like a macabre souvenir?

Or had Dogbite's bloody promise of revenge spooked someone in the burial party? The ancient skull, the silent count, the glade of silver birches, the murder of Armstrong, the image of wild animals digging up the body, all these thoughts flashed and swirled through my mind, making some sort of strange sense before they slipped away under the scrutiny of what logic I could muster.

“You want to explain any of this?” I whispered to Juliet as we filed back to the house, the setting sun a blood-red line at our backs.

“Beware the White Giant. He lives within the Forest of Dreux, deep underground, and guards an abandoned Druid treasure chamber. He's eight feet tall and swathed in luminous white linen.”

“I don't need riddles or fairy tales, I need answers,” I said. “What gives with the count?”

“Count Vasseur came to pay his respects,” Sonya said sharply as she opened the door to the root cellar. The others entered, Babcock carrying a candle, the flickering light disappearing down the corridor as Juliet lit another, Kaz and Topper dark shadows behind her.

“That clearing may well have been a burial site in centuries past, who knows? But Count Vasseur appreciates the value of a good ghost story. He'll have Vincent clean the skull and put it on display. The servants will be frightened, and the story of the Druid priest's skull will spread to the village. Many people will not admit to believing that the old spirits still inhabit the forest, but neither will they take a chance. And those who do believe won't come within miles. It's a ruse, one the count enjoys perpetuating, and one which works to our benefit,” Sonya said.

“Fawcett mentioned something about the Germans not wanting to enter the forest,” I said.

“We've heard the legend of the White Giant has some of them spooked,” Juliet said. “Or perhaps they simply believe the locals are too frightened to hide anything in the deep woods.”

“Either way, it's a useful tool. You've seen the remains of the temple. There certainly was a Druidic presence here at some point in the distant past,” Sonya said.

“A Druid temple? Beneath the château? This I must see,” Kaz said, his voice rising with excitement.

“Please fix the damn radio first,” Sonya said, her irritation a match for Kaz's enthusiasm.

“We're getting close,” Topper said. “It may be a problem with the power cord from the transmitter to the power supply. I didn't want to tackle it before getting some rest; I was seeing double.”

“We'll bring you coffee,” Juliet said as we wended our way through the tunnels. “Some of the real stuff you brought, mixed with chicory. And bread.”

“Any cheese? I'm starving,” Topper said as we entered the salon.

“There is no cheese other than what you brought. Fix the radio, and move these men on,” Sonya said, her voice a great and tired sigh. “We've had very little to eat. Without ration tickets, there is not enough to go around for all these men. Can't you see we are slowly starving?”

“We will get to work,” Kaz said, motioning for Topper to follow while holding his ribs, the pain evident.

“And I need to figure out where everyone was when Armstrong was killed,” I said, watching the two of them leave. “I'll have to talk to the count as well.”

“No!” Juliet said, grabbing me by the arm. “We don't have time for that now. You need to get the canisters to the
Maquis
. We've been waiting weeks for those weapons. We have our duty, and so do you.”

“What about Armstrong?” I asked. “Doesn't anyone have a duty to him?” Switch watched us with those clear blue eyes as the rest of the men milled around the table. Juliet still had hold of my arm and steered me out of the room.

“Billy, you're not here to investigate a murder,” she whispered. “Your job was to deliver a wireless and weapons, then get your man out of here. We have the radio, for what it's worth, and now you need to get the weapons to the
Maquis
. That's what we're here for. This isn't a murder inquiry back in England, where the life of one man matters above all. This is the real war, the liberation of France, and a lot of people have died waiting for this day. Lieutenant Armstrong was a nice man, and I liked him. But finding his killer will have to wait while you do what you came for.”

“Do you think the killer will only strike once?” I asked, wrenching my arm free. I knew she was right, but I didn't like the idea of leaving a murderer loose.

“I don't know, Billy. I don't like it, but we don't have a choice. This is the invasion. We've been waiting years for this, and we need to get those weapons into action.”

“Okay,” I said, raising my hands in surrender. “Let's get going, then.” Not that it would be safe running around the French countryside after curfew, but at least it would put distance between Juliet and the killer, whoever he or she was.

“I'm not going,” she said. “I have to be here to decode incoming messages, assuming they ever get the radio to work.”

“But I don't want to leave you alone,” I said, knowing it was the wrong thing to say as soon as I said it.

“Thank you, Billy, for the vote of confidence. But I've managed to survive the Nazis so far without you, so one more night shouldn't be a problem, killer or no killer.”

She stormed off, leaving me in the dark.

Chapter Nineteen

“Christine will get
you to Coudray by automobile,” Sonya explained as we waited inside the stables. “Close anyway.”

Christine Latour was the municipal librarian in Dreux, and she often traveled between the library and Rouvres, a town with an old folk's home and a hospital. She had a pass to be on the road until curfew, which was only an hour away.

“And she'll bring me to Commander Murat?” I asked.

“Yes, and then you bring him to the weapons. I hope the
Résistants
from Coudray have not taken any. They are amateurs, and you should not have armed them as you did.”

“It was the only choice,” I said. “Otherwise they would have taken all of them after we left. This way, we secured their promise to leave the rest for Murat. They seemed to respect his name.”

“Murat is feared among the French as well as the Germans. There are many factions to the Resistance, and it takes a leader of great strength to pull them together. It is not easy, especially with all the fence-sitters rushing to arms now that the tide is about to turn.”

“The Coudray group, for instance?”

“Some of them, yes,” Sonya said. “Several men ran off to join the
Maquis
early on, after the Germans swept up the most able-bodied to be sent to the Reich for slave labor. Two of the women have helped us as couriers. I suppose that's how they knew about the landing field.”

“We couldn't have gotten far without them,” I said. “But they didn't seem focused on security.”

“I only hope they will wait for orders,” she said. A sputtering, wheezing engine interrupted her as an ancient Peugeot propelled itself down the drive, smoke billowing from the rear. “Don't worry, it's not on fire. It's a gasogene engine, powered by wood gas.”

“That's one way around fuel rationing,” I said. A large firebox was built onto the back of the vehicle, with pipes leading to the engine up front, where the gases apparently made the thing go. The light-blue Peugeot slid to a stop, grey smoke wreathing it as the engine continued to rattle. With the headlights directly behind the slanted grille and taped over to allow only a sliver of light to escape, it had the look of a smoking metal dragon.

I glanced toward the château, where a shadowy figure stood at a window, silhouetted by the glow of candlelight.

The driver stepped out of the car. She was dressed in a raincoat cinched tightly around a thin waist. Her hair was dark red, strands spilling out from under a man's wool cap. Her eyes, bright and alert, were the best feature on a face that otherwise was unremarkable. Sonya introduced us, and Christine got right down to business.

“Weapons?” she asked. I wondered if she didn't speak much English or was in a hurry to beat the curfew. Or if she was short on firewood.

“Five canisters,” I said. “Sten guns, pistols, grenades, explosives.”

“The wireless?” This she directed to Sonya, who shrugged.

“They say they can fix it. They also said that before they went to sleep.”

“
Merde!
Sergeant Boyle, we must have more weapons. We have many who want to fight, men and women.”

“Our wireless operator thinks he's found the problem, but they had to get some sleep,” I said, giving Sonya a look. “They're working now.”

“Good,” Christine said. “There will be more Germans soon. The Coudray group ambushed a German convoy, not long after your people blew up the train crossing. Major Zeller is setting up roadblocks everywhere. He is determined to catch the terrorists responsible.”

“How can you be sure?” I asked.

“Because he told me so in the library today. Come, get in.” She opened the rear door, moved boxes of books and a good-sized ax, and then pulled on the seatback cushion. It revealed a space about a foot wide running the length of the seat. “Most of the trunk is used for the wood. But there was enough room for this hiding place. It may be a little warm, but do not worry.”

I looked at the size of the space she wanted me to get into. I handed Sonya my helmet and Thompson, then took off my web harness with the extra clips and grenades. I still wasn't sure I'd fit.

“You're certain this is safe?” I said as I looked again to the château. The window was dark, the curtains drawn. I eased myself into the hiding place.

“If you wished for safety, you should have stayed in
l'Angleterre
, Sergeant,” Christine said with a hint of a smile as she slammed the cushion in place. “Do not move. Do not speak. I will say when it is safe.” Once again, I was in total darkness.

The automobile lurched off, pressing my body against the metal wall separating me from the firebox. I settled in, trying not to think about being locked in a crawlspace next to a hot fire, driven around by a woman who'd come from a friendly chat with Major Zeller, and that I'd left a lot of firepower behind. At least I still had my .45 automatic on my belt and the .38 Police Special revolver in my shoulder holster, both of which were digging into different parts of me.

The ride was slow and bumpy, and I guessed Christine was taking a route through the Forest of Dreux. The luminous dial on my wristwatch told me we had forty minutes until curfew, when anyone found outside would be shot on sight. A wood-burning rattletrap was sure to attract attention, so I prayed that Rouvres wasn't too far away.

As we bounced along the bumps and ruts, I thought about how little we'd accomplished so far. A bum radio, a handful of supplies, and no opportunity to get Switch Blake alone to let him know his cousin was safe and sound. One dead body and no time to interrogate suspects. No chance to be alone with the woman everyone knew as Juliet, either.

One final rough patch, and we were on a smooth road, picking up speed.

Then Christine hit the brakes.

Voices. German voices. Christine answered, her voice light and airy as if she didn't have a care in the world. I could make out her rapid-fire French, followed by slower-paced German. Then a male voice, asking questions, his tone stern and harsh. Christine responded, her voice cheerful as my heart beat faster and faster. I wanted to get a hand on my automatic, but I was afraid to move, certain that they'd hear the rustling of my clothes. I waited.

Finally another voice, this one pleasant, calling her by name, if I heard right.

Then a cheery
“Auf Wiedersehen,”
and we were off. I'd been worried about her chat with Zeller, but she got us through the roadblock, so who was I to complain?

A few minutes later we stopped again. Christine cut the engine and pried me out, her finger to her lips.
“L'hôpital,” 
she whispered, giving a nod in the direction of the structure behind us. We were wedged in between two ambulances, both with the same gasogene setup. It was close to nine o'clock, and lights winked out in all three stories of the brick building.
“Silence,”
and then she darted off into the shadows, slinking along a line of cypress trees. I drew my pistol and followed.

We were soon into the woods, Christine clambering over the rocks and branches with ease as we made our way up a slope. She'd been this way before. Clouds blew across the night sky, shimmering bursts of blue moonlight shining through and creating strange, dark shadows, then fading away, like waves receding on a beach. We crested a ridge, the rolling countryside spread out before us, lit only by the intermittent moon.

“There, Coudray,” Christine said, leaning against a tree and catching her breath. “Can you see the church?”

“Yes,” I said, spotting the squat tower in the distance, past the folds of rolling fields. On the far side the forested knoll rose up, looking down on the village shrouded in inky blackness. “If that's northwest, then that's the hill where we hid the canisters.”

“It is,” Christine said, gazing along my outstretched arm. “We wait now. For the
Maquis
.”

“For Murat?” I asked.

“We shall see. Be patient, Sergeant.”

“While we wait, tell me what Major Zeller was up to in the library today,” I said, pulling up a piece of ground and stretching out my legs.

“Why, borrowing a book, of course,” she said, smiling as she sat next to me. “What else does one do in
la bibliothèque
?”

“Brushing up on his French literature, was he?”

“No, he knows very little French, and it sounds horrible. But he does like to read, and we have some English titles and quite a few books in German.”

“I'd have thought German books wouldn't be too popular in a French library,” I said. “Especially since this is the second war with them this century.”

“Oh, I see. You are suspicious, yes? Because I have books for the Germans. You think I am a
collaboratrice
? A double agent, perhaps?”

“I was a police officer before the war,” I said. “I can't help being suspicious. Of everyone.”

“As am I, Sergeant. Now about the books—when the Germans came, I searched everywhere for anything written in German. I hoped to do something, do you understand? I thought that if we had books in their language, some of the Germans would come to the library.”

“And chat with the friendly librarian, who also happens to be a spy?”

“
Exactement!
But I was not a spy when I started. I was afraid to approach anyone for fear they would turn me in. People thought Marshal Pétain, with his silly regime in Vichy, had saved the honor of France. But really they wanted to ignore what happened, to wish it all away and pretend to be normal. If you spoke against the Germans, you reminded them of what cowards they were.”

“How did you come to be involved with the Resistance? And with Juliet and Sonya?”

“I knew Sonya from Toulon. I saw her in town one day, and I could see I'd frightened her. Her father was English, you know. He had a shipping business in Toulon, and she grew up there. Of course, Sonya wasn't her name at the time.”

“She thought you blew her cover,” I said.

“What?” She furrowed her brow, unsure of what I'd meant. “Oh, yes, her cover story.
Bien sûr.
When she told me I must forget about Toulon, I knew I could confide in her. I told her of my plan, and what I'd learned. Most of it was about military units in the area, who the senior officers were, where the headquarters were located.”

“So your plan worked?”

“Yes, but I was surprised that most of the information came from the enlisted men. Young boys who were lonely. I found a box of adventure novels at a bookseller's. Many by Karl May, who wrote cowboy stories. The Germans love those, isn't that strange?”

“This feels like cowboys and Indians,” I said, gazing at the fields and forest surrounding us. “I wonder who the Germans think they are.”

“They are savages, not at all noble. But I do listen to them. The young boys who are lonely, who miss their girlfriends and mothers, the ones too shy to speak to a French girl, the ones who want some kindness that reminds them of home. And they tell me their troubles. No leave because of invasion warnings. Sharing tight quarters with reinforcements. Transfers to the coast. Their officers, especially the harsh ones.”

“What about Zeller?” An owl hooted in the distance, its call answered seconds later, echoing against the distant hills.

“He fancies himself a cultured man. Not a member of the Nazi party, he's reminded me more than once. Reads Thomas Mann, Rilke, Kafka, that sort of thing.” Christine squinted in the gloom, her gaze traveling across the open and empty fields.

“Have you learned anything from him?”

“That he is dangerous. He worries that he looks bad to his superiors. After all, the nearby networks were all destroyed. But he's captured no one from this area. He said this morning he believes Dreux must have its own nest of spies. A desperate man is to be feared.”

Something rustled in the trees behind us, and I drew my pistol, not certain if it were a man or the breeze. I waited, catching Christine's eye.

“The wind,” she whispered. “If it were the Germans, you would hear their heavy boots. If it were the
Maquis
, you would hear nothing.”

“Not the White Giant?” I asked.

“Oh, you know of the giant who haunts the Forest of Dreux? If it were he, you would see an unearthly white glow. My grandfather told me the giant will guide you underground, to the treasure house of the ancient Druids, where mounds of gold and precious stones are kept. He will tell you that you have all the time in the world to take what you wish. Which is true, because if you enter, he shuts the iron doors behind you, and you are entombed until the end of time.”

The leaves
whooshed
in the wind. I couldn't help looking over my shoulder, feeling foolish that her story had given me a tingly feeling like someone was right behind me.

There was. I rolled, hand on my pistol.

“No, no, Sergeant,” Christine said, one hand covering her mouth in an unexpectedly girlish gesture as she laughed. “It is not the White Giant.”

“Il faut se hâter,”
said the man with the Sten gun. He wasn't a giant, but he was a big guy, and he wasn't laughing. Christine took in the look on his face and stood, firing volleys of French at him too fast for me to understand a word. He'd said something about hurrying, or being in hurry, but that was all I got out of it.

Other figures stepped out from the forest. Christine had been right; they'd been yards away, and I hadn't heard a thing. There were a dozen of them, drifting into a wide semicircle around us, watching the fields and the woods at our backs, while the big guy and Christine yammered at each other. Something was wrong. The group was silent and wary, clutching a variety of weapons, and ready to use them.