Chapter 53

Guilt was a funny thing. Warren felt it as he searched through Mr. Donovan’s office, but he also would have felt it had he ignored Evette’s conviction that something was off about Mr. Donovan—something other than his refusal to allow Warren and Claire to marry.

He had waited on the sidewalk for ten minutes of indecision, long enough to spot Julian coming to court Evette. He caught him and explained the turn of events. Julian had set off to enlist McDougall’s aid so they’d be ready to act when Evette reported Lohr’s location.

The piano music Warren had bought for Claire lay on the chair across from Mr. Donovan’s desk. Warren had spent hours in that chair discussing the war with Mr. Donovan before he’d asked to marry Claire.

He was jeopardizing his future with her now. With the war ended, perhaps Mr. Donovan would reconsider and give his blessing to their union. But if Claire or Mr. Donovan found Warren going through Mr. Donovan’s things, suspecting him of treason, Warren would never be welcome in the house again. Piano concertos drifted from the library. Claire could play the piano for hours, and he hoped that was what she would do that night. At the party she’d said the servants were being given a day off after the extra work, so she was probably the only one home.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he found a ledger and read it. Mr. Donovan was too smart to put an entry like the League in his book, but there was one mystery entry marked as LO, and it always represented money out. Recalling how Mr. Donovan would pull papers from his desk and put them in a drawer when Warren came into the office, he searched the desk drawers. If there were incriminating letters or notes, Mr. Donovan had already hidden them.

Warren turned to the coal stove in the corner of the office. It would be easy for Donovan to destroy anything he didn’t want seen. On the chance that there were papers inside waiting to be burned, Warren leaned over and opened the front. He found nothing but coal, as one would expect in late November.

Warren heard a slight sound and felt a hint of rushing air—more than what could be attributed to opening the stove—but before he could turn around, something whacked him in the back of the head, and the world went black.

* * *

When Warren regained consciousness, he felt a sharp pain in his neck that spread into his skull. He lay on a cold, hard surface. He tried to change positions in the darkness, but his arms were fastened to something above his head. The back of his hands scraped against the roughness until he recognized it as a wooden board. Why had someone stretched his arms out and tied them to a plank? He lifted his feet. They were tied to each other but not to anything else.

“Hello?”

No one answered, and not so much as a star gave its light to his prison.

He tried to lift himself off the ground, but the wood was too heavy. He swung his legs up and flexed his abdomen; the momentum lifted the board off the ground an inch or two. That was progress. He rested his muscles before attempting the same thing again. This time he got the board off the ground a foot or two, but between the beam’s weight and the awkward position of his arms, he was unable to hold it up. He crashed back onto the hard floor, knocking his head and feeling a pull of agony that extended from his chest out to his wrists.

Just when I thought the war was finished . . .

A key sounded in a lock, and Warren turned toward it. A crack of light appeared, and a silhouette with a lantern thrust the door open. It wasn’t until the shadow hung the lantern on a hook that Warren recognized Mr. Donovan.

“Be a good chap and untie me, will you?” Warren didn’t think Mr. Donovan would, but he wanted to be wrong about the American.

Mr. Donovan navigated around the wooden boxes filling part of the room and folded his arms across his chest. Unlike Warren, he came directly to the point. “Why were you snooping around my office?”

“I was hoping to find proof that you’re innocent.”

“Innocent of what?”

“Helping Lohr.”

“Humph. And what did you find in my ledger?”

Warren didn’t answer. The ledger hadn’t seemed like much, but perhaps in the hands of a competent accountant, it would be more significant.

“Never mind. I know what you found. And despite my intense dislike for you, I realize you’re smart enough to come to the correct conclusion or find an expert who will. But never mind that. Tell me who else is suspicious of me.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.”

Mr. Donovan began pacing. He appeared taller than Warren remembered, but perhaps that was only because Warren was stuck on the floor. “I suppose it started with that little French girl, Mademoiselle Touny.”

Warren did his best to keep his face as phlegmatic as an empty gas mask.

“She’s no longer a threat.”

Warren couldn’t help himself. His face jerked toward the American. Had they killed her?

Donovan shrugged. “She’s not dead yet. But Lohr will take care of her as soon as the crowds have gone to bed. Actually, Major, I find myself being overly grateful that I discovered you in my office. You have given me the opportunity to take care of two problems at once.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. First of all, I want to get rid of you. Since the Armistice, Claire has been pestering me daily about giving the two of you my blessing to marry. She doesn’t want to choose between us, but it’s only a matter of time before she chooses you. I never should have welcomed you here. Yet your stories provided a pulse for how the air war was going, and I needed that inside information.”

Warren felt his jaw drop. Had he given information to the enemy through Mr. Donovan? He tried to think of everything the two of them had discussed over the years—who had the better planes, which tactics were working. Warren squeezed his eye shut against the painful realization. He had spoken far too much, to a traitor.

“I won’t lose my daughter to you.”

“And what of her happiness?”

“She’ll be heartbroken for a while, but she’ll recover.”

“But you helped Mademoiselle Touny arrest McDougall’s superior, the one who was working with Lohr. I don’t understand.”

Mr. Donovan slowed his pacing. “I’ve never wanted a German victory. All my business has been with the Allies.”

“Then why this?”

“A prolonged war is the most profitable kind for me. The Armistice isn’t good for business, and the peace will be even worse. Which is where you come in. Lohr and I have our differences, but he’s convinced me to help him scuttle the peace talks.”

“You and Lohr are the only people on the continent who wish for more war. You won’t get it.”

Mr. Donovan smiled. “Maybe. Maybe not. But we have multiple goals. I want you and Mademoiselle Touny out of my life. Mademoiselle Touny, because she suspects me, and you, because you’ll take Claire from me. So early tomorrow morning, Mademoiselle Touny’s mutilated body will be found near the Eiffel Tower. A brutal murder with a warning that Germany will deal thus with all French civilians should Alsace and Lorraine pass from German hands. Lohr thinks the murder will delay a settlement until their new wonder weapon can be produced. Even if it doesn’t, I get rid of a dangerous woman and have the chance of continued profits.”

“The need for peace is too great. No one will call off the peace talks over the death of one woman. And the German Army is practically in revolt. They won’t last, even with new weapons. Let her go.”

“That’s what I thought at first. One more death won’t reignite a war. But the more I think about it, the more I see Lohr’s side of things. This war began with an assassination. Perhaps a series of murders can keep it going. Which is where you come in. Are you familiar with the rumor that early in the war the Germans captured a Canadian soldier, fastened his body to the side of a barn with bayonets, and crucified him?”

“It was never proven. Just guff from the trenches.”

“Just a rumor, perhaps, but a persistent and powerful one that’s about to come true. As soon as Lohr arrives, he’ll help me hoist your body. I expect you’ll be dead by the time we need your corpse placed near the Arc de Triomphe. If not, we’ll gas you. It wasn’t my first choice of how to get rid of you, but Lohr is persuasive.”

Warren looked along the board to where rope bound his wrists and hands, finally understanding why he’d been tied that way.

“You aren’t a Canadian infantryman, but you are one of their highest-scoring fighter aces, among the top in the Royal Air Force. Your death ought to inflame both Canada and Britain.”

Warren didn’t want to talk about Mr. Donovan’s plans any longer. He doubted they would provoke another outbreak of war, but that wouldn’t make him any less dead. “Where am I?”

“A private section of the mansion’s basement. The only entrance is through my sitting room. No one will find you or hear you. You can scream all you like, although something tells me you’ll suffer in silence.”

As if to contradict Mr. Donovan’s statement, Warren heard the bark of Claire’s dog, and then Claire’s voice. “Papa?” Her call sounded as if it was echoing down a staircase.

Mr. Donovan turned on Warren. “One word from you, and she’s dead.”

With plans for a double murder, Warren was beginning to think Mr. Donovan capable of anything, but surely he wouldn’t kill his own daughter. Yet Warren recognized a hint of fear in Mr. Donovan’s eyes, and his one-word explanation made everything clear. “Lohr.”

Mr. Donovan wouldn’t hurt his daughter, but his accomplice would. Or was Lohr in charge? Either way, Warren bit his tongue rather than calling for help.

“Claire, dear.” Mr. Donovan went through the door and closed it almost completely behind him. “Whatever are you doing down here? It’s damp and dirty. No place for a lady.”

“Why are you down here? I’ve never seen this staircase before. It’s like a secret passageway from an adventure novel.”

“Yes, a grand adventure, with monstrous spiders lurking around every corner.”

“Spiders?”

Warren could guess exactly how Claire’s face would tense with nervousness, how her eyes would scan everything in sight. His contempt for Mr. Donovan grew. Depriving Claire of her betrothed wasn’t enough. He also had to deliberately scare her.

“Papa, I found Warren’s hat in your office. Did he come talk to you?”

“The hat looks common enough.”

“It’s Warren’s. He keeps a bracelet I gave him inside the band for good luck. And there was a new ragtime piece on your chair. You certainly didn’t buy it for me. What did you say to make him leave without his hat and without saying hello to me?”

“Claire, he’s not right for you. Trust me.”

“I’ve trusted you my entire life, Papa, but you’re wrong about this. I don’t want to choose between the two of you, but if you force the decision, I’ll choose Warren. I love him, and with the war over, there’s no reason for us not to marry.”

“I can think of several million reasons, all of them sitting in bank vaults.” The voices and the light began fading.

“Maybe I don’t care about wealth as much as you do—besides, Warren is an officer, not a pauper. He has all his grandmother’s money now, and he’s brilliant. He’ll do well, Papa.”

“Let’s talk about it in the morning, Claire.” It was the last part of the conversation Warren heard before he was left in thick, dark silence.