Where Treasure Hides

by Johnnie Alexander Donley

  Ian blew out a deep breath as he folded the map. The detours and delays had become more frequent the deeper they drove into Germany. The bomb-cratered roads were clogged with refugees—little more than rag-covered bones shuffling to the displaced-person camps—German soldiers eager to surrender, and indescribable destruction. A world so easily destroyed. How long would it take to rebuild?

  As Cowboy maneuvered the jeep along the rough road, each kilometer bringing them closer to Scheidemann’s chalet, Ian’s gut tightened with nervous anticipation. Not that he expected to find the count at home, just waiting around for Ian to show up and arrest him. But he liked to dream that could happen.

  Mostly, though, he hoped to find art that had been stolen from Holland. If he could return even one Old Master on Alison’s behalf, then the grueling journey across France and Germany would have been worth every sleepless night and tasteless meal.

  He pulled the last letter he had received from Libby out of his pocket. She had drawn him a picture of her and the twins in front of the gazebo, labeling each of them by name. Hard to believe she would be eight years old in just a few more months. No matter what happened at the chalet, he planned to be home for the biggest birthday party she’d ever had. And to become the dad the war, and his grief, hadn’t allowed him to be.

  * * *

  The demolition team rigged the cave with explosives under the personal supervision of a surprise visitor—Reichsmarschall Göring. Alison didn’t protest when Theodor suggested she stay in her room after Göring coerced an invitation to dinner and a night’s lodging.

  The next morning, she watched from her studio window as Göring and his adjutant drove down the mountain. Going downstairs, she joined Theodor in the sitting room where a small fire crackled in the fireplace, more for its ambiance than its heat. He sat on the cocoa-brown sofa, still as the Grecian statue in the corner except for the nervous tapping of his fingers.

  Unsure of his mood, she sat in a nearby chair without saying a word.

  “He’s a monster.” Theodor spat the words.

  “I know,” she said quietly, her fingers unconsciously rubbing her scar.

  “He demands I move all these paintings to the cave.” He waved his hand about the room.

  Alison glanced at the painting above the mantel, the place of honor. “He remembered The Girl in the Garden?”

  “He remembered, all right. Sat at my table, ate my food, then pardoned me for my transgressions.”

  “What transgressions?”

  “Stealing his painting.” Theodor rose and walked toward the hearth. “Apparently I should be grateful I’m not being court-martialed.”

  Alison bit her tongue to keep any of the hundred retorts in her head from coming out of her mouth. She had seen Theodor angry, but never like this.

  “He ordered me—ordered me—to take all my paintings to the cave.”

  Her heart stilled. “Why?”

  “To protect them from the Americans. ‘The Americans will not appreciate their value. The Americans are degenerate scum.’ This from that Nazi nincompoop who can’t even spot a forged Vermeer.”

  She smiled slightly, remembering Theodor’s humorous anecdote of how the Reichshmarschall spent a small fortune on a supposed Vermeer that so obviously wasn’t. They had both laughed at Göring’s foolishness. But the pretentious toad wasn’t so funny now.

  “How could the paintings be safer in an explosive-rigged cave than here?”

  “He shot at your father’s painting, Alison. He doesn’t care if they’re destroyed.”

  “But he can’t make you move them.”

  “He gave me a direct order. And a veiled threat.”

  Alison gazed up at the restored portrait, studying her mother’s playful smile. Theodor had brought the painting here for her, and now Göring held it like a sword over his neck. He had no choice but to comply. “Can I help?”

  “Göring is sending the guards from the cave to ‘help.’”

  “Is he coming back?”

  “Not today.”

  She stood up and gave him a determined look. “The guards aren’t touching my father’s painting. Or my watercolors.”

  Theodor smiled for the first time; then he walked toward her and brushed her loose hair away from her scar. “I promise you, Alison. I will not let them blow up that cave.”

  “I know,” she said softly.

  “I guess we’d better get started.” He looked up at The Girl. “She’ll have to come out of the frame.”

  “I think there are packaging tubes in my studio. I’ll go get one.”

  “Change your shoes if you want to go to the cave.”

  She did a quick about-face. “I can go?”

  “If you’d like. Just hurry.”

  By the time Alison returned from her studio, dressed in trousers and hiking boots, Frau Mueller was dragging crates into the dining room for the collection of watercolor landscapes that hung on its walls. Theodor stood on a ladder in front of the fireplace, maneuvering The Girl from its fastenings.

  The guards arrived with more packaging materials. Within a few hours, the walls of the main rooms were bare, the art packed and loaded in the guards’ truck. The smaller sculptures and figurines were placed in Theodor’s car. “We’ll follow you,” he told the guards, sending them on ahead.

  After they left, he beckoned Alison to follow him into his study. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a small pistol. “I want you to take this.”

  She stared at the gun, unsure what to say or do. “I’ve never fired one before.”

  “Hopefully you won’t have to now. But at least you’ll have it. Just in case.”

  “What are you planning?”

  “I’m not sure.” He stared at her, a strange light in his eyes. “Will you do me a favor?”

  “If I can.”

  “Don’t use that pistol on me.”

  * * *

  Cowboy parked the jeep outside the village tavern near several other Allied vehicles, including two American tanks. Ian found the Army unit’s captain guzzling a mug of beer and introduced himself.

  “Jeremy Taggart,” replied the captain, raising his mug in salute. “Friends call me Tag.”

  “Have you heard of Count Theodor Scheidemann? He has a chalet somewhere around here.”

  “Hey, innkeeper,” shouted Tag. “Do you know a—what was the name again?”

  Ian turned to the grizzled man behind the bar. “Count Theodor Scheidemann.”

  “Ja.” The innkeeper nodded, wiping his hands on his grimy apron. “His family here long, long time.”

  “How do I get to his chalet?”

  “My grandson can show you. He’s a good boy.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I get him for you.”

  As the innkeeper disappeared through a swinging door, Tag nudged Ian. “What unit are you with?”

  “Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives.”

  “No kidding? What are you doing out here?”

  “Recovery and protection of cultural treasures.”

  Tag whistled. “Treasure, huh? Mind if I come along?’

  Ian hesitated, sizing up the American captain as he considered the offer. Light brown hair in need of a trim, scraggly chin in need of a shave. “Where are you from?”

  “Small place you never heard of. Prairie Pines, Illinois. Near Chicago.”

  Ian’s jaw twitched. If he could ever visit any American city, that one would be it. The city where Alison had lived as a child.

  “You may not think it to look at me, Major, but I know a Rembrandt when I see one,” Tag said. “At least twice a year, my mom dragged me to the big city for a little culture.”

  Ian didn’t anticipate any trouble at the chalet, but another gun might come in handy. And he’d need the extra muscle if they recovered any looted art. “Do you have any buddies who might be interested? Dependable chaps?”

  “My entire unit came ashore at Normandy, Major. We’re all depend
able.”

  “I’d say you are,” he said, clasping the captain’s shoulder. “Choose two or three of your men and meet me out front in fifteen minutes.”

  “We’ll be there, sir.” Tag downed the rest of his beer in one huge gulp and hurried out the door as the innkeeper reappeared with his grandson, a spare-shouldered boy in his mid-teens.

  “Major Ian Devlin.” Ian extended a hand and the boy took it, his grip surprisingly strong.

  “I am Kurt,” he said, his accent passable.

  “Your grandfather said you could guide me to the Scheidemann chalet. You know where it is?”

  “I have been there.” The boy tilted his head toward his grandfather. “We make deliveries sometimes.”

  “Do you know when the count was last there?”

  “He came yesterday. With other officers. One very important, with flags on his car.”

  “Yesterday?” Ian stared at the boy. “Is he still there?”

  The boy shrugged. “The important officer left today. But I don’t know about the count.”

  Adrenaline pumped through Ian’s veins, speeding his pulse and putting every muscle on full alert. “Come on,” he said. “I want to see if Count Scheidemann is still at home.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Theodor shut the passenger door after Alison climbed into the Mercedes, then walked around to the driver’s side. Before opening his door, he gazed up at the chalet, postcard perfect against its alpine backdrop. He pressed his lips together, experiencing an unfamiliar sense of loss. Generations of Scheidemann nobles had found refuge within its rustic walls, but he sensed that when he drove away this time, he would never return, even if circumstances allowed it. Göring’s vile presence had sullied its serenity, defiled its beauty.

  For now, he had two concerns: to protect the art in the caves and to escape the Allies with Alison. As he slid into the driver’s seat and started the ignition, he glanced at her. Her blonde hair hung in a single braid down her back, and she held a man’s hunting jacket on her lap, the same one she had worn when her plane landed in Stockholm.

  “Do you have the pistol?”

  “In my pocket.” She patted the jacket.

  “What about the key?”

  “I have it, too.”

  “As soon as you can, unlock the door. Just don’t let the guards see you. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.” She stared at him. “Is that how we’re getting away?”

  “If necessary.”

  “And then what?”

  He guided the Mercedes around a deep rut caused by winter’s bitter ice. “One thing at a time, Alison.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her bite her lip and turn toward the window. With a noiseless sigh, he tried to focus on steering the heavy car down the long slope. But his heart wouldn’t let him. Memories of the long-ago Vermeer exhibit, where they’d first met, interrupted his concentration. She’d delighted him with her spontaneous gaiety and depth of artistic insight. He knew then that he wanted her for his wife, no matter how long he might have to wait.

  She didn’t know of the many arguments he’d had with his father because he refused to consider any other prospects. Not one of his father’s chosen beauties, heiresses with impeccable lineages, could seduce his heart from Alison.

  It had never occurred to him that she didn’t feel the same for him, that she would marry someone else. If only his father hadn’t forbidden him to see her during those first years, hadn’t stopped him from writing to her, perhaps he wouldn’t have lost her. He had obeyed his father, ever the dutiful son, biding his time until the old man’s death.

  Still he waited, his heart praying for her to give up her romantic illusions and give herself to him. All he needed was more time. He sensed it in her recent watercolors. The ethereal spark he’d seen in her painting of the London fountain no longer appeared. Instead, an exquisite wistfulness graced her latest works. He had given her that. Someday she would realize it.

  * * *

  Ian leaned forward, staring up at the picturesque chalet as Cowboy braked in front of the broad veranda. Tag and his two buddies, following behind, parked beside them. Climbing out of the jeep, Ian unsnapped his holster and assessed his surroundings. No other vehicles, no moving curtains. All was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  “Stay in the jeep, Kurt,” he said softly. “Captain, you and your men have guard duty.”

  Tag nodded and motioned for his men to take up sentry positions.

  “Cowboy, you come with me.” As Ian headed for the porch, Cowboy grabbed his rifle and joined him.

  “You want me to kick in the door, Major?”

  “Let’s try knocking first.”

  “Beggin’ the major’s pardon, but that’s not as much fun.”

  Ian rang the bell and pounded on the door. “Anyone home?”

  A few moments later, the door cracked open. A gray-haired woman wearing a black dress and white apron peered at him with frightened eyes.

  “Good afternoon,” Ian said in German. “Is Count Scheidemann at home?”

  She shook her head and started to close the door, but Ian stuck his boot in the jamb. “Do you know where he is?”

  “I can tell you nothing.” She backed away as Ian forced open the door.

  He stepped inside, followed by Cowboy, and looked around the foyer, sensing a strange vacancy before realizing that the walls were bare. The woman cowered against a far wall as Ian entered a handsomely furnished parlor. A ladder stood in front of the massive fireplace and, here again, the empty walls lent a desolate air to the room. He frowned and returned to the foyer. A rapid stream of colloquial German poured forth from the woman.

  Ian turned to Cowboy. “Did you understand any of that?”

  “She’s upset, sir.”

  “No kidding.” He tilted his head toward the door. “Bring Kurt in here.”

  While he waited for the boy, Ian decided to take a different approach. “I’m Major Ian Devlin, British Army. We aren’t here to hurt you, only to find Count Scheidemann.”

  “The count isn’t home.”

  “Please, your name?”

  “Frau Mueller.”

  “Is there anyone else in the house?”

  “I’m alone.” She started as Kurt came through the door.

  “Do you know her?” Ian asked the boy in English.

  “She is from the village.”

  “Persuade her to tell us where we can find the count. And tell her we want to know where he hid the stolen art.”

  Ian listened, understanding most of the conversation, as Kurt explained that the soldiers knew the count had been there the day before, and she nodded vigorously. He arrived with no notice, and she had prepared dinner for him and his guests. Kurt appropriately sympathized.

  Tamping down his irritation, Ian stood at the entrance to the parlor and studied the fireplace. “Why the ladder?” he interrupted Frau Mueller. She stared at him, and he asked again, “Why is the ladder in front of the fireplace? Speak slowly.”

  “To remove the garden picture.” She waved around the room. “They take all the pictures.”

  “Who did?”

  “The count. His lady. The soldiers.”

  “His lady?” Ian stiffened as a flash of light exploded in his brain. He rubbed his temple against the impossible thought. “Who is she?” he demanded.

  “The lady who stays here. The artist.” She pointed toward the ceiling. “Upstairs.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “He doesn’t tell me her name. He doesn’t allow me to speak to her.”

  “Is she here now? Upstairs?”

  “She went with the count. About an hour ago.”

  Ian grabbed Kurt’s shoulder. “Find out where they’ve gone.” Then he raced up the stairs, looking into each room. The third one he entered, decorated in tranquil blues and greens, seemed to beckon him inside. A hairbrush and cosmetics neatly adorned a rosewood vanity, but a woman’s dress and heels littered th
e floor. He was bending to pick up the dress when he noticed a sketch pad on top of the dresser.

  Heart pounding relentlessly against his ribs, he lifted the cover of the sketch pad. His own face stared back at him.

  Stumbling backward, Ian knocked against the vanity and its chair toppled over with a crash. He gasped for air and bumped a lamp, sending it tumbling to the floor as he staggered to the bed with the pad clutched to his chest.

  He sat on the edge of the mattress and swiped his eyes as he flipped the pages. Sketches of Libby, of the twins, the ancient oak and the gazebo. Of the lake he had seen outside the chalet. Of graceful swans and towering pines. Tears burned his cheeks and red-hot anger flared throughout his body as the drawings changed to grotesque monsters and misshapen faces.

  “Major?” Cowboy stood in the doorway, concern etched on his young face. “You okay?”

  Ian rubbed his eyes against his sleeve and slowly stood. “Did Kurt find out where they went?” he asked as he closed the pad.

  “To a cave. Just around the mountain a ways.”

  “Can he find it?”

  “He thinks so.”

  “I want to make one thing perfectly clear. To you and to your buddies out there.”

  Cowboy’s eyes shifted nervously. “What’s that, sir?”

  “When we catch up to Scheidemann, he’s mine.” Ian’s voice, strong and determined, sounded strange in his ears. He pulled out his pistol and checked that it was loaded. “Understood?”

  “Okay,” Cowboy said hesitantly. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, just what are you going to do with him?”

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  The corporal’s eyes darted around the room. “I’m guessing you know the lady.”

  Ian holstered the Walther and strode from the room. “She’s my wife.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Alison wandered through the cave while the guards unloaded the truck. Lines of wiring snaked among the crates and display racks, connecting bundles of dynamite. She wished Theodor had given her a knife instead of the pistol.

  Reaching the wooden door, she glanced over her shoulder. A wall of crates blocked her view of the entrance. She unlocked the door and turned the handle, tensing as the hinges creaked. For a brief moment, she considered dashing through it. But even if she reached the chalet—and without a flashlight she’d never make it through the tunnel—she would still be trapped.