Blue Madonna (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

We went through
the tunnels and surfaced again in the kitchen through Madame Agard's pantry. Emeline was sitting at the table, doing her best to help shell peas. She smiled at the sight of me, or maybe because we came in from the pantry as if by magic. Juliet pressed a finger to her lips, and Emeline nodded in silent agreement. Of course she could keep a secret.

“Don't go up yet; that silly girl is with the count. She's hysterical again,” Madame Agard said. “She insisted on seeing Count Vasseur, and Sonya had no choice but to bring her to him.”

“One of the maids, Yvonne,” Juliet explained as Kaz and Topper joined us in the kitchen. “A young girl, she takes all the ghost stories far too seriously.”

“It's the painting this time,” Madame Agard said, shaking her head in disapproval. “She came in here and frightened Justine.”

“Who is Justine?” I asked.

“Why, you've met Justine, my grandniece, haven't you?” She gave Emeline a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder and spoke soothing words in French to her. “We're getting identity papers fixed for her, aren't we, dear Justine?” Emeline giggled at the sound of her new name. I hoped she'd be good at this game.

“
Enchanté
, Justine,” Kaz said, who took a seat next to her and started shelling peas. “Madame Agard, what is it about this painting that frightened the maid?”

“It's the big one in the great hall. The first count, the man who built the
château
. She claims he looks at her, that the eyes move. Superstitious girl!” Madame Agard cleaned the table with a cloth, furiously rubbing at stains and crumbs with great indignation.

“
Frédérick-Charles Maronneau,” Juliet said. “There is a story about that painting, to be sure. But it's an old ghost story, according to the count. I didn't think anyone took it seriously.”

“Do tell, if we must wait,” Kaz said, and popped a pea into his mouth. The newly christened Justine did the same and laughed. We all did. Madame Agard cut slices from a large, crusty loaf of bread and passed the plate around. I'd lost track of time and was low on sleep, but I knew I was hungry as soon as I bit off a mouthful.

“The first Count Vasseur had his portrait painted after he had built the château. The painting is said to have been done by Jean Clouet, a sixteenth-century painter. There is no proof, unfortunately, other than the story that has been handed down by the family,” Juliet said. “One of Vincent's jobs is to establish the provenance.”

“Even without provenance, it is a handsome painting,” Kaz said. “Does the old count haunt the château?”

“Not exactly,” Juliet said. “The story is that he haunts the painting.”

“That's a twist on the old haunted house tale,” Topper said. “Never heard of a haunted painting.”

“It all started with Margaux Vasseur, the third countess,” Juliet said. “In those days, somewhere in the middle of the seventeenth century, meals were served in the great hall, under the eye of Frédérick-Charles. The count sat at the head of the table, with the portrait to his back. Margaux, seated opposite, hated looking at it.”

“I don't blame her,” Madame Agard said, spreading butter on Justine's bread. “He has such a dreadful look on his face. The eyes do follow you, I'll say that much.”

“So Margaux complained?” Topper asked.

“Every day, so the story goes. Finally her husband couldn't stand it any longer and had the portrait carted up to a room on the top floor. It was covered with a cloth, and Margaux became much easier to live with. One day her sister came to visit and wanted to see the evil portrait she'd heard so much about in the letters Margaux had written her.”

“She refused?” Kaz asked, splitting another pea pod with his fingernail.

“No, not at all,” Juliet said. “She'd vanquished Frédérick-Charles and won out over her husband's wishes. She proudly took her sister upstairs and yanked off the cloth with a flourish. But the fabric caught on the edge of the frame. It toppled, sending Margaux reeling. She struck the window as the painting fell on her. A jagged piece of glass tore her throat, and she bled to death pinned under the deadly eyes of Frédérick-Charles himself.”

“Mon Dieu,”
Madame Agard muttered. “I shiver every time I hear that story. That room has been locked for four hundred years. The bloodstain is still bright upon the floor, they say.”

“You've never tried to unlock it?” Topper asked.

“Eh, I am not sure which room it is,” Madame Agard admitted with a shrug. “There are many small rooms up there. Who has time to look?”

“An excellent story,” Kaz said, giving little Justine the last pea pod. “I take it no one has actually looked for those bloodstains?”

“Not in this century. Why ruin a good story?” Juliet said with a grin. “But I do know for a fact that one of the upstairs rooms has a window that is not original. Vincent did have that confirmed by a fellow who knows the history of architecture from that era.”

“What is Vincent's job, exactly?” I asked.

“The poor man,” Madame Agard said with a heavy sigh. “He had a wonderful business in Dreux before the war. A small gallery, with a frame shop as well. Painters from all around, even from Paris, came to have their canvases framed by Vincent. He was a happy young man, even though the gossips would not leave him alone.”

“What were they gossiping about?” Kaz said.

“Oh, there was some talk of stolen artwork being sold in his gallery,” Madame Agard said. “The police obviously didn't take it seriously, and neither did I. We were all pleased to have such a cultured shop in our town.”

“Vincent was a promising artist himself, and showed his work along with other local painters,” Juliet said. “But then he was called up in 1940 to serve in an artillery unit. He was wounded in both legs, as is evident by his gait. While he was recovering in hospital, the Germans shelled Dreux as they were encircling Paris. His shop, along with many other buildings, was totally destroyed. His parents were killed.”

“The Germans left him alone, only because he was too crippled to be of use to them,” Madame Agard said. “One day he came here, walking with two canes, and asked the count if he had any work for him. Who would have thought he'd still be here?”

“What does he do?” Kaz asked.

“He cares for the count's art collection, restoring and reframing canvases,” Juliet said. “Many of them were in sad shape. He is also working on a history of the château and the count's family.”

“He has a place to sleep, food, and a few francs for the work he can do,” Madame Agard said. “Little enough, compared to what he once had.” She was interrupted by echoing voices, a high-pitched tirade with the occasional counterpoint of soothing words, all concluded by the slamming of doors and an expressive sigh of defeat as Sonya entered the kitchen.

“Yvonne has quit,” Sonya informed us. “She is terrified of the haunted portrait.”

“She has always avoided the great hall,” Madame Agard said. “What brought this on now?”

“She claims the eyes follow her, that this time she saw them move,” Sonya said, a sad laugh escaping her lips. “I am sure her mother will bring her back as soon as she calms down. There is no work to be had in Dreux, none that can be done standing up, at least. Come—the count can see you now.”

Madame Agard cackled as we filed out, heading for the count's library. I studied the portrait of the first count as we went through the great hall, imagining Margaux dying under the steely gaze of the bloodline's founder. His eyes
were
expressive, but I didn't see as much as a wink.

“Please, sit,” Count Vasseur said as we entered the library. Vincent rose from his seat to offer it to Juliet. While chairs were being gathered, I took the time to study the painting of the Madonna in blue. Her eyes were cast downward, but expressive nonetheless.

“Beautiful, isn't she?” Count Vasseur said, then took me by the arm and guided me to a seat. “I understand you have a plan to propose?”

“Yes,” I said, aware of all eyes upon me as the count settled into his chair. “It may keep Zeller off our backs and help you as well.”

“This has nothing to do with the murders, then?” he asked.

“Not the murders here, no. But it does involve our latest victim. We know that Zeller is desperate to find out who is helping downed fliers in this area, and that he's pressuring you for useful information in exchange for freeing your son.”

“That is true, but I only give him small bits of gossip, or perhaps some minor detail. Nothing vital enough to get my son released.”

“We pass on things to Zeller when we can,” Juliet said. “A few small weapons caches, or a warning of an attack, just too late to be of any real use.”

“He's not suspicious?” Kaz asked.

“No, I think not,” Count Vasseur said. “Early on I told him where to find a large number of rifles. Old relics from the last war. We decided that it was too soon for the local
Maquis
to use them, and that when the invasion drew near, we would receive adequate supplies. Major Zeller was impressed. It was a worthwhile gambit. But I fail to understand what you are driving at.”

“My idea is to hide Brookes's body at the
Milice
headquarters in Dreux, the old synagogue on rue Vernouillet. You tell Zeller that Pierre Rivet, the
Milice
leader, is working both sides, hedging his bets in case of an Allied victory.”

“That's crazy,” Topper said. “Even supposing we could get Brookes there, what proof would a corpse provide?”

“It doesn't matter. The count tells Zeller he's heard what Rivet is up to, and that he's got a Canadian flier hidden there right now. Zeller arrives to find a dead Canadian, but he has no idea how or why he was killed. All he knows is that the count was right. And how could Count Vasseur have arranged such a thing? It would be impossible,” I said, beginning to believe it myself.

“At the very least it would distract Zeller,” Kaz said. “And it would be revenge for Coudray. Ironic justice if the Nazis put a bullet in Rivet's skull. After a decent torture session, of course.”

“It may be what Zeller has been demanding,” Juliet said. “Something significant for the release of your son.”

“And at the same time, driving a wedge between our own French fascists and the Nazis,” Count Vasseur said. “It is an inspired concept, Sergeant Boyle. If you can hide a dead man in the
Milice
headquarters, it may have the effect you describe. But how can that be done?”

“I imagine it's easy to walk in,” Topper said. “A little harder to do so with a corpse, and damned difficult not to end up a corpse oneself.”

“We need a vehicle and a diversion,” I said. “Then we find a back door and a place to stash the body. In the basement, perhaps.”

“We can arrange the diversion and the automobile,” Juliet said, looking to Sonya. “Along with someone who knows the layout of the synagogue.” Sonya nodded and left the room.

“This must happen quickly,” Count Vasseur said. “Where is the body?”

“In the ice pit,” Juliet answered. “If Christine agrees with the plan, we can leave before curfew.”

“I will call Zeller immediately upon your return,” said the count. “I leave the arrangements to you. Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“I need to sleep if there's time. Thank you, Count Vasseur. I hope this works,” I said.

“Please do not take any terrible risk,” he said. “We will deal with the
Milice
in due course, I promise you.”

“Count Vasseur,” Kaz said as the others left, “we were entertained by stories of the haunted painting of your ancestor as we waited. I understand one of the maids has quit because it frightened her?”

“Ah, Yvonne,” the count said, turning to Vincent and speaking in French. They both chuckled. “I am certain she will be back, somewhat embarrassed. It is my own fault, of course. I pretend to take these stories seriously—the White Giant in the Forest of Dreux, and the tragedy of Margaux Vasseur. Her story is true enough, but she must have been unbalanced, the poor thing.”

“The painting did really fall on her?” Kaz said.

“Yes, in a storage room upstairs. She fell against a window and slit her throat, according to the story handed down the generations. I find it useful to let the villagers think the château and grounds are haunted. The
Boche
know of the Giant as well. I think when they search the Forest, they do so quickly!”

“I have a weakness for such stories, count. May I see the room where it happened?” Kaz gave him his best smile, the grin on one side running up against scar tissue that stopped it cold.

“Some other time, perhaps, Baron Kazimierz. When we have dealt with the present-day deaths. Vincent will take you to the tunnel now.
Bonne chance
.”

“Crois-tu aux fantômes?”
Kaz asked Vincent as we trooped through the great hall. Vincent halted, gazing up at the grand portrait of Frédérick-Charles Maronneau. He smiled, perhaps the first sign of joy I'd seen on his face, and answered Kaz, then shuffled on in his painful gait. After going through the kitchen and seeing us into the now-familiar tunnel, Vincent waved and shut the hidden cupboard door behind us.

“You asked if he believed in ghosts, didn't you? What did he say?”

“He said yes, if you bring them back to life.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

I had another
reason for stashing Brookes's body with the
Milice
. It was one of the things Dad taught me about murder investigations. When they're going nowhere, shake things up. Do something, even if it doesn't make sense. Then watch how people react. Well, right now people were reacting like I was nuts, which wasn't exactly a news flash.

“You out of your mind, Boyle?” Switch asked as soon as I walked into the salon. They were eating supper, slurping up thin soup and dipping crusty bread. I glanced at my watch. Six o'clock. I tried to remember how much sleep I'd gotten last night, but the mental cobwebs were too damn thick. Living underground was disorienting even with enough rest.

“Here,” Sonya said, ladling soup and pushing a plate of bread my way. “You'll need your strength.”

“And a whole lotta luck,” Meyer said, stuffing a crust into his mouth.

“Shouldn't you be sorting out who killed Brookes and Armstrong?” Babcock said, absentmindedly rubbing the scar on his jaw. “I mean, pulling one over on the
Milice
is a fine idea, but we have our own problems right here.”

“I'm working on an angle,” I said. “But in the meantime, why not draw the heat away from us?”

“I'm all for that,” Fawcett said. “Let me know if I can help. As long as
help
doesn't mean a suicide attack.”

“What about you, Dogbite?” I asked. “Up for another jaunt?”

“Depends on who else is goin',” he said, his gaze lingering on everyone at the table. “Or stayin'. I don't cotton to a murderin' bastard in the dark any more than the next fella.”

“You talking about anyone special, Dogbite?” Meyer said, dropping his spoon into the bowl. Soup splashed onto the table.

“Nope. Why'd you think I was?”

“Can it, guys,” I said, frustrated, hungry, and tired. “Let me eat in peace.”

“What about the radio?” Meyer asked, picking up his spoon as if nothing had happened.

“We got our message through,” Topper said. “We have a set schedule for communications from London. We'll have a response at midnight, so I have to stay here.”

“Lieutenant, I can tell you're still in pain,” I said, turning to Kaz and still playing the obedient noncom. “It'd probably be good for you to rest.”

“I am fine, merely a hint of discomfort now and then, but thank you for your concern, Sergeant,” Kaz said, sitting upright and twisting his torso to demonstrate. He winced, and tried to hide it.

“Yeah, every time you breathe,” I said. “Sir.”

“I would gladly go,” Sonya said. “But I must bicycle to Épernon. We have a letter drop there that must be checked. A hiding place for messages from any network trying to contact us.”

“Have you heard from anyone?” Kaz asked.

“No, but we must try. It is twenty kilometers, so I should leave now. I will return in the morning.”

“Be careful, Sonya,” Juliet said, entering the room. “It could be a trap.”

“We must try,” she said. “I plan on arriving early and watching from a distance.
Au revoir
.”

We all wished her
bonne chance
,
and I hoped the same for us. If another network did establish contact, it would help to move their guests down the line. Minus Switch, of course.

“I telephoned Christine,” Juliet said. “She'll be here shortly. She's bringing someone who knows the synagogue.”

“Don't you worry about the Germans listening in?” Topper asked, mopping up his soup with a piece of bread.

“We have code words. I asked her to come for dinner and to bring her friend who knits. I told her we had fresh fish, which means we have to plan a quick operation.”

“And the friend who knits?” I asked.

“A hidden Jew, a member of the congregation. She knits.” That got a laugh, not that a Jew in occupied France was all that funny. “She and her husband attended services regularly for years, so she knows the entire layout.”

“What of her husband?” Kaz asked.

“Gone, like all the others,” Juliet said, taking soup for herself. “Rounded up and sent to the transit camp at Drancy. Then never heard from again. Madame Morency—her new name—was working at the time, doing alterations in a clothing shop. In exchange for food, since Vichy had declared it illegal to employ Jews. The owner hid her until contact could be made with the Resistance. They obtained
vrais faux papiers d'identité
for her.”

“True false papers?” Kaz said.

“Yes, better than the
faux faux papiers d'identité
from London,” Juliet said. “False false papers are created in England and could miss something vital. Then true false papers, created by the Resistance using copies of the real thing. Finally, there are the false true papers, which can only be obtained directly from a contact in the
préfecture.
Real papers, issued for a false identity. See?”

“No,” I said, draining my soup. “Which is why I need to sleep until Christine gets here.”

“Wake up, Billy. Wake up!” I heard Kaz's voice and felt someone nudging me in the shoulder.

“No, I just went to sleep,” I said as I pulled the wool blanket over my head.

“Two hours ago. Christine has arrived with Madame Morency. They are dining with the count now.”

“Okay, give me a minute,” I said, managing to sit up and lace my boots. I felt groggy from sleep—or the lack of it. I couldn't tell. “There's something I need you to do while I'm gone.”

“Of course. And I could go with you, Billy. You may need reliable help.”

“I know. But the route we take into the headquarters could be tricky, and we can't afford your injury holding us back. But there is something important you can do. Talk to the count and get the low-down on this château and all these tunnels. The real story, not a fairy tale about ghosts and giants.”

“Certainly. Perhaps he will show me the room where poor Margaux met her end. Do you think he is keeping something from us?”

“I don't see any reason to mistrust him, but the more I think about it, the less reason I see for anyone here to kill Armstrong or Brookes. I can't see a motive, or even the hint of one, beyond a sudden, violent argument.”

“Which we have no evidence of. Brookes was disliked, but not argumentative. Armstrong was, by all accounts, a quiet man.”

“Right. So that leaves someone from the château. We've seen a lot of tunnels and hidden chambers, but maybe not all of them. See what you can find out. And be careful. If there's a secret, it's one worth killing for. Twice.”

Madame Agard led us through the kitchen to the dining room, where the count sat with Juliet, Christine, and Christine's companion. They were sipping coffee, and it smelled like the real deal.

“This is Madame Morency,” Juliet said. “She has agreed to help us.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” I said, taking the seat next to hers. Grey-haired and thin, she wore a plain blue dress and jacket, the perfect outfit for dining with the local count. Her dark eyes went wide as she took in the sight of Kaz and me in our uniforms.

“La libération?”
she asked, smiling as if to say she understood that was still to come.

“La petite libération,”
I answered. “Madame Morency, can you describe the layout of the synagogue? It will be a great help.”

“Je ne parle pas anglais,”
Madame Morency said as she withdrew a folded sheet of paper from her jacket pocket.

“She has no English,” Christine said, “but she is as good with a pencil as she is with a needle and thread.”

She was. She'd sketched out a front view of her old synagogue. A three-story brick structure with small turrets at the corners, easy to spot from the street. The third floor was an attic shaped by a peaked slate roof, with rounded windows at each end.

Below the drawing was a layout of the two floors. Translating, Juliet explained that the attic was one large room. The basement was divided into storage areas, mostly old furniture and the usual junk that collected dust and cobwebs in any basement.

“Is there a back entrance? Any way up into the attic from the outside?” I asked. Madame Morency answered Juliet's queries as she marked a spot on the side of the building.

“Yes, there is a rear door,” Juliet said. “It was always kept locked. The rabbi's office was off the entrance, and she guesses the office will still be in use. There is no way to get up to the attic except through a stairway next to that office.”

“What's that mark?” Kaz asked. Madame Agard poured us coffee. Mixed with chicory, from the taste of it. Still, it gave me a jolt.

“Le charbon,”
Madame Morency said. Count Vasseur stood and poured a brandy for her, which she accepted with a nod.

“The coal chute,” the count explained, looking over her shoulder as she drew another building next to the synagogue. “In the alley.”

Madame Morency spoke with the count, then raised her glass in a toast and downed the rest of the brandy.

“She says her husband was responsible for repairs to the synagogue. The lock for the coal chute had gone missing, and it was his job to replace it. Fortunately for us, he was a busy man and never got around to it,” the count explained.

“Don't you think the
Milice
would have replaced it?” I asked.

“I put that question to her. She asked who would be fool enough to sneak into the
Milice
headquarters?” Count Vasseur laughed, and Madame Morency joined in. The lady had a point.

I told her
merci
and gave Kaz a nod toward the count. He got the message, patting my arm as he passed me to accept a brandy. Tough assignment. Juliet and Christine brought me into the kitchen, where Madame Agard had a long wool coat and a slouch hat for me.

“You will have to sit in the backseat, since the compartment will be taken up by our silent passenger,” Christine said. “It is not a long drive into Dreux, and there were no checkpoints on the way in.”

“Why the back?” I asked, trying on the coat. It was short in the sleeves and smelled of mothballs. I wouldn't pass muster as a civilian for long, but it would do as long as we weren't stopped.

“Because I shall be in the front with Christine,” Juliet said. “It is too dangerous for anyone else to go, and you will need help with the body. Be glad I'm letting you come along at all.”

“But it's my idea,” I said, following as she opened the cupboard door.

“And it's my network, and Christine is our Resistance contact. It may be your macabre scheme, but we are your best bet for getting you there.”

“And back, I hope.”

“One thing at a time, Billy,” Christine said with a smile. “I like your plan. We get the Germans at the throat of the
Milice
, then we go after the SS. Delightful.”

Not exactly how I thought about it, but the notion did have a certain charm. With help from Babcock and Fawcett, we carried Brookes's body out of the ice pit and around to Christine's gasogene automobile, stashed out of sight in the stable. Fortunately, rigor mortis had passed, and his slight frame was easy to maneuver into the compartment.

“Well, I can't say he was a good man, but I'm sorry he had to die like that,” Fawcett said. “This might be the most useful thing the pitiful bastard ever did.” With that, he turned on his heel and left.

“Don't judge him too harshly,” Babcock said. “It's a terrible feeling when someone you rely on lets you down. Hard for some to deal with. Good luck, all of you.”

“No one seems to spare any feelings for this young man,” Christine said as she started the car.

“It's a long story,” I said, climbing into the back. “What's the plan?”

“We drive to the library, which is now closed. We wait until dark, after the curfew. At eleven o'clock, the
Maquis
will attack the rail line. That is when we will approach the headquarters.”

“How far is it?”

“Perhaps a quarter of a mile,” Juliet said. “The library is on the rue des Marchebeaux, north of the rue de Vernouillet where the synagogue is. The rail line crosses that road about five hundred meters south, where it branches off to the south and west.”

“An excellent spot for sabotage,” Christine said, flexing her hands on the steering wheel until her knuckles went white. “When the charges go off on both lines, the
Milice
will certainly come to investigate. Usually the
Maquis
scatter, but tonight they will remain and fight.”

“For ten minutes,” Juliet said. “Then they disappear into the woods on the other side of the rail line. The
Milice
will probably return to their headquarters as soon as the threat is gone.”

“And the Germans?” I asked, slouching in the backseat as we left the long driveway behind and motored down a quiet country lane.

“The security garrison is based at the
préfecture
, on the far side of the river which runs through Dreux. We have an ambush set up which will delay them, but only briefly. The
Maquis
have orders to stall the
Boche
, but not to engage in battle. The biggest problem we will have is dealing with any
Milice
who might remain in the headquarters,” Christine said.

If we had to deal with even a single one, it would be a disaster. We had to get in and out without anyone being aware of our entry. Otherwise, the presence of a corpse could be chalked up to another fight with the
Maquis
and a downed flier who'd thrown in with them. We were each armed with a pistol, but that was only in case things went south. Our best bet was to rely on luck, the
Maquis
, and the
Milice
doing exactly what we expected them to do.