Treacherous Is the Night

by Anna Lee Huber

  “That crashed aeroplane?” I asked.

  “Yes, but more specifically that something was missing from it.”

  “The wireless equipment?”

  “Maybe.”

  But the hesitancy with which he spoke and the look he shared with Alec told me there was something I hadn’t deduced yet.

  “What else was missing?”

  His gaze met mine squarely. “The bombs.”

  I shook my head in confusion. “I assumed the aircraft must have already dropped them, otherwise wouldn’t it have exploded when it crash-landed?”

  “Not necessarily. There have been plenty of aeroplanes that managed to make distressed landings without detonating their incendiaries.”

  “But how can we know?”

  “We can’t. Not for sure.”

  The room seemed to echo with that knowledge as a new and more horrifying possibility opened before us. If there were bombs missing from that plane, then where were they? And if someone was willing to kill to keep that knowledge secret, then what were they intended for?

  Naturally my thoughts went to the bombing at the Blanken-berge Police Station, which I assumed had been done with a small incendiary considering the low number of casualties. The explosion caused by a shell the size the aeroplane would have carried would create a crater.

  “I was led to believe there were still unexploded shells all over at the front,” I said, still trying to come to terms with it all.

  “There are,” Alec confirmed. “But many of them are buried, and likely to go off at the slightest touch. And the ones that are known of are monitored, as are any still left in the towns and villages stretching across the area. However, Havay is not.”

  For someone looking to cause trouble, the situation couldn’t be more ideal. But how did that connect to Landau? Or didn’t it?

  “We need to get to Tourcoing and find Emilie,” I stated decisively, a sense of urgency surging through me.

  “I have a motorcar out front,” Alec offered, reminding us that Sidney’s beloved Pierce-Arrow would not be taking us anywhere. “I would be happy to give you a lift.” His eyes dipped to the skin exposed above Sidney’s socks. “I can also lend you a pair of trousers, mate.”

  Sidney started to scowl, but then relented almost wearily as he tugged at the seat of his trousers in a rather ungentlemanly manner. “Yes, I would be most grateful.”

  * * *

  On the chance that any of our belongings had survived the fire, we drove past the still smoldering wreckage of the Pierce-Arrow, but all had been consumed. So we pressed onward toward the north, pausing at a café in Tournai to eat, and find me and Sidney a change of fresh clothes. After scrubbing my hands and face, and donning a blouse with cobalt blue polka dots and a black serge skirt, I felt revived, and went in search of a telephone.

  We had decided to risk calling Landau in Brussels, and that I should be the one to do it. For one, I wanted to discover if he was in the office rather than gallivanting across the Belgian countryside setting things ablaze. I was conscious of the possibility I would be tipping him off to the fact that Sidney and I were still alive, but I thought it more imperative we discern his reaction to hearing my voice over the telephone. There was a strong chance he might give himself away.

  When the call connected, I expected his secretary to fob me off again with some paltry excuse. So when she asked me to hold, for a moment I vacillated between remaining on the line and hanging up. Landau’s voice came through the headset before I could decide.

  “Verity, I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you yet on Miss Laurent.” He sounded bored, almost distracted. Papers shuffled in the background.

  “Oh,” was all I managed at first.

  “Apparently, they haven’t yet spoken with her. I’ll press them on it. Did you make it to Tourcoing? Is there an address I may ring for you at?”

  I recognized that Landau could be a more gifted actor than I realized, but I didn’t think so. Not when so little time had elapsed between the secretary informing him of who was on the line and his answering. He was obviously in a hurry to end the call, his mind elsewhere. There wasn’t a trace of anxiety in his tone.

  So I made the split-second decision to trust him.

  “We’ve run into a bit of trouble here,” I said softly into the mouthpiece, turning my head so that the chemist who’d allowed me to use his telephone could not read my lips.

  “What’s that?”

  “Someone tried to kill us.”

  This finally served to cut through the haze of his preoccupation. “Wait. What?!”

  “I can’t go into the details now. The pertinent thing is that Sidney and I are both fine. But I need some information from you. And I need it now.”

  Whatever he’d been fidgeting with before, he set aside, and I could sense his focus was fully directed at me. “Go on.”

  “What do you remember about the wireless-controlled aeroplane Emilie reported that the Germans were developing?”

  “Not much.” He seemed to exhale in frustration. “We asked her to uncover more information about it, but her next report said her informant had died.”

  “Did she give his name?” I asked as the line crackled.

  “She called him Zauberer, but I’m not sure that was his name. In fact, I’m fairly certain it wasn’t.”

  Given the fact that “zauberer” was the German word for “wizard,” I suspected he was right.

  “And she mentioned something about Buzancy.”

  Something about those two words tugged at my memory, but I couldn’t recall why. “Wasn’t there a German aerodrome in the Buzancy commune in the Ardennes of France?”

  “Yes. One that was difficult to penetrate given its location.”

  “Right. I remember now. Once the Charleville platoon was established didn’t they send out a flying squadron trying to establish a new branch in that direction?”

  “Yes. Though ultimately, most of the information that came out of that area came through the train-watching posts along the rails in neighboring Vouziers, whose reports ran through the Chimay company.”

  It struck me then like a bolt to my brain why the words “Zauberer” and “Buzancy” seemed so familiar. They had been scrawled in the margin of one of the charts we’d pulled from that German aviator’s map case. The aviator I’d met coming from the Moiliens’ cottage north of Chimay. The same cottage where later we’d buried the map case and burned the papers we didn’t send on to Holland. The same Mademoiselle Moilien who traveled to Macon after the war to confront the priest and likely Emilie.

  I wondered if Emilie had gone searching for the reason those two words were scrawled in the margin or if she’d stumbled upon it later and remembered. Either way, all of it seemed too much of a coincidence for there not to be some greater connection. Particularly when one had been privy to the German ace’s drunken rambling as I had.

  As typical of men pleasantly oiled with alcohol, he bragged in a meandering manner about a number of things, including his skills as an aviator, the greatness of Germany, and how the war would be soon over, and the enemy would never know what hit them. At the time, I’d paid little attention to such boasting as most of the Jerrys were prone to do so from time to time, ever hopeful that each new push would crush the Allies. Just as I’d paid little attention to his mention of Havay, as I was already aware of the village’s use as a testing ground for the Germans’ bombers, and it was only natural an aviator would be familiar with it, too. I’d simply noted those things in my debriefing report when I returned to Holland and filed them away in the recesses of my brain.

  But now I had to wonder if the pilot had known something about the wireless-controlled aeroplane, if somehow he’d been involved. Alec said he was dead, and I trusted his inquiry into the matter had been thorough. But there was one man connected to that situation we didn’t know the fate of.

  “It would have been good to get a bit more information on their invention,” Landau was sayi
ng, oblivious to my thoughts. “But then the war ended. I suppose we may never know.”

  “This may seem unrelated,” I said, cutting into this soliloquy. “But are you by chance cognizant of a man by the name of Moilien?”

  At first this question was met with silence and I worried we’d lost our connection. But then over the crackle of the telephone line I heard his astonishment.

  “If you’re referring to an Étienne Moilien, then yes, I am. And given your question, I’m guessing you won’t be shocked to hear there may be a connection to Emilie.”

  CHAPTER 26

  “Had I known it would have any bearing on your search, I, of course, would have told you before,” Landau hastened to assure me. “But, how could I?”

  I felt a tingling along my scalp that we might finally be close to some answers. “Go on. How do you know Monsieur Moilien?”

  “He came across the frontier into Holland. This was sometime in early 1918, oh, about the time of the Germans’ big push. Made a lot of noise, demanding to speak to British or French Intelligence. Well, the French didn’t want anything to do with him, not when he was drawing so much attention to himself.” He sighed. “But I agreed to speak with him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He handed me a bunch of jumbled notes filled with random information, most of it not very useful, though some of it was definitely not common knowledge.”

  “Did he tell you how he obtained the information?” I smiled reflexively at the chemist, who must have sensed my growing excitement for he looked up at me from where he was making pills behind his counter.

  “He said he was friends with a number of German officers. That his sister was the particular friend of a few. I asked him if his sister had fled Belgium with him, and he said she’d remained at their home outside Chimay. That he told her to continue to collect information while he delivered what they’d already discovered to us. He informed us they would work as spies for us.”

  “He meant to go back?” I gasped, stunned by the man’s brazen ineptitude. Not only were the German Secret Police undoubtedly already aware of his presence in Holland and his visit to British Intelligence after the fuss he’d raised, but he would have missed a number of roll calls, so the Kommandant in Chimay was also aware of his absence.

  “I had the same reaction and told him he would be arrested or shot if he returned to Belgium. But he insisted he knew what he was doing.” In my mind, I could see Landau rubbing his forehead as I’d watched him do numerous times when confronted with other people’s incompetence. “We, of course, declined his offer. The man could have been sent by the Germans, though his general incapability made that seem unlikely. But I’m sure you recall how it was. The enemy was always trying to fool us, sending us men masquerading as deserters or refugees who tried to sell us faulty information. And they’d grown craftier as the war dragged on.” His voice had tightened with remembered frustration, and he sighed. “But whatever the case, I certainly wasn’t going to trust him with even the minutest details of our intelligence networks, and I wasn’t going to expose any of our other agents to him, either.”

  “How did Moilien react?”

  “Oh, he was furious. He couldn’t believe we weren’t showering him with gratitude over his offer. He insisted we pay him for the information he gave us, and we did. Though it wasn’t enough for his liking.” His voice lowered. “Quite honestly, Verity, the man concerned me. He was erratic and a bit overzealous.”

  “Never a good combination in an agent.”

  “Precisely. If he wasn’t already a German stool pigeon, I wondered whether he would go to them to offer his services just to spite us. So, I had one of our men follow him. But only as far as the wire, where he safely made his way across and back into Belgium.”

  “And that’s the last you heard of him?” I asked, staring through the shop’s window toward the café across the street where Sidney and Alec could be seen seated at a table. Every once in a while, one of them, usually Sidney, would dart a glance in the direction of the chemist.

  He gave a short humorless laugh. “Oh, no. He came to see me again. In Brussels.”

  I clutched the mouthpiece tighter. “You saw him after the war?”

  “Yes. He charged into my office and demanded we give him compensation for the time he spent in a German prison. Claimed he was captured while he was gathering information for us, so we owed him. I reminded him we had not authorized him to do so, that I had even tried to discourage him from returning to Belgium, that he was certain to be apprehended. But he would not listen. He called me a liar. And worse, he accused us of having him framed. That we tipped off the Germans, and that’s why he was caught, not because of his own stupidity.”

  Was he caught because of the aviator’s papers Emilie and I had burned in his hearth, or had his sister lied or misunderstood? Had they already intended to come for him because they were aware of his trip across the wire into Holland?

  I heard his chair squeak as he sank into it. “I felt sorry for the fellow. I genuinely did. I don’t know what they did to him, but it wasn’t pleasant. He was cadaverously thin, one hand was misshapen, and he sported a nasty looking scar across the entire left side of his face. But he was never in our employ, and there was nothing I could do.”

  I stiffened at his description of the man’s scarred face. For men often concealed such injuries behind a mask, and I had seen just such a man. Very recently.

  Moilien was the man on the boat. I felt certain of it. The way he’d moved, how he’d hurried around the corner of the cabin.

  In his mask he might have been following me long before that without my ever realizing it. With all the journalists and photographers hounding Sidney and me, attempting to snap our pictures and report on our on-dits, I hadn’t exactly been paying particular attention until Madame Zozza’s sham summoning forced them back into focus.

  “Why are you asking about him?” Landau asked, confusion tightening his voice. “Do you think he’s involved somehow?”

  “I haven’t time to explain. Not until I know more. But yes. Yes, I do. Will you still be in Brussels this evening?”

  “I will. I usually let the telephone ring in the evening after everyone has gone, but if you intend to call, I’ll answer it.”

  “Please do.”

  “But Verity, what is going on?” he demanded in concern, clearly hearing the alarm in my tone.

  “I will tell you more tonight,” I assured him, anxious to be on our way again. “Just know that my husband and Captain Xavier are with me.” I rung off, thanking the kindly old chemist, and turned to hurry back across the street.

  “I take it Landau was in Brussels,” Sidney declared with wry amusement as I dropped into my chair. “Or were you waiting on that chemist to grind and crush the willow bark for some headache powder.”

  Eager to tell them what I’d learned, I ignored his pitiable jest. “Yes, Landau was in. And he actually had more pertinent information than I expected.” I swiftly informed them what Landau had told me, minus a few details. “So it appears Monsieur Moilien may be the mysterious figure behind much of this. He’s almost certainly familiar with Havay through his sister’s gregarious aviator friend, and he had dealings with Emilie and me, no matter how brief.” I took a sip of my now cold coffee and grimaced, setting it aside.

  “I guess you’ve decided to trust Landau then,” Alec said, stubbing out his cigarette.

  “He’s not our man. His manner was too natural, his reactions too genuine for him to be the culprit. Not to mention the fact that he was in Brussels. And . . . I saw Moilien on the ferry crossing from Britain.”

  Sidney’s eyebrows arched. “That masked gentleman you thought you recognized?”

  I nodded. “Why he’s doing this, I don’t know? Money? Revenge?” I shrugged and shook my head. “Whatever it is, Emilie may know. And she will hopefully know what he intends to do with those bombs.”

  “What of Pauline Laurent? If she’s gone into hiding,
doesn’t that seem suspicious?” Sidney pointed out.

  “It does. But at this point, I have no idea how she fits into this plan. Perhaps she knew the Moiliens and agreed to help them without realizing what she was getting herself into. She and Adele Moilien would be about the same age.”

  “And who is this partner of Moilien’s? The man pretending to be Jonathan Fletcher?” Sidney sat forward as if he was going to answer his own question. “You know, I think I may know a way to answer that.”

  Alec and I watched as he strolled across the street, entering the same chemist’s shop I’d just vacated.

  “What does he intend to do?”

  I turned to look at Alec where he lounged, leaning to one side of his chair, his eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. “We aren’t the only ones with connections,” I answered obliquely, having already deduced Sidney’s objective.

  Alec’s eyes glinted with good humor as if to say, “Touché.”

  I reached for my handbag. “If you want to bring the motorcar around, I promise to not let him share his scoop until you return.”

  He chuckled, rising lazily to his feet. “As you wish, m’lady.”

  Either Sidney had been unsuccessful, or his telephone conversation had not lasted long, for he soon hurried back across the street, reaching my side just as Alec’s borrowed Porter pulled up to the pavement.

  “Any luck?” Alec asked as he accelerated down the road toward the north.

  Sidney swiveled so that I could hear him from my position in the rear seat. “I telephoned Rawdon, a war chum at Scotland Yard, and he recognized the fellow by description immediately. His real name is Peter Smythe. Apparently, this isn’t the first time the chap has told people he’s Jonathan Fletcher. He’s done so a number of times to get out of sticky situations.”

  “Illegal situations?” I pressed.

  “Some of them. Others are merely on the suspicious side. Like his following you. And Rawdon gathered he’s a frustrated writer of some kind. But Smythe also has an arrest record that indicates he has no qualms about engaging in more . . . unsavory dealings.”