by Sarah Sundin
The basket sat behind the half-door. A fire there would block the spies’ exit through the back and force them out the front—away from the getaway car and away from Tess.
She crawled to the oven and grabbed a matchbox from on top. Then she snatched the phone book for kindling.
Back to the basket. She trailed rags along the wall to the half-door. Anything to spread the flames.
The spies and Yvette made enough noise to cover her rustlings and the occasional squeak of a floorboard. But she had to act fast.
Hunched beside the wicker basket, she struck a match. She grimaced at the noise, but the sounds in the seating area didn’t change.
Tess held the match to the phone book. When orange flames raced along the cover, she set the book among the rags and arranged a drenched rag in the fiery path.
Now to hide. But where? The cabinets under the display case would be full, and she had to remain close to Yvette.
Her breath came faster and faster. She spotted a dark space—a kneehole under the cash register down by the window. Tess slipped in and pulled her knees to her chest, her heart pummeling her thighs. Oh Lord, please, please, please.
A faint crackling, a whiff of burning oil. Thank goodness the fire had taken.
“There! I got the noose on.”
Three sets of feet thumped to the ground.
“The next few minutes must be perfect,” Jean-Auguste said. “As soon as I kick the table out from under her, Klaus will grab her legs and I’ll stand on a chair to remove her gag. Then we’ll let her hang. After a minute, we’ll remove the straitjacket. She must have claw marks on her neck as she regrets taking her life. Then we’ll pack the guns and bindings in my briefcase. Leave nothing behind. When we’re sure she’s dead, we’ll escape.”
Couldn’t they hear the fire crackling? Tess pulled a hankie from the breast pocket of her blouse and pressed it over her nose and mouth.
“Do you smell smoke?” Liese said.
“Fire! Put it out!” The half-door banged against the wall.
Tess tucked in even tighter. What if the fire was small enough for them to extinguish? Then they’d come looking for the source. For her.
They cried out and cussed. “Put it out!”
“Smother it. Use your jackets.”
But the crackles only increased.
“It’s too late!”
A crashing sound in the seating area, and a muffled feminine grunt.
Oh no. They’d knocked the table out from under Yvette.
“Grab her legs,” Jean-Auguste said. “Take off the gag and straitjacket. We can’t wait.”
Smoke scratched at Tess’s eyes and throat and lungs, and the urge to cough swelled inside. She stifled the cough against her knees.
“We can’t get out the back,” Jean-Auguste said. “We’ll have to go out the front and soon, before someone calls the fire department.”
“Let’s go!”
“Not yet!” Jean-Auguste said. “Get that gun. No, not hers. Leave hers.”
“That’s the last of it. We must leave now.”
“Oh, Yvette, my sweet,” Jean-Auguste said. “I must bid you adieu.”
The door opened, footsteps led outside, and the door slammed.
Tess waited a second to make sure they’d left. Then she unfolded herself from her hiding spot.
Yellow and orange flames coiled up the wall and snaked toward Papa’s painting of the Pont Neuf. Thick black smoke roiled along the ceiling toward—
Yvette! Hanging from the ceiling fan, still wearing the blonde wig, her eyes bulging, feet flailing, hands grasping the rope around her neck.
“I’m coming!” Tess coughed.
With the half-door engulfed in flames, Tess would have to climb over the display cabinet. She pressed her hands on top of the glass, hoisted herself up, and swung her legs around to the other side. Stupid skirt slowed her down.
She jumped to the floor and slid a table under Yvette. “Set your feet down.”
Yvette did, but her knees buckled. She was too weak.
“Hold on. I’ll help you.” Tess hiked her skirt to her hips and climbed onto the table. It creaked and swayed, but Tess hugged her friend and lifted her to relieve the pressure. “Can you? Can you get the noose off?”
Yvette gasped and fumbled with the rope, her movements slow and jerky.
“Hurry, sweetie. I don’t know how long I can hold you.” Smoke stung her eyes and brought up another cough, and Tess stumbled under Yvette’s weight.
Then Yvette collapsed into Tess, and both ladies tumbled to the ground. Pain shot through Tess’s hip and arm, and she cried out. But Yvette was free!
“Let’s get out of here!” Tess pulled Yvette to her feet and struggled to the door. Yvette leaned hard on her, gagging and coughing and rubbing at her throat.
Tess shoved the door open, dragged her friend outside, sucked down clean air.
From either side, two men dashed to her, guns high.
Tess screamed.
“Miss Beaumont?” Agent Sheffield lowered his gun. “What are you . . . ?”
“Never mind me.” Hugging Yvette to her side, Tess jerked her head toward the street. “Jean-Auguste! Two others! Don’t let them—”
“Already arrested. Mrs. Robillard and Miss Marchand as well.” The agent holstered his gun and wrapped his arm around Yvette’s waist from the other side. “We were waiting outside.”
Agent Walter Hayes took Tess’s place, and the men guided Yvette to the other side of the street, where a black sedan sat in the rain.
Tess followed, her breath burning from the fire and from indignation. “You were waiting outside? Why didn’t you barge in? Why did you let—”
“No!” Yvette barked, glaring over her shoulder at Tess.
“No?” Tess stopped in the middle of the street, the wet asphalt cold and sharp on her stocking feet. Rain pelted her face and shoulders.
“You’ll have to come with us, Miss Beaumont.” Agent Hayes motioned to the car. “Quickly, before the fire draws spectators. And reporters.”
Small groups clustered on the sidewalk, and a siren howled a few streets away.
“Now, Miss Beaumont.” Agent Sheffield shot her a hard look. “We’ll answer your questions in the car.”
Tess slid into the backseat with Agent Sheffield and Yvette. Agent Hayes took the wheel, and a third man sat in the passenger seat—a large, dark-haired man.
Yvette’s date at the Cocoanut Grove! The man who followed her.
So many questions crowded Tess’s mouth that none could burst free.
Agent Hayes drove down the street. Darkened car windows obscured Tess’s view.
Finally, a question tumbled out. “Why didn’t you save her? They tried to kill her.”
Yvette rubbed her rope-burnt neck. “I—didn’t—want—”
“Rest your throat, Miss Lafontaine,” the mystery man said.
“She didn’t want us to save her,” Agent Sheffield said.
“Yvette . . .” Tess clutched her friend’s arm. Even though she mourned Henri, she shouldn’t have wished her own life away.
Agent Sheffield took off his damp fedora and smoothed his sandy hair. “After we learned of Mr. Dubois’s murder this morning, we stationed an agent near the bakery. When you called in your tip, I put you on hold to notify him by radio. He intercepted Miss Lafontaine and briefed her. At that point we didn’t have enough to convict Mr. Fournier—it was all circumstantial evidence and conjecture. We needed a confession.”
“I knew—I could—”
“Please, Miss Lafontaine.” Agent Sheffield glanced around Yvette at Tess. “She wanted that confession too, and she knew she could get it. She went in willingly, knowing she would die.”
Tess’s chest simmered. “Why couldn’t you storm in and save her?”
“If we’d stormed in, they would have shot her, and we would have shot them. We wanted to catch them alive, put them on trial, and send a message to the Nazis.”
&
nbsp; “We got that confession,” Agent Hayes said.
Tess sat up straighter. “I can testify too. I heard every word.”
“That won’t be necessary. We listened in from next door and recorded the conversation. Mr. Fournier will be convicted of espionage and murder.”
He’d go to the electric chair. “Oh my goodness.”
“Miss Lafontaine is a true heroine.”
She was, and Tess gazed at her former roommate with admiration and regret.
“Where . . .” Yvette coughed and frowned at Tess. “Where did you . . . ?”
“Where did I come from? After I called the FBI, I tried to stop you, but I was too late. I couldn’t abandon you, so I sneaked in the back door. I thought I could cause a diversion.”
“You started the fire,” Agent Sheffield said.
“You saved my . . . life.” Tears welled in Yvette’s golden-brown eyes.
She had, hadn’t she? But only Yvette deserved accolades. She was willing to sacrifice her life for the cause. “Is it true? What Jean-Auguste said about you?”
Yvette pressed a finger to her lips. “Tell no one. Not Mary. Not Lillian.”
“We’ll construct a story for you, Miss Beaumont,” Agent Sheffield said. “First we need to take Miss Lafontaine away.”
“Are you able to travel?” the mystery man asked, concern on his broad face.
“Oui.” Yvette’s chin rose, exposing the red mark around her neck. “And I’m ready.”
Tess’s throat tightened. “I won’t see you again, will I?”
Yvette clasped Tess’s shoulder and kissed both her cheeks. “Maybe someday.”
In the confined space of the backseat, Tess saluted her friend and her heroine. “Au revoir, ma amie.”
45
South of Greenland
How much longer? Dan stared at the VHF radio receiver, willing Lt. William Chamberlain to send word of a sighting. His Avenger had been in the air thirteen minutes. The pilot should have arrived at the coordinates predicted by Huff-Duff.
Dan resisted the urge to pace in the jam-packed CIC. He needed to stay out of the way and let the crew work. But his foot tapped on the deck, sending a Morse code message.
The radio receiver crackled, and Chamberlain announced his call sign. “One hearse, zero-eight-seven, twenty-three. Dropped four depth bombs in straddle. Hearse dove.”
One sailor whooped, but everyone else stayed on their tasks.
Elation drove Dan to the plotting table. Bearing 087 degrees, twenty-three miles away. The sub was farther south than on Huff-Duff, reasonable for half an hour’s travel.
Chamberlain had forced the U-boat to submerge, possibly damaged, but he was out of depth bombs. He needed reinforcement.
Within minutes, the flight deck rumbled as Lt. Howard Roberts took to the air in another Avenger.
Then they waited. And monitored.
Dan cruised by the stations. The Huff-Duff worked. It allowed Chamberlain to attack a sub that hadn’t been detected by radar or sonar or aerial search.
Twenty minutes. Still nothing from the radio, and Dan buried his hands in the pockets of his khaki trousers so he wouldn’t fiddle with the dial. The pilots would notify the Bogue in due time.
Thirty minutes. So the Germans were staying submerged, a wise choice if they wanted to live.
From a defensive point of view, the day’s actions were a success. The two escort groups had prevented attacks on the cargo ships. But to win the war, the Allies needed to sink enough U-boats to make the battle unbearably costly to the Germans.
The radio crackled, and Dan dashed over as Roberts identified himself. His report flew in, clipped and professional, but no less exultant.
Roberts and Chamberlain had attacked the U-boat, and a white flag flew from the periscope.
Dan whooped this time. All around the CIC, sailors and officers cheered and clapped each other on the back. The Bogue had her first victory.
The celebration didn’t last, however. Duties needed to be performed.
Two more Avengers were ordered to launch in case the Germans were being tricky. Roberts was vectoring the Canadian destroyer St. Laurent to his coordinates to pick up survivors. And Chamberlain was returning to the Bogue.
Dan headed to the ready room to debrief Chamberlain. All along the catwalk, crewmen grinned and cheered in the late-afternoon sun. The training and trials had turned to success.
An Avenger whizzed down the deck and lifted into the blue sky, and a minute later a second joined it, off to help Roberts.
A white flag of surrender. Wouldn’t it be something if they could capture an intact U-boat with code books and everything? That would be a greater victory than a hundred sinkings.
In the ready room, Dan pulled out fresh forms. For the first time, he felt eager to fill them out.
The flight deck rattled overhead, and the men in the ready room stared up in expectation.
In minutes, Chamberlain’s crew assembled around the table. The pilot’s smile stretched from one of his prominent ears to the other.
Chamberlain had surprised the sub on the surface, his attack coming so quickly the Germans didn’t have time to shoot back. Four depth bombs in a perfect straddle and down she went. Chamberlain circled until Roberts arrived.
The U-boat surfaced directly under Roberts, but the Avenger’s depth bombs drove the sub under again. A minute later the U-boat popped to the surface, bow high. Then the two Avengers strafed the dying sub to keep the sailors away from the deck guns and to prevent them from scuttling the ship.
The U-boat bobbed down and up one more time, then in a flurry of American machine-gun bullets, the Germans strung a white sheet to the periscope.
Dan and the senior officers sifted through the jubilation for the data. Now more than ever, they needed complete reports.
“Sir?” The talker held the intercom phone to his chest. “The St. Laurent arrived at the coordinates. The U-boat is scuttled, confirmed sunk. The St. Laurent is picking up survivors.”
Capturing an intact U-boat was an extreme longshot anyway. But they had a confirmed sinking, and Dan wanted to put exclamation points all over his report.
The Bogue was the first American auxiliary carrier to sink a submarine, and the first of the Allied auxiliary and escort carriers to sink a sub without assistance by surface ships.
They’d made history.
A few minutes later, Howard Roberts landed and added more details to Dan’s report, details the ASWU would love of excellent attacks, communication, and coordination.
Dan had missed dinner, but he grabbed a sandwich and took it up to the catwalk. He leaned on the railing and munched on his drying sandwich, savoring the cold sea air and the majesty of the ocean. The sun rested low before him, scattering gold light over the gray waves. This was his last time at sea on a warship, but he’d gone out well. No heroics, no valiant deeds, but he’d done his part. More importantly, he’d obeyed God.
Back in Boston, he could face Commander Lewis and his censure. He could face Stanley Randolph and his smug retribution. He could even face Tess in her pain and anger.
Tess. Dan picked off a chunk of bread and rolled it into a pea-sized ball in his fingers. He’d promised her polite military distance, but that sounded less and less appealing.
Was it even fair? That niggling returned, but this time it poked at his heart.
After the kiss, Tess had fled with a handful of hurt words and accusations. But five weeks had passed. She’d had time to think and pray and talk to her girlfriends—that last thought made him flinch. She might even have read his letter.
Tess had a kind and generous heart. She wasn’t stubborn and unbending like Dan. What if she had explanations and apologies? Would it be right to shut her down with cool indifference?
Dan chewed on his ham sandwich and his dilemma. Hadn’t he told Tess that he had a right to be heard? How could he deny her the same right? And if she only offered more hurt words, couldn’t he take it like a man?
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The sun sank lower, the golds deepening to reds and purples.
He missed her. He missed her humor and her insight and her compassion.
Should he give their relationship another chance? He’d told her their differences were insurmountable, but that wasn’t true. That was his wounded pride.
One problem. He’d promised her he wouldn’t pursue her, and he always kept his promises.
Dan jammed the last bite into his mouth. Perhaps he’d have to break a promise for the first time he could remember.
What was it about that woman that turned the tides of his will as surely as the moon?
Boston
Sunday, May 23, 1943
The sermon was wonderful, Tess was sure of it, but she could only think of the previous day. Everything in her ached for Yvette’s loss. No doubt remained that Yvette loved Henri. No doubt remained that Yvette was the bravest woman Tess had ever met.
And no one could know just how brave.
For Yvette to remain with the OSS, her presence at the bakery and her role in the arrest of the spies had to be kept secret, so Tess was coached in a story.
The Sunday morning papers trumpeted how the FBI had arrested three Nazi agents. A courageous draftsman named Henri Dubois had learned they were spies, so Mr. Fournier murdered him. But that murder provided the clues the FBI needed to arrest the little gang.
In a separate story, the papers reported how Celeste Robillard had set her bakery on fire with the help of her employee, Solange Marchand, in order to collect insurance money. With decreased business due to shortages of sugar and butter, Mrs. Robillard resorted to crime to pay her bills.
The fire had almost cost the life of Miss Marchand. An officer in the WAVES, who wished to remain anonymous, had visited the bakery but found it closed. Hearing screams, the officer let herself in the back door to find the bakery on fire. Mrs. Robillard escaped, but Miss Marchand was trapped. Beating back the flames with her raincoat, the officer led Miss Marchand to safety out the front door.
Tess gripped the black leather cover of her Bible. That was the story she had been ordered to tell for national security.