Blue Madonna (23 page)

Luck, at least, was with us on the road into Dreux. A convoy of trucks passed by in the other lane. The German soldiers looked bored, leaning on their rifles as the canvas flapped around them. It was a fine evening for a drive, but they didn't look like they were enjoying it. I had a brief glimpse of sullen grey faces under the shadows of their helmets.

“They take to the roads as night falls. To avoid your fighter planes,” Christine said, pointing to a black-and-white signpost at an intersection:
zur Normandie Front.

“Were those SS troopers?” I asked, craning my neck to watch the trucks vanish around a curve, hopefully to be dispatched by the Resistance or Allied aircraft before they got into the fight.

“No, that was a
Luftwaffe
unit; you can tell by the blue uniforms. The Germans are running out of aircraft, so they turn their ground crews into infantry,” Juliet said. “Not very good infantry, either.”

“We've learned where the SS
Hitlerjugend
are bivouacked,” Christine said. “They will not escape unscathed.”

“Unscathed sounds good to me right now,” I said, turning up my collar as we entered Dreux proper, weaving through narrow streets with shuttered brick and stone buildings set only a few feet back from the road. A German soldier on a motorcycle roared by, but no one else was to be seen. It was almost curfew—time for the French to be at home, curtains drawn, with no lights showing. I felt exposed even as I huddled in the backseat, hat pulled down low over my eyes, a dead man at my back.

“Here is the library,” Christine said. It was two stories of white granite and tall windows. Twin columns flanked the front door, with
Bibliothèque Publique
inscribed above. She took a side street that led to the rear of the building and parked the car out of sight.

“Come, we will wait inside,” she said, looking around to be sure we hadn't been spotted. Behind us, buildings stood silent, their doors and windows barred against the night. The last rays of sunlight caught the rooftops, leaving the illusion of brightness before fading into dusk and darkness, our most trusted allies.

Christine turned the key. The lock released with a metal
clunk
that sounded like thunder in the quiet evening air. The heavy door swung open, and we slipped in, entering a wood-paneled hallway leading to a work area behind a counter. The tall windows let in the fading light.

“This is where I hear a lot of gossip and occasionally some useful information,” Christine said. “See, there is the section of German-language materials.” One bookcase to the right of the counter was filled with books in German. Comfortable chairs and a low table were conveniently located close to the checkout counter.

“We will have to set the record straight once the Germans are on the run,” Juliet said. “People with little else to do have criticized Christine for her kindness to the Occupation. Little do they know.”

“It is nothing,” Christine said, waving her hand to dismiss such silliness. As Murat, she faced many more lethal dangers than wagging tongues. “We have a few hours to wait. You should rest.”

I was too keyed up to think about rest. I walked around the main reading room, running my fingers across the spines of books and wondering if the Nazis had gotten around to burning books in France the way they had in Berlin. It was a crazy world they wanted to build, one where ideas and words were so dangerous they had to be incinerated.

I wandered back into the German area and plopped down into one of the comfy chairs. Had Zeller himself rested in this seat? What was it like for a Kraut like him, enjoying years of easy duty with the Occupation, while his pals suffered and died in hordes on the Eastern front? Knowing that it was only a matter of time before the Allies rolled through France and sent him hightailing it back to the Fatherland and the approaching Russians? Not a pleasant thought, I imagined.

For him. Me, I enjoyed the idea of helping him on his way. I tried to relax, watching the shadows lengthen and darken. I closed my eyes.

“Billy,” Juliet said, shaking my shoulder. “It's time.” It was fully dark as we walked into Christine's office. The curtains were drawn, and Juliet shut the door as Christine aimed a small flashlight at a map of the town.

“Our route,” she said, tracing a line from the library to rue Vernouillet. We had to begin on the street to our front, but most of the path took us down side streets and alleys. “We stay in the shadows. If anyone sees us, most will look the other way.”

“And those who don't?” I asked.

“No one dares venture out. If they have a telephone, they will call the police. Depending on who answers, they may or may not act. In any case, who would think to look among the
Milice
?”

“Only a crazy man. How soon?”

“We should begin now. The explosives will be set off at eleven o'clock,” Christine said. I checked my watch. Quarter to eleven. Time to deliver a body.

I ditched the coat and hat in the car. A disguise wasn't going to help if the Germans spotted me carrying a corpse after curfew. There was a damp chill in the air, but I figured I'd be sweating bullets in no time. Then I wished I hadn't put it quite like that.

I pulled Brookes from the hidden compartment, glad he was still wrapped in a sheet so I wouldn't have to look him in the face as I gave him a tour of Dreux's back streets before dumping him down a coal chute. I hoisted him over my shoulders in a fireman's carry and followed Christine, Juliet bringing up the rear. We ran across the street, our heels sounding a drumbeat against the cobblestones. Then we ducked into an alleyway, waiting to see if anyone took notice. The dark quiet was complete except for the sound of my own breathing.

Christine scurried through the alley, coming out in a street barely wide enough for a single vehicle. It was a long way to the next street, no exits in sight. On one side was a bare wall, the back of a two-story structure. Along the other ran a series of barred windows leading to a corner where the street emptied into a wider thoroughfare. Juliet took out her revolver, gesturing for us to proceed. Christine went ahead, a Walther P38 automatic held at her side—the same type of weapon used to kill Lieutenant Armstrong. But I had no energy to think about that, what with the second victim bouncing against my shoulders and feeling heavier by the minute.

It was difficult to run with Brookes's dead weight. I had to slow down to a fast walk, and watched Christine approach the corner ahead. She flattened against the wall and checked to the left, then the right. She signaled, her head still at the brickwork edge of the building. I thought it was to come forward, but I made out too late that she was making a stay-back motion. I stopped a few feet from her, Juliet right behind me. We froze.

I heard footsteps.

Christine held her Walther ready. Juliet cocked her revolver. I thought I might throw Brookes at whoever was coming.
Milice
, the local cops, or a Kraut security patrol—it made little difference. Armed ladies and an American GI carrying a dead Canadian would rouse the suspicion of even the most anti-Nazi
gendarme
.

The footsteps halted. The brim of a wool cap appeared, followed by a face in shadows. Christine put her pistol on his cheekbone.

“Qui êtes-vous?”
she whispered, asking who he was.

“Personne, mademoiselle. Vous?”
He was no one. So were we.

“Allez!”
Christine commanded, satisfied that this was not the
Milice
. Two men darted by, each carrying a sack slung over their shoulders, not giving my burden a second glance.

“Black market or burglars,” Christine said with a shrug. “I doubt they will raise an alarm.”

We crossed a small bridge, then darted and weaved through the streets until Christine called a halt. We took refuge on the steps of a shop entrance. She pointed down the street, and I saw the old synagogue, the small turrets at the corners a clear landmark. I squatted and leaned against the shop window, glad of the rest. Juliet glanced at her watch and nodded. Christine smiled.

An explosion ripped the night, followed by another, a crack followed by an intense booming sound like thunder. Lesser sounds punctuated the air as debris scattered from the blast, wood and rock from the railbed falling like hailstones. A red glow lingered in the distance, then faded as at least a dozen armed
Milice
poured from the building, some pulling on shirts and the others racing to the site of the attack.

Another five or six waited out front, weapons at the ready, flashlight beams searching the shadows cast by the waning moon. Christine held up her hand.

We waited.

Gunfire erupted. Bursts from submachine guns and the crack of rifles blossomed and grew as the ambush was sprung and the
Milice
returned fire. A man exited the headquarters, adjusted his beret, and signaled for the others to follow him to the battle. Was that Pierre Rivet, the leader of the
Milice
? And what had he been doing inside? Telephoning the Germans?

“Now,” Christine whispered, waving her gun hand forward. We skittered along the sidewalk, seeking shelter in doorways and an alley we shared with a growling dog at work on an overturned garbage can. We hustled out before he got distracted from dinner and began barking, hurrying straight across to the side street that abutted the headquarters. At the end of the building was the coal chute. It had a heavy iron door two feet wide with a handle that ran the width of it. I could see where the lock would go, but thankfully Madame Morency was right. Who would enter the lair of the dreaded
Milice
for a few pieces of coal?

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.