H.J. Gaudreau - Betrayal in the Louvre (15 page)

Chapter 28

Claude Recheau sat on an unpadded wooden chair facing a small wooden writing desk.  Recheau had taken an upstairs room in what was advertised as a “Bed and Breakfast” in the center of the village.  The building was old, the room small and the term “B&B” seemed overly grand.  If asked he would describe the place as a boarding house. 

He was not writing.  Instead, he carefully pushed down the small lever on the top left side of his Beretta 9mm pistol.  There were many guns used by professionals which were better and more accurate than this gun; he knew that.  The German’s Sieg Sauers were great guns and their Glocks were good too.  The Israeli IWI pistols were excellent.  But, he simply liked this gun, it was an emotional attachment.  The gun was simple, like things should be.  And, it had a bit of weight to it, you knew you held a weapon when holding this gun.  Plus, it was easy to clean; which was really the key to any firearm and something too many people did not do often enough he believed. 

He removed the slide and barrel and sat them to one side.  He then placed the frame on the table directly in front of himself and stood.  Crossing the room to his overnight bag he removed a small leather case and returned to the writing desk.  He opened the case and removed a cleaning rod, an orange bottle of solvent and a small bundle of cloth scraps held together with a rubber band.  He removed the rubber band and inserted one piece of cloth into the slot at the tip of the cleaning rod.  Then he opened the solvent, dipped the cloth tipped rod into the bottle and brought it to the bottleneck.  There he rolled the tip against the side of the glass, squeezing the excess out of the cloth.  Finished preparing the swab he inserted the rod down the barrel and pushed and pulled the rod through several times.  Putting the barrel to one side he picked up the pistol frame.  Just as he was beginning to enjoy this nightly ritual his phone rang.  “Merde,” he muttered as he put the pistol frame and rod down.

He opened the phone and hissed, “What?”  He listened.  “No, of course not.”  He endured another question then, “They are in a cheap, little hotel.  And they went to a cheap, little restaurant, and ate cheap food.  Then they sat there all evening drinking cheap wine and doing nothing.” 

He didn’t have a hair trigger temper; he simply always was in a bad mood.  After listening a few more moments his irritation growing he said, “Of course.  Yes.  Dammit, I know my instructions.” 

He then clicked off the cell phone, regretting the fact that it is impossible to slam a cell phone.  Taking a breath he calmed himself and returned to the desk.  He did not like being questioned.  Of course, he hadn’t been entirely truthful with his employer.  He had been spotted.  He was sure of that.  But, realistically how could anyone follow an American who drove like an old woman on an empty and long highway?  It was impossible.  He knew the BMW would have to be replaced, and he intended to do that later this evening.  But for now, he wanted to finish the evening’s ritual; he would feel better when it was complete.  Then he would solve the riddle of a new vehicle.

At 2 A.M. Recheau descended the stairs from his second floor room.  He found the small kitchenette where the morning breakfast was prepared and escaped through the rear door, being careful to place a strip of tape over the catch so he could easily and quietly reenter the building.  He walked to the street, turned left and then walked another four hundred feet.  There, he again turned left and went to an alley that paralleled the street.  Here he found the abused green Fiat he had spotted earlier that evening. 

This car did not have the tell tale red light blinking on the dash.  There was a good chance it did not have an operating alarm system.  He carefully examined the interior of the car.  He was fairly certain there was no aftermarket alarm on this car.  He removed a thin piece of metal from his coat and slipped it between the door glass and the frame.  In a moment he’d caught the door locking mechanism.  He pulled up.  The jimmy easily unlatched the door.  He paused.  It was possible he’d misread the car.  He removed several tools from his coat pocket.  He arranged them all in his left hand where they were instantly available as soon as the door was open.  One more time he carefully searched his surroundings for prying eyes.  Then, he braced for the car alarm.  Using his right hand, he opened the door and quickly sat in the driver’s seat.  No alarm sounded.  He relaxed.  Reaching into his other coat pocket he removed another tool.  He quickly popped the ignition key cylinder out and in less than forty-five seconds had the car running. 

He was a bit disappointed at the time, but in reality the car hadn’t started when the motor first turned over; his time would have been shorter if it had.  He drove a short way out of town to a small roadside café in Villers-Semeuse.  The café was deserted, as he knew it would be, and he parked the car in the rear of the building.  He then began the short five kilometer walk back to town, sure that in this countryside, at this time of night, no one would pass him on the road.  He was correct.

Chapter 29

Jim and Eve ate a breakfast of coffee, bread and cheese in a small café just a quarter mile from their hotel.  The morning was a bit cool and clouds were rolling in, but the walk to the café was pleasant.  As they approached the building the blue BMW they had seen yesterday passed them headed out of town.  Jim and Eve turned and watched it drive away.  They discussed the car for the remainder of their walk, but the conversation quickly changed as they ate their breakfast.  An hour later they were repacked and checked out of the hotel. 

Over breakfast they had discussed their plan for finding the barn.  Jim reviewed the brief description given in his Great grandfather’s diary, “a two story” barn.  Jim wasn’t sure that description would be of much help.  Most barns are two stories, a lower floor containing stalls and a drive bay where hay wagons came in, stopped, and were unloaded into the hay loft.  He didn’t know about European barns, but assumed they were essentially the same as American barns.  They fulfilled the same roll after all. 

“Their” barn lay on the outskirts of town.  He hoped that would be an aid in his search, but couldn’t be certain.  The city or village could have grown around the barn by now.  He assumed the town of 1918 could be seen from the barn given the diary’s description.  Also, his Great grandfather said they came “out of a woods” and across a field and there found the barn.  So, there was a wooded area somewhere near the barn, at least there had been nearly a hundred years ago.  Jim was afraid he had brought his wife on a bit of a wild goose chase when they should have been touring Paris. 

They double-checked the map, then began the twenty-five kilometer drive to Chehery.  Their route took them through Sedan, a town prominently mentioned in the diary.  It was the goal of the allied drive during the battle in question.  They could see parts of the town’s magnificent castle from the road.  Its bastions and drum towers prominent above the town skyline.  Their plan, loosely formed, had something to do with finding all the roads into and out of Chehery and then driving those roads to find the right barn.  It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all they could come up with.  Google Earth had not been as helpful as they had hoped in finding a two-story barn.  It was all they had, and as Eve had said, it was more hope than plan.

Chehery is not a large village.  There are six roadways leading in and out of the village.  Jim and Eve drove carefully into the village, studying the buildings in fields and near houses as they approached the village.  As Jim had guessed, all the barns seemed to be two stories.  Well, at least Jim thought so.  Every farmer had a stone barn.  But, they couldn’t tell if they met the definition of a one or two story barn.  Each had what to Jim appeared to be a hay loft, but was the loft considered a second story or part of the normal barn structure.  Why had Oushel Crenshaw remarked on it?  There simply was nothing out of the ordinary with these barns.  A small green Fiat passed them in the middle of town, stopped next to a small newsstand and the driver got out.  Aside from that, no one was on the street.  They drove through the village center and out the other side.  Slowly they crept along the road looking at each farm.  Nothing stood out. 

For the next three hours they cruised the roads in and around the village.  They examined each farm in the area.  Newer barns, made of metal or brick were easily dismissed.  But the older, stone barns were difficult to judge.  The structures began to blur together, and nothing seemed to catch their eye. 

They began to develop a routine.  Jim would drive until an interesting barn was sighted, usually by Eve.  Then, Jim would attempt to stop the car on the side of the road where a good view of the barn in question was afforded.  Often this was more easily said than done; stonewalls, ditches, shrubs, no shoulders on the road or a host of other things made pulling off the road a difficult proposition.  Once a car nearly collided with them after they had foolishly stopped just around the bend of a curve, hidden from traffic coming from behind.  The driver yelled something at them as he braked hard and swerved around them.  They were not sure what the man said, but it seemed angry and they were sure it was rude. 

They ate lunch in the village center.  Jim tried to explain their mission to the only other customer in the small café where they ate.  The old man’s hearing, Jim’s French, or a combination of both doomed the conversation from the beginning.  Their waiter was a young man who seemed to know a great deal about American pop stars and very little about his own town’s history.  The rest of the day was spent driving every back road and path they could find. 

By nightfall they were sitting in their room at what could only be described as a “rooming house slash bed and breakfast,” French edition.  Their hosts didn’t speak any English, but insisted they sit in the garden and talk.  After a shy beginning Eve’s college French began to pay dividends, and they had a grand time talking to each other using a pocket dictionary and charades.  They tried to ask about barns and the First World War, but the differences in language made it extremely difficult.  The entire evening was a mental exercise, but did help them recall much of the language they’d both studied years ago.  Too soon, the wine, cheese and bread ran out, everyone was tired anyway, and they all stumbled off to bed.   

The next morning they decided to search the village itself before returning to Paris.  The village was so small that their hosts had suggested they do so on foot.  After several hours of walking from one end of the village to the other multiple times, they were dejected, tired and ready to return to their inn.  Their hosts had suggested a visit to the town hall.  It was there in a small courtyard behind the main building they came across an obelisk devoted to the American’s of the 32nd Division.  On the west side of the obelisk was an engraving thanking the men of the 32nd for liberating the village in 1918.  Jim was thrilled.  It showed they were in the right area at least.  Engravings of flags and artillery pieces adorned the north and south sides of the monument.  On the east side, highlighted by the morning sun, were the names of the twenty-six men killed in the attack. 

“We’re in the right spot.  There’s the proof,” Jim said, a touch of despair in his voice.  “Eve, if we were going to find the barn it would be right outside this town.  Look, the battle occurred here.  We can’t find it.  I think we’ve struck out on finding that barn hon.” 

“Maybe the town has a library or a town historian?” Eve mused, trying to remain hopeful.  “We could see if there’s any town records or news accounts or something like that.  Maybe there’s an old town map?”

Jim agreed it was worth a try and they continued their search.  This time they were not only looking for evidence of his great grandfather’s unit being in the area but also, hopefully, a library.  An hour later, having seen every building in the village at least twice, they sat down on a bench and admitted defeat. 

“Eve, we’re done.  There’s nothing here.  Maybe we ought to go back to Paris tomorrow and at least enjoy our last few days in France.” 

Eve looked at him, “Jim, we’re not going to quit that easy, no we’re not.”  She turned to him.  “I don’t need to see Paris on this trip.  We can always come back.  You don’t need to worry about me hon; I don’t think we’re on a wild goose chase.  I’m having fun.  Besides we agreed to check this out, and we can’t do it half-way.” 

Jim just smiled at her.  “Okay, well, I just want to make sure you’re not bored and you know, if you’re not enjoying our trip….” 

“Don’t worry.  We’re doing exactly what we said we were going to do.”  She hugged him.

“Babe, I’m…., well, just thanks.  I’m glad you’re into this too,” Jim whispered.  Then, brightening up he said, “I do have one more thought.  If we could talk to the mayor or someone on the village council they might have a bit of town history we could use.” 

“There ya go, we’ve got a plan.  But, I do have one request.  Let’s go back to our room and let me soak my feet for a bit.  Then let’s go find the mayor.” 

“Great idea!  My dog’s are barkin’ too!”  Jim said with a laugh.  Slowly they stood, each making comments about their sore feet and began to walk back to their room.

Suddenly, Jim stopped and grabbed Eve’s arm.  “Eve, what was the name of the Captain mentioned in the diary?  The one killed by a mortar round?” 

“I don’t remember.  Why?” she replied. 

“I’m not certain.  It should have jumped out at me when I looked at the monument.  I just don’t recall seeing it, so maybe I’m not remembering it right,” Jim said.

“I really can’t remember the Captain’s name, but there was another guy mentioned.  John something,” she said.  “The monument is just right over there.”  She pointed.  “Why don’t we go back to the monument and see if we can find the Captain’s name?” 

Despite their sore feet they nearly ran back to the monument.  Jim reverently read the names.  “I see two Johns,” Jim finally said.  “I don’t see any Captain listed.  That’s a little odd don’t you think?  I mean, it’s pretty clear in the diary.  The Captain was killed attacking this town.” 

“Give me a minute,” Eve said.  Turning toward her, he realized she hadn’t been reading the names at all.  Eve was pulling a small flyer off a kiosk on the street corner.  Turning it over she took a pen from her purse and began to copy down all twenty-six names.  The note was quickly folded and in her purse with the pen. 

They spent the next thirty minutes examining the monument and exploring the little courtyard.  Then, they attempted to enter the town hall.  Jim pulled on the door handle, then realized the building was closed.  A sign in the window seemed to say it was opened only when official business needed to be transacted.  They reexamined the street corners since many corner buildings had small historical markers embedded in the walls.  Ultimately, the obelisk in the courthouse backyard proved to be the only monument that listed any names, and it was the only one engraved in English.

Dejected, they slowly made their way back to their room.  “Well,” Eve said as she flung her purse onto the bed in their room, “maybe we can find something out about the Captain and John what’s-his-name when we get to a computer.” 

After they had both freshened up from their day’s work they decided to sit on the porch and relax.  Before heading downstairs Jim pulled the diary out of the suitcase and hurried to catch up with Eve.  When he arrived he found Eve sitting with a cat comfortably curled in her lap.  It took Jim a few minutes to find the appropriate section. 

“It’s Captain Walters and a John Turner,” Jim said. 

Eve examined the list of names she had copied from the obelisk.  “Neither one is here.”  

“I don’t understand. How can that be?”  Jim was becoming afraid that this was all a hoax.  Just then their host appeared with a tray holding a pot of coffee, another of steamed milk, sugar, and cups.  Jim fixed his café-au-lait and drank in silence.  After several minutes he said, “I’ll be right back.”

Leaving Eve and her new friend the cat, Jim went upstairs and found the book his great grandfather had been keeping.  He brought it down to the porch and resumed his seat. 

“Remember that big, old book that was in the box in the attic?  Here it is.”  He handed the book to Eve. 

The book, printed shortly after the end of the war, was a history of the 32nd Division.  Jim began at the back of the book, in a section called “Unit Heroes”.  It listed all those members of the unit killed in action.  There were over two hundred names.  Since the names were by unit, not alphabetical, it took him several minutes.  Eventually, Jim found a Captain Walters and a Corporal John Turner.  He then took the list of names Eve had copied from the obelisk and began to compare those names.  After forty-five minutes he looked up, satisfied.  They were all listed. 

“I don’t get it Jim.  What happened to John Turner and Captain Walters?  Why aren’t they listed? 

Jim was as confused as she was.