The Curious Case of the Missing Figurehead: A Novel (A Professor and Mrs. Littlefield Mystery)

by Diane Noble

  To Anna Lou and Doris, my beautiful aunts

  Your laughter, joy, faith, prayer life, storytelling,

  and the music you make with piano and song,

  went into the creation of El and Hyacinth.

  At 89 and 96, you are an inspiration. You shine!

  To Kris, my precious cousin

  Your courage, your giving heart, your sense of humor,

  your many talents, your grace … are a beacon for all who know you.

  I am in awe of you, my cousin-friend, and forever will be.

  For reasons too many to list, you are my hero. You are in my heart.

  To Dona, my Idyllwild angel

  God gave me the gift of a very special friend during the

  writing of this book. As usual, His timing was perfect. I will never forget

  how you “flew” down the mountain to help when we needed it most.

  You were (and are) truly love-in-action. Your friendship is a treasure.

  To Marihelen and Linda, my forever friends

  Through the years, we’ve shared joys and sorrows, laughter and tears,

  good times, challenging times, and everything in between.

  Our “sisterhood” is one of my life’s greatest treasures.

  You, too, are written into the hearts of El and Hyacinth.

  I love you all!

  Contents

  Cover

  Prologue—Madeleine

  Chapter One—The Professor

  Chapter Two—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six—Hyacinth

  Chapter Seven—The Professor

  Chapter Eight—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Nine—Hyacinth

  Chapter Ten—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve—Hyacinth

  Chapter Thirteen—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen—The Professor

  Chapter Eighteen—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty—Hyacinth

  Chapter Twenty-one—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Twenty-two—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Twenty-three—The Professor

  Chapter Twenty-four—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Twenty-five—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Twenty-six—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Twenty-seven—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Twenty-eight—The Professor

  Chapter Twenty-nine—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Thirty—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Thirty-one—Hyacinth

  Chapter Thirty-two—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Thirty-three—Hyacinth

  Chapter Thirty-four—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Thirty-five—Hyacinth

  Chapter Thirty-six—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Thirty-seven—The Professor

  Chapter Thirty-eight—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Thirty-nine—The Professor

  Chapter Forty—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Forty-one—Mrs. Littlefield

  Chapter Forty-two—Mrs. Littlefield

  Epilogue—Mrs. Littlefield

  AfterWords

  From the Author

  Discussion Questions

  Extras

  When we find someone who is brave, fun, intelligent, and loving,

  we have to thank the universe.

  Maya Angelou

  Prologue

  Madeleine

  Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.

  Frederick Buechner

  Paris, France, April 1942

  Seventeen-year-old Madeleine Dague wrapped her arms around herself, trying to draw warmth from her thin, worn coat. Hurrying along the wet boulevard, head down, shoulders hunched, she carried no form of identity, no papers, nothing that could trace her back to the Maquis that connected her family to La Résistance Française.

  She carried only fear deep inside, fear that she would fail her first mission.

  Along Rue Gabriel, the wet pavement reflected the glint of streetlights. The time of curfew neared. Shopkeepers slammed and locked their metal gates. Few people remained on the sidewalks, and those who did seemed to pull into themselves, just as Madeleine did, in an attempt to go unnoticed. She chose a family hurrying along the avenue and adjusted her speed to match theirs. After they turned onto a side street, she fell in with another small group and hid herself among them.

  The tall building with the spindled top rose into the darkening sky. Guards stood at the ornate gate at the entrance. As she drew closer, she saw the glow of their cigarettes and heard snatches of their conversation. She listened carefully, but their talk was only of the nearby cabaret and the women who danced there.

  She spotted the flags first, blood red with black swastikas. It would have been difficult to miss them. Falling in with a man and woman, she followed them through the café’s open doorway. Music spilled from a stage on one side of the expansive space, and a long crowded bar filled the other. Loud conversation and even louder singing assaulted her ears. A haze of smoke filled the room, and odors of acrid tobacco, cheap perfume, and stale beer twisted her stomach.

  Madeleine tried to keep her knees from trembling as she moved closer to the room’s center. Turning, she took in the room. A German soldier sitting at the bar caught her gaze and came over to her.

  “Guten abend, Fräulein.” He lifted a brow expectantly. She felt her face redden, shook her head, and stared at the floor. He started to say something more, but a new act came onto the stage, distracting him.

  The sounds of whistles, shouts, and stamping feet roared from the audience, and then the music started again. The cabaret singer glittered in the lights, her clothing so skimpy it barely covered her. Madeleine blinked in surprise and looked away, feeling a blush creep up her cheeks. She had been warned, but no one could ever have described such a scene to her.

  But she had no time to think of such things now. She was expected at the meeting place. She could not be late. Too much hinged on her being there. She fixed her gaze on the back of the room, reciting the directions silently. Go downstairs. Find the door at the end of the hallway. Step through the doorway and into a long room. They’d told her again and again that though the room was largely unused, she would be in danger until she navigated through that space and entered the tunnel on the other side.

  In the dark room, she lit a match from the small box she’d brought in her pocket. The brick wall she’d been told to expect stood before her, looking ominous in the dim light.

  She moved a barrel out of the way and then counted the rows of bricks from the corner to approximately where she stood. Twenty-two. Then she counted seventeen rows down from the ceiling until she found the brick at the intersection of the two lines. It looked as secure as all the others. But when she touched it, it shifted.

  She caught her breath, nibbling her bottom lip, but she knew better than to assume success. The other two messengers had also made it this far and then failed. She lit another match and then mov
ed the same brick. Her fingers were small and nimble. The brick slid forward at the same time her match extinguished. She reached into her pocket for another … and then heard voices in the distance, speaking German.

  She froze.

  She had gone over this with her father. What will you do if …?

  Quickly, she replaced the brick and knelt behind the barrel she’d moved moments earlier, across from some shelves that held crates of Wicküler, Pschorr Bräu, and Kulmbacher beers.

  The door opened, and the voices—two, it seemed—carried on in animated conversation. The light flicked on, and footsteps came toward her. She feared to breathe.

  She heard the rattle of bottles, followed by a grunt as one of the men picked up something heavy. A crate? A box? More shuffling, more grunts as heavy items were picked up and moved. It seemed the men searched for something they could not find.

  A pair of Marschstiefel boots came toward her, heels clacking on the concrete floor. She held her breath as the wearer turned toward the shelves that held the beer. Then came the sound of a case sliding across the shelf and a curse as he picked it up.

  The other man laughed and they walked to the door. Seconds later the light went out. Madeleine waited until the doorknob clicked and then struck another match. She made quick work of removing the bricks and dropping them inside the tunnel to replace once she passed through to the other side.

  Within minutes, she had created an opening roughly the circumference of her body. Without pausing, she squeezed through, replaced the bricks, and then struck another match to see what was ahead. The tunnel sloped downward. It was narrow enough for her to feel the concrete sides. Squatting, she crept forward in the darkness, willing herself not to be afraid. But her heart thudded so hard she feared it might bruise her ribs. She stopped and rocked back on her heels.

  Her mother’s image came to her, along with the memory of a psalm she had read to Madeleine long ago. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death … thou art with me.

  She then whispered the words as she crept forward again, the words resonating in her heart like a prayer.

  At last, a pinpoint of light appeared in the distance. She breathed easier and picked up her pace. The tunnel increased in size until she could stand again. Soon, she came to a large underground bunker, and two men, standing near the open doorway and backlit by the dim light inside, hurried toward her. One stood a head taller than the other, had thin shoulders and large hands. The shorter man carried himself in a rather haughty manner. A dark mustache and shadowed jawline gave him a menacing look, which she hoped was her imagination.

  “You are the messenger?” The taller man spoke French, though his accent was American. He stepped forward and shook her hand. “I am an aide to the ambassador.” He glanced at the mustached man standing next to him. “And please meet our curator from the United States. Boston, Massachusetts. Please excuse us for not using our names. You do understand why?”

  Madeleine nodded and then shook the second man’s hand, studying his face. This man, the curator, spoke flawless French. For a half heartbeat she wondered if it was too flawless. Perhaps she was being overly cautious because so much was at stake. She tried to read his expression. Her father had trusted everything to her judgment. She would do anything to make him proud.

  “I will tell you about our work,” she said, lifting her chin. Papa had told her that she need not tell them about the thousands of art objects that had been confiscated by the Nazis from France, the Netherlands, and Belgium. They were well aware of these things. They also knew that the objects were brought to a central depot in Paris, the museum Jeu de Paume, for inventory by art historians before they were shipped to Germany—for Hitler’s private collection and for that of Hermann Göring.

  “The stolen art—,” she began simply, and both men nodded, letting her know they understood, “that we are interested in saving is from private collections.”

  “Jewish collections,” the curator said.

  “Yes, and from Freemasons, museums, and shops. It seems the Germans have a hunger for the best of the best.” She shifted uncomfortably as she spoke. “Jewelry, silver, gold bars. The value surpasses anything Germany has known since the invasion.”

  The men nodded. “Please go on,” the ambassador’s aide said.

  Madeleine took a deep breath. “We have taken many items from the depot and from shipping points along the way. We have also kept an inventory, quite extensive, listing the identity of the rightful owners and the objects taken from them. This list is hidden with the objects, and new lists accompany each shipment.”

  The curator watched her intently, an odd glint in his eyes. “How many items are we talking about?” Again, something about his expression bothered her. Greed, perhaps? But she couldn’t stop now, could she? Had she given them too much information already?

  “Right now, they number in the thousands. But we intend to continue our work until the war is over.” Her hands, still cold from the tunnel, now felt as though they were made of ice. She rubbed them together, hoping to warm them even a little. “If we are successful, the number will be much higher. You must promise you will not send anyone to the place I am about to reveal to you until then.”

  Both men nodded.

  She glanced from one to the other. Again, the matter of trust made her determination waver. It was not only because of the treasure. If anything went wrong, her family, the Maquis, all the members of the resistance, could lose their lives.

  “I will tell you the location. But it cannot be written down even after I leave you.”

  “We understand the importance of this. We have worked out a way to get the information out of the country,” the ambassador’s aide said. “Completely undetected.”

  The curator nodded. “That’s where I come in.”

  “Can you tell me, so that I can assure my father and the others?”

  They exchanged glances, and the assistant to the ambassador nodded. “You may tell her,” he said.

  “Because we cannot retrieve the treasure while we are under occupation, the only safe place for it is in the United States. It must be disguised as something no one could connect to a buried treasure worth millions, even billions of dollars. It must be something so innocuous that it slides out of the harbor without inspection. It must have good reason to be shipped—to Boston.”

  The aide stepped forward and dropped his voice. “We have found a ship’s figurehead that was designed and carved in Boston and through a series of events ended up in a second-rate museum in Paris. It’s a beautiful piece, and the ambassador has convinced Maréchal Philippe Pétain that as an act of goodwill, it should be returned to Boston where it ‘came to life,’ so to speak, more than one hundred years ago.”

  She frowned. “Pétain is a puppet. Did he get permission from Hermann Göring?”

  “We can’t know for certain, but we don’t believe he would give permission without it,” the aide said. “He is quite old and frail, unwilling to go against the Nazis.”

  The curator laughed bitterly. “He is a mere figurehead himself.”

  “How will you get the information inside this … this ship’s figurehead? Remember, nothing can be written down. It is too dangerous.”

  “We have a plan,” the aide said, meeting her eyes. “Even if the Nazis confiscate the figurehead, they will find no clues to the place where the treasure lies.”

  “It will be in some sort of code, then.”

  The men nodded.

  “How many people will know about this ruse?” Madeleine directed the question to the curator. “How many will know the code?”

  “Three people. The two of us and the ambassador,” he said. “The ambassador will personally see to the figurehead’s shipment to the States, and I will be in Boston awaiting its arrival. When the war is over, we will find the location you’re about to give us and
the stolen items will be returned to their rightful owners.”

  “Now, if you will tell us the location … ,” the aide said, looking at her expectantly.

  What if this was a trap? She had to trust her father’s wisdom, but he didn’t know the men, only knew of them through a chain of contacts. What if they were not men of their word? What if she made the wrong choice?

  Too much was at stake. The burden of her youth and inexperience settled hard on her shoulders.

  As if sensing her reluctance, the ambassador’s aide stepped closer to her. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, drew out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to her. “Perhaps this will help.”

  Madeleine unfolded the paper. The likeness of the carving seemed to smile at her. “She’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Utterly beautiful.”

  The curator looked over her shoulder at the drawing. “And valuable, even if we didn’t give her such an important secret to carry.”

  She kept her gaze on the drawing, taking in the carving’s sweet expression of strength and determination. “Does she have a name?”

  “From the beginning she was called Lady with a Scarf.”

  When Madeleine looked up, his eyes softened. “You may keep the drawing, if you’d like.”

  She swallowed hard and nodded. She shouldn’t keep it, but it was so beautiful. What if she was caught with such a drawing? “No one would know what it means,” she whispered, half to herself. She looked up. “Would they? And no one knows her name.”

  “No one knows her significance, and no one has paid attention to her name,” the curator said.

  “Lady with a Scarf,” Madeleine whispered, staring at the paper. “She’s beautiful.”

  She took in his words, moved her gaze from the aide’s to the currator’s. Her father had said to trust her instincts. She drew in a deep breath and began. “The searchers will find seven caves. Each is filled with gold, silver, and priceless art of untold worth.” She stopped abruptly. “But before I tell you where they will be found, you need to tell me the code.”

  “It is safer that we do not tell you,” the curator said. “In the event of your capture.”