“Is it safe? Won’t we run into one of the servants?” I asked.

  “No,” Juliet said. “They’re too afraid.”

  “Of what? The White Ghost?”

  “No, of him,” she answered, pointing to the largest portrait in the room, hung over the massive fireplace.

  A dark-haired man stood in front of a curtain of scarlet brocade decorated with fleurs-de-lis, his gleaming armor breastplate a bright silver, his red plumed helmet at his side. His royal-blue doublet was embroidered in gold, and his right hand rested on the hilt of a shining sword. His eyes were narrow, glancing sideways as if aware of a nearby danger. They were startlingly blue, and they seemed to follow me as I moved.

  “Everyone says the eyes move,” Juliet whispered. “It frightens the servants.” I could see why. The effect was spooky.

  “The first Count Vasseur,” a frail voice said from a stairway to our left, an ornate, wide, curved staircase, where I imagined at one time the ladies of the château made their entrance to fancy balls and dinners in the great hall. But today, only a stooped, elderly man leaned on the balcony to watch us. “Frédérick-Charles Maronneau, a true visionary. Come,” he beckoned, and opened a set of double doors.

  We followed him into the library. Tall windows let in the morning light, dust motes floating over shelves of leather-bound volumes. Count Vasseur sat behind an oaken desk and gestured for us to sit in two armchairs facing each other. Behind him a series of intricately carved wood panels, showing woodland scenes and animals of the forest, filled the wall. A chess set sat on a small table near the window. Between the two windows, a solitary painting was hung, obviously special given its placement. The face of a young woman, surrounded by a veil of vivid royal blue, her eyes cast downward in a melancholy gaze, dominated the room. It was small, but powerful. I thought of the mother in the church, a Madonna for our own terrible times.

  “You are Sergeant Boyle,” the count said as I forced my eyes away from the painting. His English was precise, each word clipped and exact, with only the slightest lilt of a French accent. “Forgive me for not greeting you previously. Welcome to the Château Vasseur. I was most saddened by the death of Lieutenant Armstrong. He and I spent many pleasant hours in this room.”

  “It was a murder, sir. Le meurtre.”

  “Yes, murder. But by whom? Do you have any idea?”

  “No, sir, but I will do my best to uncover who did it. I was a police detective before the war, so it won’t be my first investigation.”

  “Whatever I can do, please call upon me. Or Vincent; he has my complete trust.”

  “Something terrible has happened, Count Vasseur,” Juliet said, wringing her hands.

  “Ah, Coudray, is it? All the servants are talking about it. You understand, Sergeant Boyle, the maids and gardeners live in Dreux for the most part. They bring news and gossip every day. Today it is the killings at Coudray. Is it as terrible as they say?”

  “I saw it with my own eyes. Even more terrible, I’d guess. Everyone, men, women, children. Shot or burned alive in the church.”

  “Mon Dieu,” he said, his head bowed.

  “Not quite everyone,” Juliet said. “A small child escaped. The sergeant and Christine Latour brought her here.”

  “Here? What does Mademoiselle Latour wish us to do?”

  “Hide her. Care for her,” Juliet said. “It was the SS and the Milice. The Boche will probably be on their way to Normandy soon, but the Milice remain. They will want to silence any witness.”

  “I think of my son every day and hope he survives the labor camps by acts of kindness from those in a position to help. So I cannot fail to help this child who is so in need of kindness. Where is she?”

  “In the kitchen with Madame Agard,” Juliet said.

  “Then she is in good hands for now. What of the wireless?”

  “It has been repaired. I am coding a message now,” Juliet said.

  “There is much to ask for. Has London contacted you?”

  “We have not gone on air yet,” Juliet said. “Major Zeller undoubtedly has his OKW Funkabwehr units operating around the clock. We cannot afford to transmit for long.”

  The count nodded his agreement. The OKW Funkabwehr was the German Radio Security Service, dedicated to pinpointing transmissions in occupied nations. It was very good at what it did. “Yes, he seems fixated on tracking down a band of terrorists in Dreux,” he said.

  “Do you think he has any suspicions?” I asked.

  “Of us, no, not at all,” Count Vasseur said. “He even apologized the other day for the loss of electricity. He gave me an hour’s warning.”

  “The Germans routinely cut power, district by district,” Juliet explained, “while listening for wireless transmissions. That way, when a transmission is cut off, they know the general area to search. Which is why we often go into the woods and operate with batteries.”

  A knock sounded at the door. Vincent stuck his head in and announced, “Les Allemands arrivent.”

  “Germans,” Juliet said, rushing to the window. A staff car and a truck rolled down the gravel drive and came to a stop outside the front door. “Zeller.”

  “He may conduct a search,” the count said. “As he did the other day. Come, hide quickly.”

  Vincent pressed a section of wood paneling behind the count’s desk. There was a faint click, and the panel shifted back. He then slid it sideways, gesturing for me to step inside. It was a small chamber with a bench. As Juliet and I entered, the count instructed Vincent to hurry to the kitchen and warn Madame Agard to hide the child.

  “I’ll show you how it works,” Juliet said, stepping in with me as soon as Vincent limped off. Grabbing a handle, she slid the panel back in place, pressing it forward until it clicked. The darkness was total. Then I heard another sound, like a latch being loosened, and pinpoints of light appeared through the panel. “These holes are part of the carving. They’re barely noticeable, but we can see and hear.”

  She was right. By putting my eye to one of the holes, I had a decent view of the room, especially the count’s desk and chess table. We heard boots clomping up the steps, and Juliet put her finger to her lips. Not to worry—with a truck full of Nazis prowling the place, I wasn’t about to get chatty.

  “Major, to what do I owe the pleasure of another visit?” Count Vasseur asked. I remembered Christine telling me Zeller knew English, but not French.

  “Have you heard of that dreadful business at Coudray?” Zeller said, exasperation drawing a sigh out of his throat as he tossed his cap on a chair and sat opposite the count. His voice had a discernable British accent, as if he’d gone to school there or learned from an Englishman. “Those SS bastards!”

  “Rumors are flying,” the count said. “The entire village?”

  “Yes. Fifty or so poor souls. Apparently the Resistance attacked a column of the Twelfth SS Panzer. The Twenty-Sixth Panzergrenadier Regiment, to be exact. One of the attackers was captured and had been foolish enough to keep his identity card.”

  “I take it he was from Coudray,” the count said.

  “Yes. Sturmbannführer Erich Krause took it upon himself to conduct the reprisal. He had lost men in the attack and was quite angry. Terrible, what he did.”

  “And the Milice helped, I hear,” Vasseur said. “It is hard to understand.”

  “It all could have been avoided, count. There was an attack on a rail bridge that caused a backup in Chartres. The Twenty-Sixth Regiment was off-loaded from the train and was making its way by road when they were attacked. If the Resistance had not made those two attacks, the good people of Coudray would be going about their business as we speak. Now they are in the ground, and Krause has accomplished nothing but stirring up a hornet’s nest. More attacks, more reprisals, mark my words.”

  Zeller’s voice rose, and I saw him stand and pace the room. He was tall, with thick black hair and beefy jowls. Duty in occupied France agreed with him. He rested one hand on the hilt of the dagger at his belt, drumming the other on his leather holster as if he were itching for a fight.

  “I do not disagree, Major,” the count said. “But as you know, young people feel the need to take action. They are swept up in the propaganda from London. They think little of the consequences.”

  “Yes, I know,” Zeller said wearily, flopping back down in his chair. “You understand, I must go through this charade of searching the château and grounds again. I apologize, but if I do not do it, you will have the SS everywhere.”

  “Major, the building and grounds are at your disposal. I appreciate that the Abwehr conducts itself with a dignity the SS and the Gestapo lack.”

  “If there must be war, it should be fought between gentlemen, I say. Whenever we capture a British agent, I counsel them to cooperate. Because if they do not cooperate with us, we are forced to hand them over to the Gestapo. What they lack in finesse, they make up in efficient brutality.”

  “Major, if I may ask . . . have you had any news of my son? Frédéric?”

  “Yes, Count Vasseur, I have had some success. Frédéric has been transferred from a coal mine outside Essen to a farm in Augsburg. Much better working conditions, believe me.”

  “But when can he be released? He has been a prisoner since 1940.” The old man’s voice trembled, and I’d bet he wasn’t playacting now.

  “Count Vasseur,” Zeller said, leaning forward, his arms on the desk, “you must understand the currency with which we deal. Information. The work camps for prisoners are run by the army. The Abwehr cannot issue orders concerning military prisoners. I must have more than vague rumors and bits and pieces of gossip. Give me something which shows your loyalty to the Reich, and the army will release him to your custody. Otherwise, I can do nothing.”

  “Major, no one tells an old man like me anything useful. If they did, I would tell you, for the sake of my son.” I began to worry that the count would be tempted, but if he hadn’t betrayed the whole operation yet, there was no reason to think he’d start now.

  “Find out who gave the weapons to that foolish boy from Coudray. That would be quite important. Or the identity of Commander Murat, who has eluded me for far too long. Now, forgive me, I must attend to the search. I hope not to inconvenience you greatly.”

  “I will ask the servants what they know after you leave,” the count said. “Perhaps a game of chess tomorrow?”

  “I look forward to it,” Zeller said as he donned his cap. He clicked his heels and left.

  “Quickly,” Count Vasseur said, after listening to Zeller’s footsteps as he descended the staircase. Juliet opened the panel and secured the covering for the spyholes.

  “What about Emeline?” Juliet said as we unfolded ourselves from the tight compartment.

  “We must trust Vincent and Madame Agard to have hidden her,” the count said, leading us to one of the tall built-in bookcases. He reached behind a row of books and pulled at something. The entire bookcase swung out like one massive door, as smoothly and quietly as if the hinges had just been oiled. Juliet pulled me along, lighting a candle that sat on a shelf above a winding staircase behind the shelves.

  “What kind of place is this?” I asked, marveling at the design of this and all the secret chambers within the château.

  “When there is time, young man, I will tell you how my ancestor, Frédérick-Charles Maronneau, came to construct the Château Vasseur. But now, you must get to the others and warn them of the search. Hurry!” With that, he closed the bookshelf, leaving us in darkness except for the flickering candle.

  “Quietly,” Juliet said, her voice hushed. “The stone walls echo.” I followed her down the circular staircase, coming to a door which opened into a narrow tunnel barely five feet high. Stooped low, I followed Juliet in the glow of the candlelight. The walls were damp and chalky, soft and crumbly to the touch. I tried not to think about cave-ins.

  Soon we were in front of a thick wooden door, the same one we’d gone through when Kaz, Topper, and I first entered the tunnels. It seemed like weeks ago, not a couple of days. Juliet rapped on the door, and it was quickly opened by Sonya.

  “I must get back,” Juliet said. “Major Zeller may ask where I am. I’ll return as soon as I can and finish coding the message.” With that, she shut the door behind her, and I was greeted with expectant gazes from around the long table. The electric lights were out, the room illuminated only by a few candles.

  Everyone was there. Babcock, Fawcett, and Brookes, the Canadian contingent. Dogbite, Meyer, and Blake, the Yanks. Kaz and Topper as well. All with their packs and gear, ready to bolt if the Krauts found a tunnel entrance.

  “Standard procedure, Sergeant,” Sonya said, her voice hushed. “The candles are in case the power goes out or is cut by the Germans. Be as quiet as possible. Sound can carry through the vents.”

  “What happened in Coudray?” Kaz asked in a whisper. “We heard rumors of a massacre.”

  “It was,” I said in a hushed voice, taking a seat on the bench next to Blake. I went through it all: bringing Murat’s men to the weapons, the Milice, the SS in the village, the burning of the church, the mother throwing her child from the window, and spiriting Emeline back to the château.

  “Bastards,” Babcock muttered. “I’d like to drop a bombload on the lot of them.”

  “It’s hard to believe anyone could do that,” Brookes added. “Burn all those people in a church.”

  “What the hell do you think you were doing, Brookie, bombing all those German cities?” Meyer said, his voice low but sneering. “You burned plenty of people, little babies and their mothers, just like those Krauts did, except they looked ’em in the eye while they did it.”

  “Shut up,” Brookes said, turning his face away from Meyer.

  “War is terrible,” Kaz said, leaning across the table and placing a hand on Brookes’s arm. “And we must do terrible things to defeat the enemy. But what the fascists did in Coudray was not about fighting the enemy. It was revenge, terror, call it what you like.”

  Brookes nodded, slowly, then pulled back into himself, eyes lowered like a beaten dog’s. Fawcett looked the other way, disgust plain on his face. There was bad blood between them. Even Lieutenant Babcock couldn’t be bothered to offer a word of support. Whatever Brookes had done, it haunted them all.

  “Do you know the unit?” Topper whispered, getting back to the atrocity at hand.

  “Yeah, the local Milice, headquartered in Dreux. They assisted the Twenty-Sixth Panzergrenadier Regiment of the Twelfth SS Panzer Division. A Hitlerjugend outfit, Sturmbannführer Erich Krause commanding.”

  “We first heard of them when they were stationed outside Rouen,” Sonya said. “Cold-blooded Nazis in spite of their age. Or because of it, perhaps. They’ve been brought up to believe Hitler is a god.”

  “We must do something,” Kaz said. As a Pole, no crime the Germans committed in France would come as a surprise to him. He’d want revenge, not only for the people of Coudray, but for his own fellow Poles. For his family.

  “Whoa, whoa, hold on there,” Meyer said. “We already got beaucoup Krauts sniffin’ around. Don’t go causing no more trouble, not when we’re about to get outta here.”

  “If I can follow the double negatives, I think you mean to say you’d rather hide in a hole in the ground than fight,” Kaz said, staring down the table at Meyer.

  “You want a double dose of negative? I got ’em right here,” Meyer said, standing and brandishing his meaty fists.

  “So you are not afraid to fight. Good for you; this is encouraging,” Kaz said, waving a hand as if swatting away a fly.

  “Please, gentlemen, keep it down,” Sonya said, her finger to her lips. Switch put his hand on Meyer’s shoulder, urging him to sit. Meyer shook him off and stalked out of the room.

  “Brookie, take a candle and give him a hand, will ya? He’s liable to get lost in there,” Switch said.

  “Sure,” Brookes said, eager as a puppy. Shielding a candle with his hand, he shuffled off in the direction Meyer had taken.

  “This is not good,” Sonya whispered. “We should stay together.”

  “Aw, how many times have we done this?” Switch said. “The Germans are only going through the motions, you know that. Zeller likes the old count, doesn’t he?”

  “He does respect him, it seems, but that will only go so far. If there is any hint of Resistance activity, Zeller will tear down the château to find what he’s looking for,” Sonya said. “And put a bullet in our heads while he’s at it, so please remain quiet.”

  “Meyer’s jumpy,” Dogbite said. “Don’t pay him no mind. He don’t take to bein’ cooped up like this.”

  “Sort of like being in the slammer,” I said, sliding in next to Switch. “You got to live by someone else’s schedule.”

  “Hell, that’s the army,” Dogbite said. “But at least they give us three squares and good boots. Never had it so good growin’ up. You been inside, Billy?”

  “Reform school when I was a kid, no big deal. And the stockade, not too long ago.”

  “How’d you get out?” Switch asked. The three of us huddled together, our voices low, while the others whispered among themselves. I could see Kaz chatting with Babcock and Fawcett, drawing their attention while I laid down my crooked GI patter. It seemed Kaz and Babcock were comparing scars.

  “Had to come along on this operation. I got busted down to private and sentenced to a couple years’ hard labor, on account of a few gallons of gasoline the army lost track of. Then these guys came for a visit, looking for volunteers, offering a full pardon and my stripes back. First time I ever volunteered for anything.” I figured two years would impress these guys more than the three-month sentence I’d actually been assigned.

  “How many gallons?” Switch asked, his eyes narrowing as he studied me.

  “One hundred. Along with the truck they’d been loaded in,” I said. “Not that they ever found the stuff. It was all circumstantial evidence, but that didn’t matter to the army. So here I am.”

 

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