Blue Madonna (31 page)

“Where's the major? What's taking so long?” Meyer demanded as soon as the four of us walked into the room.

“The major has decided these paintings should be yours along with the others in the automobile,” Count Vasseur said, nodding to our armfuls of canvas. “He is otherwise detained and quite sincerely regrets he cannot join you.”

“What's the idea, Boyle?” Meyer said, deciding to level his pistol at me.

“You're getting a free pass, Meyer,” I said. “You and Zeller had a plan, right? A place for you to hide out with your new identity papers and to squirrel away the paintings? You were smart, thinking long-term like that. Now you just have to do it on your own. Once the war passes by, find a fence and live like a king.”

“Why?” Meyer said. “Why let me go?”

“You did not imprison and torture my son,” Count Vasseur said. “Zeller became my sworn enemy once he did that. And you are nothing but a loose end, you and that automobile. It is best for all if you drive away and disappear. You have the paintings. Make the most of them.”

“Zeller's dead?” Meyer said, lowering his pistol, seeing little percentage in gunning any of us down.

“No. I promised him the paintings, and now he has his fair share.
Blue Madonna
, in fact.”

“He liked that one,” Meyer said, apparently deciding not to pursue the question any further. “Okay. Take those out to the car.”

We dumped the artwork into the trunk and watched Meyer drive off. I didn't know if I should shoot or wave goodbye.

“What just happened?” Topper asked as he jogged down the drive to join us.

“I think that old fellow outfoxed us all,” I said. “Let's see what other surprises he has in store.”

We found them in an upstairs bedroom. Juliet was washing Frédéric's face as Vincent disposed of his filthy clothes and got him between clean sheets. The wireless sat on a table, the case open. Topper began to check it out.

“It works,” Juliet said, once Topper gave a thumbs-up. “We'll send an emergency sked in a few minutes.”

“Papa,”
Frédéric managed, his eyes opening and a smile gracing his face before he drifted back to sleep.

The count beamed.
“Mon fils,”
he said. Tears streaked his cheeks.

“Count Vasseur, I'm sorry to interrupt, but what are we going to do with Zeller?”

“Nothing, Sergeant. Look at this.” The count pulled back the sheets. Bruises, some fresh, some old, discolored Frédéric's torso. His arms were covered in burns, as if cigarettes had been ground out against his flesh.

“You are not going to open the door?” Kaz said. I think he sounded hopeful.

“It does not open, unlike the stone door. It is a last-ditch defense. That chamber was the most secret of all the hiding places the first count constructed.”

“But what good is the iron door if it locks you in?”

“Oh, there was an exit. A disguised trapdoor that led outside, meant to be used only if the hidden room was found by the King's dragoons. But it was sealed shut by a cave-in years ago. There is no way out. Major Zeller has what he wanted. The paintings for the rest of his life.” Count Vasseur looked at us all, perhaps expecting an objection concerning Zeller's entombment. None were made. Besides, Zeller had his pistol. His suffering need not last.

“But what about his staff knowing he came here?” Juliet said, wringing out a washcloth into a bowl.

“I told you before I have a friend
at the
gendarmerie
in
Épernon,” the count said. “The same man who contacted me when Sonya was taken, a fellow Huguenot. I asked him to contact the German military police in Dreux and file a complaint about the unauthorized seizure of artwork from my château. The Germans do not officially steal from French citizens; they make purchases for a pittance and provide receipts. And those purchases are for the Nazi treasury and party officials, not for mere
Abwehr
majors.”

“So Zeller's men will be too busy answering questions to bother searching for him,” Kaz said approvingly.

“Yes, especially if the Gestapo gets involved. As they certainly will if they pick up Meyer and find Zeller gave identity papers to an American. It all ends with Frédéric safe, for now at least.”

“The Germans may take a renewed interest in your artwork,” Kaz said. “It seems Zeller kept them at bay, perhaps through mislaid paperwork, for his own purposes.”

“Perhaps they will,” Count Vasseur said, a sly smile playing on his lips. “I believe we have kept enough secrets from you all.” He spoke to Vincent, who crooked his finger for us to follow.

Vincent led us upstairs to the infamous room where Margaux went through the window and bled out. He moved a pile of furniture and reached up into the molding that ran beneath the ceiling. Then he grasped a sconce and pulled. The wall came forward, revealing a painting draped in a sheet. He removed it, and I saw
Blue Madonna
for the first time.

She was beautiful.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Kaz and I
packed up what little gear we had as Topper and Juliet worked on the message to London: the bridge had been damaged, Sonya was dead, and three of us would be at the Lysander landing zone tonight. Simple, as long as SOE didn't ask too many questions.

Switch was getting anxious. He'd been cool and calm, even as the body count rose around him, but now with only hours to go, he was fidgety.

“I'll be okay,” he said, pacing in the narrow confines of the salon. “I always got keyed up before a mission. I hated waiting for takeoff, wondering what could go wrong.”

“It'll be fine,” I said, hoping he'd settle down for the long hike to the landing area. “Good weather, hardly a cloud in the sky. We'll have a
Maquis
escort all the way.” Christine was sending men to clear out all the weapons and supplies from the tunnels. If Meyer got picked up and blabbed, we didn't want any evidence left to implicate Juliet and the count.

“Yeah, that's what they said about the milk run when we got shot down. It'll be fine. And here I am, the last man standing.”

“You are the last man here because you're being flown to England tonight,” Kaz said. “Unless you'd prefer to take your chances with Dogbite and stay with the
Maquis
?”

“You know what I mean,” Switch said, slamming his meager pack onto the table. “Sorry, it's only a case of nervous in the service. Don't worry, I won't screw things up. And I'll hold up my end of the deal once I see Donnie, and we get our transfers and promotions squared away.”

“We never mentioned promotions,” I said. “But if you don't cause trouble, I'll put in a word for you.” Why not, if it calmed him down and made things easier all around tonight.

“Okay. Tell me, you ain't really a sergeant, are you?”

“No. I'm a captain.”

“You'd be surprised how many captains I got on my payroll, Billy. They come pretty cheap.”

“So do a lot of things in this war. Now shut up.”

We left Switch in the kitchen and took up lookout positions, watching the driveway from the upstairs windows. It was quiet. Quiet as a tomb.

An hour later, Juliet and Topper came in. The sked had been coded and sent. London confirmed a response in three hours. We were all dead on our feet, but Kaz volunteered to stay awake and stand watch. Topper would grab a couple hours' sleep and then hike a mile into the woods to receive the sked.

Juliet took me by the hand. Kaz smiled as she led me away.

There was already hot water in the bathtub. We stripped off our dirty clothes, and I felt strangely embarrassed. Maybe it was the dirt, or the rusty dried blood on my sleeves and shirt. Or the fact that I was leaving Juliet behind. No, Diana. I could call her Diana now.

“I'm sorry, Diana,” I said. “Sorry I have to leave.”

“Me, too, Billy,” she said, settling into the steamy water. Her toes wriggled at my side. “It's been strange, hasn't it? We haven't had a moment together, not as who we really are.”

“Juliet and Sergeant Boyle were a pretty good team,” I said, relaxing a bit as the water soothed my muscles.

“I am so tired of them,” Diana said, sliding her head underwater and coming up with her light brown hair plastered over her forehead. “Aren't you?”

“Yes, Diana, I am. Thoroughly.” I doused my head as well, emerging as a new man, baptized Billy, an officer and a gentleman. Being a gentleman, I'll leave it at that.

We fell asleep in a jumble of white sheets, a warm breeze wafting in through the windows. When I awoke, I didn't think about Germans, betrayals, or secret tunnels for a full thirty seconds. Until I noticed Diana was gone.

I dressed and grabbed my weapons, heading for the kitchen. Topper was back, and Diana was already at work decoding the sked. I must have slept for hours.

“Oh my God,” she said, finishing a line of letters, looking up at me with worried eyes. The news must have been bad.

“What's wrong?” I asked as she ran her finger along the words, double-checking her work. “Is the pickup canceled?”

“No, it's on. But you and Kaz are not going back. I am.”

“With me, right?” Switch said. “Right?” Nobody answered.

“I'll wake Kaz,” Topper said, grabbing Switch by the collar. “You, come with me.”

When we were alone, Diana explained. The Noble network was being shut down. With Sonya's death and the front lines inching closer, moving escapees and downed airmen was too dangerous. Two Jedburghs would come in tonight with supplies to join Topper. Diana—Juliet Bonvie—was to return to England for reassignment. Kaz and I were to be at the landing site and receive orders via the Jedburghs.

“I never expected this,” she said. “I don't want it. I'd rather stay here with you.”

“They're right, you know,” I said. “The fighting could get close very soon. You won't be able to move freely, especially now that both Adrien and Sonya are gone. Topper's assignment is to work directly with the
Maquis
, not the SOE. You'd be all alone.”

“As will you and Kaz. What do they want you to do? You can't pass for a Frenchman. You can't pass for anything but a Boston policeman, as far as I can tell.” She gave me a smile, and I grinned like an idiot, happy that she was going home and out of danger. It was easier than leaving her in occupied France. I might feel differently once I found out what my new orders were all about, but for now, all I could do was hug her.

• • •

We'd bid
adieux
to Count Vasseur and Frédéric, who looked somewhat better once the sedative had worn off. He still was in bad shape, but with rest and care, he'd pull through. Madame Agard and Justine had returned, and with Vincent's help, they might all make it.

Christine's men cleared out the tunnels and carted everything off. Four of them escorted us to the landing zone, where we waited in the meadow, five fires ready to be set as the prearranged signal.

Diana and I walked the length of the grassy field, the fading moon giving just enough light for the Lysander to navigate by. Stars twinkled in the heavens, and searchlights lit the distant horizon, hunting for bombers as they unleashed thunderous salvos, bright orange explosions flashing against the scattered clouds. The eerie, strange beauty of our times.

“Remember the poem, Billy?” Diana asked as she leaned her head against my shoulder. “The love that I have/of the life that I have/is yours and yours and yours.”

“I'll never forget it,” I said, as the snarl of an aircraft engine drifted in from the north. We held each other close as we watched the skies, Diana's damp cheek nestled against mine. The fires were lit, and soon the black Lysander landed and rolled to a stop. The two Jedburghs clambered out and unloaded the supplies, handing Kaz and me each a musette bag. They hustled Switch inside, and Diana and I barely had time for an embrace before the pilot yelled for her to get a move on.

She squeezed my hand and let go, her head bent low as she climbed the ladder and pulled the canopy shut. She couldn't look at me through the window. I couldn't have looked back, either, if she had been the one left behind in the face of unknown dangers. I tasted the salt from her tears as the Lysander roared off, the blast from its propeller flattening the long green grass at my feet.

 

Yet death will be but a pause

For the peace of my years

In the long green grass

Will be yours and yours and yours.

Author's Note

The US Army
Criminal Investigation Division estimated that in 1944–1945, forty percent of all crimes within their jurisdiction were related to the theft of army materials. The vast tonnage of supplies, ranging from medicines and foodstuffs to petroleum products, that flowed into Great Britain prior to D-Day presented a tantalizing opportunity for military and civilian personnel alike. In Great Britain, the Billy Hill Gang took full advantage of the black market, stealing and selling food and fuel while engaging in the lucrative side business of forged identity documents. The fictional Morgan Gang also had its real-life counterparts in the Lane Gang and the Sailor Gang, comprised of deserters active in Italy during the same time period.

After D-Day, the situation in France was even worse, as Colonel Harding predicted it would be. For example, the 716th Railway Operating Battalion nicknamed itself “The Millionaires' Battalion” for its role in stealing supplies headed for the front lines and selling them to French gangsters.

Fifty thousand Americans deserted during World War Two, as did over one hundred thousand British troops. Some desertions were for short periods of time, or as a result of the stress of combat, with men ultimately returning to service. Others were more calculated, the lure of easy money too great to ignore. After the liberation of Paris, that city became a magnet for deserters, who were well armed, combat trained, and not afraid to use their weapons.

To give a sense of the kind of money that could be made, the going black market rate for a single can of coffee in 1944 was ten dollars. That equals $135 in 2014 dollars. A crate holding fifty cartons of cigarettes went for $1,000, which is $13,500 in today's dollars. Tempting to many, especially given the voluminous amounts available in supply depots all across England.

The massacre conducted by the SS in the village of Coudray, while fictional, happened all too often during the war. The most notorious of these was conducted by the Second SS Panzer Division at Oradour-sur-Glane, where 642 men, women, and children were murdered in retaliation for nearby partisan activity. The burned-out village was never rebuilt, and today stands as a memorial and museum.

The Special Operations Executive used many female agents in occupied France. Women had greater freedom of movement, given that men were often conscripted for war labor in Germany. Violet Szabo was one such brave woman. The poem “The Life That I Have,” by SOE code master Leo Marks, was actually Szabo's poem code. She was captured on her second mission, just after D-Day, and ultimately executed at Ravensbrück concentration camp in February 1945, at the age of twenty-three. Thirty-eight other female agents were sent into France. Fourteen were executed. Their stories are all riveting.

The Jedburgh Teams (named after a town in Scotland) comprised about three hundred men and contributed greatly to Allied successes following D-Day, their impact on the battlefield out of all proportion to their numbers. The Jedburghs and other commandos faced execution if captured on the basis of Hitler's infamous Commando Order. Approximately eighty captured Allied personnel were murdered as a result of that directive.

Château Vasseur was imagined as a result of reading the
London Literary Gazette
and Journal
of 1827, which contained an account of the Castle of Robardière in the Forest of Dreux outside Paris. It was built upon the ruins of an ancient Druid temple and rumored to contain underground vaults and chambers that had yet to be explored. It was overseen by the White Giant, an apparition who guarded the “vault secured with iron doors, which open once a year during the celebration of midnight mass. Any one may enter and enrich himself as much as he pleases; but the mass once finished, the iron doors close immediately and woe betide him who is enclosed in the cavern!”

The story of poor Margaux and the haunted painting is taken from
Tales of the Dead
, a superb collection of French ghost stories published in 1813.

The centerpiece of Count Vasseur's personal art collection was
Blue Madonna
, painted by Carlo Dolci, a major Florentine painter of the seventeenth century. It safely resides in the Ringling Museum of Art in Sarasota, Florida. Acquired by John Ringling in 1927, this luminous work avoided the widespread looting of artwork carried out by the Nazis during the Second World War.