Blue Madonna (26 page)

“Did I forget to tell you? She was picked up by my men. An unfortunate error, and I had her released. See? I am not the terrible Hun, am I, count? I can save lives as well as take them. Both are within my power.”

“I am glad you saved her from harm, Major. But what of my son? Can you show mercy on his behalf as well?”

“Ah, your son. You must hope that informing on Rivet would help his case. I am not certain it has, count. It may have made things more difficult, as a matter of fact.”

“Why? Wasn't that the kind of information you wanted?”

“Yes, but I was surprised to find the only Allied airman to be a corpse. Did you know of that?”

“No, only that Rivet was passing them onto the Resistance. In hopes of mercy, should the Allies get this far. Or perhaps for money. Who can say with such a man? Still, why should that affect the release of my son?”

“There is some good news,” Zeller said, ignoring the question. “You son is in France. He is closer. So act with great constraint, Count Vasseur, if you wish your line to continue.”

“I will do my best, Major. Your kindness will not be forgotten.”

Zeller ignored him, standing in front of
Blue Madonna
, straightening the frame. “We have spent many hours in this room playing chess, discussing art and history, have we not?” He tapped his foot.

“Yes, we have, it is true.”

“But do not forget, count, that I also know how to twist the knife.” He pulled on the dagger and resheathed it in one fluid motion, the metallic
click
a deadly reminder of his power.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The count signaled
us to come out after Zeller had completed his search of the top two floors. In the empty château, it was easy enough to hear him slamming doors and stomping around on the ground floor. I edged close to the window, stealing a glance at the Germans outside. They stood around the truck, smoking and talking. Their search had been perfunctory. Zeller's was thorough. It was a half hour before he joined them, shouting at his men to
macht schnell
.

“The damned
Boche
,” Count Vasseur muttered under his breath. “What was the point of that melodrama?”

“I'll explain once Kaz is here. But there's other news. Meyer has taken off. He attacked Topper and stole the wireless.”

“My God,” the count whispered. “What is happening?”

“Was Topper able to send the message first?” Juliet said, getting to the heart of the matter.

“No. Unless we find the radio, we're out of contact again.”

“I have news as well,” Juliet said. “I finished decoding the sked. We need to contact the Resistance; I called Christine earlier and told her to come as soon as she could. We have a target to hit tonight. And tomorrow a Lysander will come in to pick up three people.” We both knew who those three would be.

“That is a start, at least,” the count said. The telephone on his desk rang, startling us all. He answered, listened, and hung up. “Madame Agard and the child are safe. Vincent is on his way back.”

“What should we do with Sonya?” Juliet asked.

“She's done nothing wrong,” I said.

“Yes, if she had betrayed us, the Germans would have found the tunnels,
n'est-ce pas
?”

“I agree. Zeller would have had all of us in custody,” Juliet said. “Whatever happened in Épernon, Sonya did not reveal our secrets.”

“Christine will arrive shortly,” the count said, his face more relaxed now that dealing with a traitor was off the table. “I suggest we reconvene in the kitchen and partake of whatever food the good Madame has left us. Should we bring in the airmen? Surely they need to be appraised of the situation.”

“No, let's leave them in the salon for now,” I said. If what I suspected was true, we already had too many people in on the secret. Not that I knew exactly what the secret was, but I was damned certain there was one.

I took the aboveground route to the salon. As I neared the stables, the distant drone of aircraft grew closer, until the air was filled with the snarl of engines. I instinctively ducked as four Hawker Typhoons flew in from the north, low and fast, flashing across the sky toward Dreux. The white invasion stripes on their wings glistened brightly, as if they'd been painted on that morning. I followed them as best I could until they disappeared below the wooded horizon, and listened as the steady hammering of their cannons marked an attack somewhere on the main road. I watched as they climbed above the trees in a graceful ascending arc, leaving behind a dirty smudge of smoke and agony for the Germans who would not be making the trip
zur Normandie Front
.

“Looks like we'll be moving on soon, boys,” I said as I entered the salon, trying for as much cheer as I could muster. “The Krauts are gone, so relax.”

“Relax? Like hell! When are we getting out of here?” Switch asked. Sonya gave me a big smile, probably thankful for not having her brains blown out.

“Soon enough. How you feeling, Topper?” He had color back in his face and a bandage wrapped around his head.

“Good enough. I'd like to go search for that bastard Meyer right now.” Anger was a great healer.

“We need to make plans with the count first. Sonya, you, too.”

“You sure about that, Boyle?” Babcock said, eyeing Sonya with suspicion.

“Yeah. Listen, guys, be patient. We'll be out of here soon, one way or the other.” I studied the faces of the four remaining men. In the past few days, two of their buddies had died and one had legged it. They had to be thinking the odds were against them.

“You don't think we should take our chances out there?” Fawcett said.

“Yeah, joinin' up with the
Maquis
sounds damn good,” Dogbite said. “Better than sittin' here like a buncha rabbits waitin' for the polecat to pay a visit.”

“If it comes to that, I'll be the first to say so. Hang on, and don't do anything stupid.”

“Wish you'd said that before I went out with Meyer,” Topper said, carefully adjusting his black beret over the bandage. That got a laugh, and some of the tension went out of the air.

When Kaz, Topper, Sonya, and I got to the kitchen, Christine was already there, her gasogene car parked out back. She stared daggers at Sonya, who flushed red and cast her eyes to the floor.

“It is a mistake to include her,” Christine said. “No one released by the Germans should be trusted. No one.”

“I'd agree with you normally,” I said. “But not in this case. Zeller did let Sonya go, but not for the reason you think.” I pulled up a chair to the kitchen table. Plates of bread, cold beets, and potatoes were set out along with a bowl of cherries. I resisted the desire to eat and watched the faces around me. Kaz poured me a glass of wine. Topper exhaled as he sat, the blow to his head likely still giving him pain. Sonya's gaze darted from person to person, looking for acceptance and trust. Juliet sat next to the count, her network shattered, besieged by the occupiers and strange motives not yet entirely clear. Finally, Count Vasseur. Keeper of secrets.

“We have much to decide, Sergeant Boyle. Perhaps you should let your officers speak,” the count said.

“I have a headache,” Topper said. “Go ahead, Sergeant.” Kaz nibbled a piece of bread and gestured with a theatrical wave of his hand for me to take the floor.

“Your ancestor, Frédérick-Charles Maronneau, was a Huguenot. He converted to Catholicism and received this château and the title you carry today, correct?”

“This is absurd, Sergeant! What does my family history have to do with our troubles today?”

“Billy, what is the point of this?” Juliet said, giving me a look that said I must be off my rocker.

“It has a lot to do with them, count. Please bear with me. He expanded the original château, didn't he?”

“Yes, a common practice.”

“What was his reason for digging out the tunnels and all the secret passages and chambers?”

“To help other Huguenots. Since you insist on these questions, let me explain as quickly as possible so we can proceed with what needs to be done in this day and age.”

He did. Long story short, Frédérick-Charles converted in order to build a place of refuge for Huguenots on the run. There were religious wars in the sixteenth century between the Catholic majority and the Protestant Huguenots. Frédérick-Charles foresaw a desperate future for his people, and he was right on the money. Over twenty-five thousand Huguenots were killed in Paris during the Saint Bartholomew's Day Massacre, which really was a three-month affair. There were periods of peace and treaties, but in the next century it started up again. Protestant worship was prohibited and property seized, and emigration was not allowed. Many Huguenots fled the country illegally, some of them hiding at the Château Vasseur, given sanctuary by the descendants of the first count. At one point, French soldiers were billeted at the château, using it as a base to hunt down Huguenots in the area.

The Vasseur secret was never discovered. Those who hid here eventually fled abroad, many to England just as the modern-day fugitives hoped to do. The story was passed down from father to son, in readiness for a time when the tunnels would be needed again, God forbid.

“The legends of the giant in the forest and the haunted painting, these were used to distract the locals, keep them from looking too closely?” I asked.

“Well, the stories are true enough,” the count said. “When the buried temple was found, the legend of the White Giant was already well known. And poor Margaux truly was thrown against the glass window and bled to death. I did my best to keep them alive for the purpose you describe.”

“Your son Frédéric, he knows the family secret?” I said.

“Of course,” the count said, his face clouding over with worry. “Of course he does.”

“Billy, will you get to the point?” Juliet said, mirroring the impatience I could feel all around the table.

“Count Vasseur,” I asked, “is there anyone at this table you do not trust?”

“No. I believe Sonya. She could not have done us harm. And the rest of you are beyond reproach.”

“So tell us. Tell us the secret. Tell us what is hidden.”

“I cannot, Sergeant.” He rested his head in his hands. “I must not.”

The door opened, and Vincent stepped in, obviously perplexed by the scene and Sonya's presence.
“Que se passe-t-il?”
he asked, taking a seat and helping himself to the wine.

“He wants to know what's happening, Billy,” Juliet said. “As do we all.”

“Count Vasseur, should we ask Vincent? He knows, doesn't he?” Murmurs and whispers spread across the table as the count translated for Vincent. “The blue paint on his clothes told me that much. Kaz, how do you say
forger
in French?” I asked.

“Faussaire,”
he said, and Vincent's eyes widened. He knew who we were talking about.

“Enough!” Count Vasseur said, slamming his palm on the table. “Yes, the artwork on the walls, they are all copies. That is what I hired Vincent for.
Blue Madonna
, the portrait of Frédérick-Charles, all the other important paintings, he has painted those over the past four years. The real artwork is hidden in the tunnels. No one else must know of this!”

“Why didn't you tell us?” Juliet said.

“It is a matter of family honor. No Vasseur is to reveal the secret of the hidden chambers, except to trusted retainers such as Vincent and those in need of sanctuary. Frédérick-Charles implored all descendants to keep the purpose of Château Vasseur intact, in case of need in future generations. As it is needed today to help the cause of a free France.”

“But we know, and the escaped airmen know,” Sonya said, secure enough now to speak up.

“Of course; that was necessary. But no more than what you needed to know. And not the existence of the hidden paintings. Until now.”

“And if Frédéric has not talked, you could not bring yourself to, either. Because that's what these murders have been all about,” I said.

“Yes, I believe so now, after the visit today from Zeller,” the count said, draining his glass of wine. “Do you think he is dead, my Frédéric?”

“All I can say for sure is that he has revealed nothing to Zeller. And it would be in the major's interest to keep him alive. I think he's probably been close by for some time now.”

“But the Germans were already here, and inventoried the collection,” Christine said. “They did the same at the library—we have a few minor pieces from local artists—and the officer said he'd been to the château.”

“It's not
the
Germans,” I said. “It's
a
German. Major Zeller is out to steal the paintings for himself.”

“How can you say that?” Topper asked. “Not that I think he's necessarily a nice chap, but what do you base it on?”

“Juliet and I heard the major speaking with Count Vasseur earlier. I had the bright idea to use Brookes's corpse to throw suspicion on the
Milice
.”

“And it worked,” Christine put in. “Rivet and several others were taken away by the
Boche
earlier today.”

“But Zeller was oddly menacing today,” Juliet said. “What was that bit about twisting the knife?”

“Right. Just like the knife that stabbed Brookes in the kidney was twisted.”

“What? You mean Zeller killed Brookes?” Sonya said, her face screwed up in disbelief.

“Yes. Think about it. We were wracking our brains to figure out who among us could have killed Brookes and Armstrong. Who did we leave out as suspects?”

“The
Boche
! The damned
Boche
!” Count Vasseur slammed his fist on the table. “Of course.
Mon Dieu
, imagine his surprise when he found the body!”

“Right. He knew we'd planted Brookes's body there because he killed him. Somewhere along the line, Zeller learned of the tunnels and the real artwork stored there. He sensed which way the wind was blowing and decided he could use an insurance policy. Unfortunately for Armstrong and Brookes, they bumped into him while he was searching,” I said. “Since he's not a rabid Nazi, he doesn't feel the need to steal artwork for the Reich. But for himself, that's another matter.”

“The searches, they were all cover for his own explorations,” the count said. “But why didn't he simply force my hand? Use my son or torture me?”

“He couldn't afford to draw attention to the château. That's why he had Sonya released when he heard she was picked up. That's also why he didn't close down Noble with the other networks, or bring you in to be interrogated. I figure he covered up whatever information would have implicated you in order to keep everything secure until he could grab the artwork.”

“That's why Adrien was taken,” Juliet said. “To silence the wireless.”

“Yes, and I'm afraid that's why he had to die. Perhaps he took the pill as reported. Or Zeller forced him to. He couldn't risk Adrien revealing anything about Noble under interrogation.”

“But we got a new radio—” Juliet stopped, realizing the implications. “Oh my God. Meyer?”

“He has to be in on it. Switch told us Meyer got separated from them after they bailed out. Meyer showed up here a few days later. I figure he was picked up by the Germans, and when Zeller interrogated him, he found a likely confederate. Without going into details, we know Meyer is a thief and a brutal crook back in England. No reason for him to act otherwise here.”