Blue Madonna (27 page)

“With his background, it would not be far-fetched to think of him offering his services to Zeller, perhaps as an informer, never dreaming he'd be invited to join another criminal endeavor,” Kaz said. “It does make sense for Zeller to have a partner, particularly one who would not inform on him to the German authorities. But I have to wonder, with all due respect to your collection, count, is it worth so much risk?”
It was the same question that had been bothering me. Maybe the Vasseur art collection was worth a bundle, but that wasn't the sense I got. I was no connoisseur, but I hadn't recognized any big names or seen anything other than
Blue Madonna
that took my breath away.

“There is something else,” Count Vasseur finally said. “Perhaps it would be better to show you.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“What made you
suspect Meyer?” Juliet asked as we followed Count Vasseur into the tunnels through the kitchen cupboard entrance. “I thought he'd gone mad from being cooped up so long. I know I've had that feeling a few times.”

“It was when Switch taunted me about being a cop before the war. I didn't realize it then, since I was dog tired, but it came to me later that the only time I'd mentioned being a cop was in the count's library. Then it clicked after Meyer appeared in the château kitchen. He knew the tunnels better than I'd thought, and had been eavesdropping on our conversation in the library. It's the only way Switch would know.” I shined my flashlight ahead, lighting the damp stones for the old count.

“But how did Meyer and Zeller stay in touch? They didn't meet during the searches, did they?”

“No, there was a simpler method,” I said.

“Oh God, of course! If he knew the tunnels, he could enter the library whenever the count wasn't there and simply use the telephone,” Juliet said.

“Right. I imagine there was some sort of code word for Meyer to give, and he'd be put right through,” I said.

“Even easier, a direct line to Zeller would be my guess,” Kaz said from behind us. “With calls placed in the middle of the night to ensure Zeller would be there to answer, and Meyer would be sure of access to the instrument.”

“Be the way I'd do it,” Topper chipped in.

“Okay, so tell me this, since you have a nodding acquaintance with the wrong side of the law. How would you set the whole thing up?” I asked.

We entered the Druid temple, our lights playing over the high arched ceiling.

“It makes sense that Zeller needed an inside man,” Topper said. “But my money says the main purpose for Meyer is to guard the paintings once they've snatched them. Zeller probably has the connections to sell them, not to mention access to phony identity papers from the
Abwehr
. But he can't cart around a bunch of valuable canvases. He must have a secluded spot set up for Meyer to guard them. They're a good team, as far as it goes.”

“Sounds like a setup for a double-cross,” Kaz said. “Meyer could hide the paintings from Zeller and wait for the Allied line to roll over Dreux.”

“Maybe. But I doubt a lowlife like Meyer would know where to sell them, other than a cheap pawn shop,” Topper said. “I'd lay odds on Zeller taking him out once he has his new papers and a way to get into Switzerland or Spain.”

“No honor among thieves?” Juliet said.

“Not in this situation, other than in the short term. There's nothing else to bind them together, and they are enemies, even if that means little to Zeller and even less to Meyer.”

I had to agree with Topper. In his world of London gangs, there were relationships to be maintained, business connections and personal ties to be nurtured. Within that circle, there did exist a certain honor among villains. But outside of it, death was always on the table.

Count Vasseur led our party into the tunnel system on the far side of the temple. Flashlights flicked off as we navigated by the electric lights. I recognized the spot where Armstrong had been found dead. Farther into the tunnel, grey stone lintels ran overhead, supported on either end by rough-hewn oak columns. Following the count, Vincent by his side, we came to a dead end. Empty barrels were stacked to one side, the wood brittle with age, the bands rusted through. A chair, minus one leg, sat on top of the pile. It looked like a long-forgotten rubbish dump.

“What you are about to see is something known only to myself, my son, and Vincent. I trust you will keep this secret to yourselves.” The count nodded to Vincent, who inserted two fingers in what looked like an irregular surface between two cut stones. The group went silent as he grimaced, working his fingers deeper into the crevice. A dull metallic
clang
rang out, and the stone wall moved inward, revealing thin gaps from floor to ceiling along the lines of cut limestone. Vincent put his shoulder against the wall and pushed.

The stones gave way, the solid surface moving farther back with a harsh, grating sound, revealing the intact wall on each side to be about ten inches thick, while the movable section was closer to two inches of chiseled limestone. With one hand he pushed it to the left, and the opening moved, ancient iron wheels gliding with surprising ease.

“The most secret of all the secret chambers,” Count Vasseur said, gesturing for us to enter. Vincent turned on his flashlight, electricity never having made it this far. As I stepped over the threshold, I had a momentary feeling of terror as I recalled a story that had scared the hell out of me as a kid. “The Cask of Amontillado,” about a guy who was tricked into entering a basement niche and walled up inside.
Thanks a lot, Edgar Allan Poe.

It was roomier than I'd imagined. From the inside, I saw the door was a massive wooden frame, with the limestone pieces bolted to it. Wooden planks covered the floor of the chamber, about twenty feet long and ten wide. A wooden rack ran along one side, white sheets draped over it. At a nod from the count, Vincent pulled at the first sheet. Frédérick-Charles himself, out of his ornate frame, stared back at me.

“The original,” Count Vasseur whispered, as if in awe of his ancestor. “Vincent finished the copy only the other day. It takes some time for the paint to set and harden.”

“The maid,” Kaz said, leaning forward to study the portrait. “She noticed something different about the eyes.”

“Yes, and of course she attributed it to the painting being haunted, which served our purpose perfectly. And here is
Blue Madonna
, the true copy.”

Vincent uncovered the painting, set on an easel. In the dim light, it was hard to tell the difference. Might have even been hard in broad daylight. I liked both of them just fine.

The count gave us a tour of the rest of his collection, which included a few nice landscapes and a bunch of stern counts down through the ages. That left half the rack still covered.

“This is the secret, I take it,” Juliet said, standing in front of the dusty shrouds. This time the count did the honors.

“These are from the Rothschild collection,” he said, revealing half a dozen canvases leaning against one another. He flipped through them as if browsing at a discount art gallery. Portraits that were lit by a light that seemed to spring off the canvas, even in the harsh beams of our flashlights.

The next section was from the collections of other French Jews who sought to keep their artwork out of the hands of the Nazis. More portraits, landscapes, mythological scenes, Madonnas, peasants, seascapes, the whole repertoire of European painting. It was dazzling.

“There are works by Degas, Monet, Picasso, and Cézanne, to name a few. Now you know,” Count Vasseur said as Vincent covered the exposed artwork. “It is not only for myself that I have kept this secret. It is for those who have placed their trust in me, as others in centuries past have trusted the safety of Château Vasseur.”

“Vincent is quite adept at forgery,” I said as we left the chamber. The count pulled the stone door shut behind us. After the mechanism locked in place, it was impossible to tell one stone from the other.

“Yes. There was some trouble before the war, but we must not blame him for youthful indiscretions, now that his talents have been put to great use against the
Boche
. The plan was, if they ever came for my collection, I would resist slightly, then sadly let them take everything, while the originals were safely stored here.”

“But Zeller knows there's more,” Juliet said as we trooped back to the kitchen.

“Yes, I'm sure,” I said. “He's gone to a lot of effort. He must have picked up information about the château being used as a hiding place for Jewish-owned art. How did the owners make contact with you?”

“A few art dealers, a museum director, and in one case a family friend,” the count said. “I imagine any one of them might have talked, if enough pressure were applied. Many families had the same idea, to send their artwork to remote châteaus in the country. I know much of the Rothschild artwork was hidden in this manner, but discovered very quickly. The Nazis went after art with a vengeance as soon as France had fallen. Many pieces were sold to raise cash for the German treasury, especially anything they designated modern degenerate art. The rest were sent to Berlin. We were lucky to be overlooked—until Zeller, that is.”

“We need a plan to deal with him,” Juliet said. “Meyer knows a Lysander is coming in tomorrow night. Thank God he doesn't know where, but it might lead Zeller to think the château will be empty. That's when he could make his move and force you to give him the artwork.”

“Perhaps,” Count Vasseur said as he climbed the steps to his library. “But first you need to work out the attack on the viaduct tonight. I will leave you to it, and think about what can be done about Zeller.”

“A bullet would do nicely,” Topper suggested.

“That would most certainly bring reprisals,” Christine said. “You can rarely predict what the Nazis will do, but they always respond to assassinations with lethal repercussions. Attacks on bridges and railways, less so. There has to be another way. These paintings are priceless, but so are lives.”

“We will speak in the morning,” the count said. “Now I must think and rest.” Vincent followed him upstairs while the rest of us made for the kitchen.

“Do you think there's a chance Frédéric is still alive?” Juliet asked as we sat down again around the table. “The count's heart will break if he's dead.”

“I think there's an even chance,” I said. “If he was alive when Zeller tumbled to the hidden artwork, it would be in his interests to keep Frédéric alive—and the count on the hook. Maybe we could work out a deal if he's still alive and kicking.”

“Get Zeller to bring the kid here, then snatch him. We tell Zeller the hidden art was shipped off long ago and to help himself to the paintings on the walls, and then get the count and his boy to the Resistance.” Topper was good at working the angles, but this plan had a flaw.

“If he doesn't believe us, he's got all the time he needs to tear the place apart,” I said. “Maybe we could find out who his boss is.” Now I was grasping at straws. All that would do is draw more attention to the château, or deliver us to an even bigger villain.

“Let's plan our mission for tonight,” Juliet said. “If we're alive tomorrow, we'll deal with Zeller. It will be our last chance before you two leave with Switch.”

“The two of you are leaving with one man?” Sonya said, clearly expecting we'd stay, and three of the airmen would fly out in the Lysander.

“It's a long story,” I said.

“What story is not?” Kaz said, helping Christine unfold a large map of the area. That about summed it up.

Chapter Thirty

“Here is our
target, the Chérisy railroad viaduct,” Juliet said, her finger tapping the map like a machine gun. “It crosses the Eure River east of Dreux. All trains from Paris have to cross it on their way to Normandy.”

“Why haven't they hit it from the air?” I said.

“It is too close to the town,” Christine said. “Chérisy is a small place, tightly packed against the east bank of the Eure. The rail line runs just north of there, where it crosses the river.”

“Heavy bombers flying at twenty thousand feet would obliterate the town,” Juliet said. “We know fighter-bombers have tried low-level attacks, but there are antiaircraft emplacements along the riverbank, and they've downed several aircraft. It's up to us.”

“Looks like work for a jelly man,” Topper said.

“Gelignite,” Kaz said. “Topper has a lot of experience with plastic explosives.”

“But this isn't a bank safe,” I said. “What do you know about blowing bridges, Topper?”

“Mainly that it's something you want the RAF to do. I can set charges to wreck a rail line or a building, but bridges are quite another matter. I don't suppose you have a picture of what we're up against?”

“We do,” Sonya said, producing a faded sepia print postcard. “It's from the turn of the century, when the viaduct was new, but it still looks the same.” She laid it in front of Topper. Three stone arches over the Eure River, about a hundred feet high at a guess. The bases, which sat in the water, were massive granite blocks.

“Well, no problem at all,” Topper said, slapping his hand on the table. “As long as we can find an extra hundred pounds of gelignite, drilling equipment, and a few hours' peace and quiet to work at it.”

“Why do you need all that?” Juliet asked.

“Because you don't bring down a massive stone bridge with what I brought along. We gave the
Maquis
fifty pounds of gelignite, and I have twenty pounds with me. You don't need much to send a stretch of rail to kingdom come, but demolishing heavy stonework like this? Near to impossible.”

“Come on, Topper,” I said. “A jelly man like you? You must know some tricks.”

“The only trick is to plant the stuff inside the bridge, so the blast doesn't dissipate in the open air. On or under, you waste half or more of your power.”

“You wish to contain the explosion, right?” Kaz said. “So the structure absorbs all the energy of the blast.” Topper nodded. It made sense to me.

“But we couldn't drill, even if we had equipment,” Christine said. “The
Boche
have antiaircraft batteries on both sides of the river. There are twenty-millimeter antiaircraft guns along each bank as well as those big eighty-eight-millimeter flak guns, one on each side.”

“Patrols?” Kaz said, cleaning his glasses for a better look at the postcard.

“No. The Germans often patrol with dogs along the rail tracks, but not that we've seen at the viaduct,” Christine said.

“No wonder they don't patrol. If the bridge is surrounded by antiaircraft emplacements, why bother?” I leaned back in my chair, trying to see any way we could do this.

“London said if we don't knock out the bridge tonight, they'll send heavy bombers tomorrow,” Juliet said. “Which will kill hundreds of civilians.”

“A terrible choice,” Kaz said, half to himself, as he studied the postcard. “If the Germans get more reinforcements through to Normandy, hundreds or thousands might die there.”

“We could place charges beneath the rails,” Sonya said. “Wait for a munitions train, and then set them off.”

“We can't wait for the right kind of train to come along,” I said. “If it gets to be daylight, some Kraut is bound to notice the detonating cord, at least.”

“What are these round holes?” Kaz asked. He tapped on two dark circles high up on the span, one over each of the main supports.

“I don't know,” Christine said. “When we scouted the bridge a few weeks ago, we wondered about those. Drainage? One of the men who worked in construction before the war said it might be to reduce vibrations from the heavy trains, to limit damage to the masonry over time. There's a central partition, so they don't go all the way through.”

“Then we don't have to drill,” I said. “Place the charges in there.”

“It might work,” Topper said, stroking his chin as he peered at the postcard. “But as with a drill hole, it would have to be covered so the explosion is tamped down. Otherwise the force will simply be blown out the opening.”

“I'd say the cavity is perhaps four feet wide,” Christine offered. “What could we use?”

“Sandbags, at least three feet deep,” Topper said. “Or a lot of large rocks. Neither of which can be easily carried all the way there.”

“Show me where the gun emplacements are,” I said to Christine. She placed check marks along the road paralleling the river. Two by the road north of the viaduct, two on the far side, high up on a hill. A fifth was about a hundred yards from the bridge, positioned for defense across the river as well as antiaircraft fire. If that gun crew spotted us while we were on the span, we'd be shot to shreds. She made two circles for the eighty-eights. One on the outskirts of the village, about a half mile from the viaduct, the other on a hill beyond the twenty-millimeter emplacements.

“The riverbank on both sides is overgrown with trees and shrubs,” Christine said. “We should be able to work our way to the base of the viaduct easily.”

“But then what?” Topper said. “That twenty-millimeter will chew us up if they spot us climbing onto the bridge.”

“What's the terrain like between the village and the viaduct?” I asked.

“The land slopes down toward the river,” Juliet said. “The road is built up, with a drainage ditch on one side. The rest is pasture up to the village. I've bicycled there many times. The gun crews take little notice. They're not military police or security troops.”

“This emplacement,” I said, tapping my finger on the gun with a field of fire across the viaduct. “It's dug in?”

“Yes,” Juliet said, quickly understanding what I was getting at. “Sandbags!”

“The other antiaircraft guns are far enough away that they may not notice if we do it quietly,” Christine said. “There are seven men at each gun.”

“Tricky,” I said. “We'd have to get them all at once without making a sound. That's a lot of knife work.”

“We have two silenced pistols,” Christine said.

There was immediate quiet around the table. This meant we had a real chance to succeed. Which meant that we had set ourselves on a collision course with seven men who we hoped we'd surprise in the night with a silent bullet or a knife across the throat. That was the optimistic outlook. If any number of things went wrong, capture, maiming, torture and death were in our likely futures.

“Well, then,” Kaz said, with all the enthusiasm any of us could muster.

“They are assassination pistols created by SOE,” Christine explained. “Totally silent, but they are bolt-operated. And after six or eight shots, the sound suppression will become less effective. We have used both already, so we only have several more shots. They are very practical for taking out a single person, but they are not made for an assault.”

“Okay, so if we get close, two of the seven go down before they know what hit them. Work the bolt, drop two more,” I said.

“Which leaves three men, if they have their wits about them, to open fire,” Topper said.

“It can work if we get close,” Kaz said. “After the second shot, three of us go in with knives. The shooters will provide backup in case one gets away.”

“We need a diversion,” Juliet said. “One that won't cause an overwhelming response, but sufficient to focus their attention for a moment.”

“A fire,” Sonya suggested. “Perhaps a shed or a barn at the edge of the village. The gunners look that way as we approach from the river bank via the drainage ditch.”

“Good,” Kaz said. “They'll lose their night vision if they stare at the flames. And a small fire may be construed as an accident. Hopefully it will not draw any Germans to investigate.”

We counted on it. This wasn't going to be a large-scale attack. Juliet and Sonya would stick with Topper, providing protection and acting as lookouts. Kaz and Christine would each have one of the silenced pistols. Maurice—the
Maquisard
who'd rendezvoused with Christine and me the night of the massacre at Coudray—would bring half a dozen men and the fifty pounds of explosives. Three of us would finish off the gun crew after Kaz and Christine hit their targets. As Topper planted the charges, we'd carry sandbags from the gun emplacement to the bridge. It sounded simple, the way things do when you break them down and check off each step in a warm, well-lit kitchen. Out in the dark, with death a trigger pull away, it would be a different matter indeed.

Christine left to make a coded telephone call to a contact who'd alert Maurice to the mission.
Six people are coming to the party tonight. Bring potatoes.
They'd come in through the woods after dark, and then we'd hoof it to Chérisy, about two hours to the east. Longer if we ran into German patrols.

Juliet and Sonya opened what K rations were left. Meat and vegetable stew for all. No one was in the mood for jokes about a last supper, so we went quietly about our business. Kaz left to bring up the remaining airmen for a meal in the kitchen, and I went to see the count. I found him in the library, seated before
Blue Madonna
.

“You have a plan, Sergeant?”

“Yes, we do, and it's a good one,” I said, talking myself into it. “What about you, sir?”

“I think it may be time to give Zeller what he wants, if he does the same for me. The life of my son for some paint on canvas. A worthwhile trade, I believe.”

“If you can trust him, and if you feel it's the right thing to do.”

“I only trust a man like Zeller to act in his own self-interest. Which makes him predictable, I think. I can turn that against him.”

“He's a murderer, count.”

“There have been so many deaths. Executions are hardly to be remarked upon, they are so common these days.” His hand brushed the air as if waving off such a naïve idea. “What is more important? Bringing Zeller to justice or my son's life?”

“I'd prefer both,” I said, looking closely at the downward gaze of the Madonna. It was as if she were staring into Count Vasseur's heart. I wondered what she found there. “But if you're certain about this, we should clear out your guests tomorrow. Will you give us that much time?”

“Of course. You have a way about you, Sergeant Boyle. I think you may be something more than a noncommissioned officer.”

“Things are not always as they seem, sir.”

“No, indeed they are not,” he said, smiling, his head tilted up at the Madonna. I asked him to join us downstairs for the meal, but he shook his head, his eyes riveted on the painting. Saying farewell, perhaps?

Switch intercepted me as I made my way back to the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder to be certain we were alone. “What's happening, Boyle? When are you getting me out of here?”

“We have a job to do tonight,” I said. “We're leaving tomorrow night. Keep it under your hat, okay?” I didn't want any trouble about Switch taking the express while the other three contemplated a long, dangerous hike to the Spanish border.

“What the hell happens if you get yourself killed out there?” Switch hissed the question between clenched teeth, his eyes darting down the hallway.

“Well, I guess the War Department will send my folks a telegram,” I said. I brushed past him, slipping outside for a breath of fresh air. The longer I spent here, the less I cared about Switch and his cousin. England seemed a lifetime ago, and the concern over a gang, no matter how well-organized, didn't hold up against massacres, betrayals, and suicide missions. Worries over pilfered supplies seemed quaint as the sun began to near the horizon, cloaking the surrounding forest in a shadowy grey.