Songbird Under a German Moon (36 page)

“C'mon, Betty, we don't have time.”

Betty followed him, climbing into the jeep. Then she watched as he reached down under the dashboard, fiddling with some wires. Ten seconds later, the engine roared to life.

“I never stole candy from the general store,” Frank said, “but my sister did like to dare me a lot…”

He popped the vehicle into gear and steered into the street.

“Well, at least your vice came in handy,” she said as they drove away.

Betty was surprised when they approached the estate and didn't see any MPs by their jeeps.

“Where are the guards? The MPs?”

When they turned onto the driveway, she noticed one MP standing there, gun pointed. The worried look on his face softened when he noticed Betty.

“Are the performers inside?” she asked.

“Yes.” The man nodded as he walked up to the jeep. “All the women, and the drummer too.”

“And the rest of the guards?” Frank asked again.

“Oskar—the prop manager—arrived not too long ago and said there was another body in the pond. The MPs went to check it out.”

“They left?”

“Oskar said he would watch over everyone inside—said he and Billy would be able to handle it.”

“Oskar's inside?” Betty's hand covered her mouth, and she felt her shoulders tremble.

“Yes.”

Frank pushed his finger into the MP's chest. “Go get Officer Frey now. He's at the Festspielhaus. Tell him to bring as much backup as he can.”

Frank jumped out of the jeep and Betty followed. He paused, looking back at her as if weighing if she should come.

Betty jutted out her chin. “I'm going.” Then she ran up the front steps and opened the door to the house before he could stop her. Frank pounded right behind her.

Betty took two steps in and paused. There, sitting next to the phonograph, was Oskar, but he wasn't listening to the record the young soldier had left. It sounded like the music she'd heard in newsreels and she guessed it must be Wagner's music.

“Oskar, what are you doing?” Frank asked, stepping forward.

The bottom cabinet to the phonograph was open and Betty saw explosives inside.
Had they been there the whole time?
Her knees weakened, and she reached a hand toward Frank. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Frank reaching for his gun.

“I would not do that, Mr. Witt.” Oskar lifted his hand, and Betty saw he was holding something—she assumed some kind of trigger—with a wire that led to the explosives. “Put your pistol on the floor and then kick it my direction.”

“Okay, Oskar. I trust you. I know you wouldn't want to hurt Betty. We are your friends.” Frank put the gun on the floor and then kicked it toward Oskar. It was far enough that Frank couldn't reach it, but not close enough for Oskar to reach either. Betty's heart sank as it slid across the room.

“Where is everyone?” Betty asked, looking down the hall.

“They are locked up at the moment—in a special room I set up in the basement. The concentration camp down the road was not using their poisonous gas at the time, and I thought I would borrow some.”

“Are they—they dead?” Betty's throat grew thick, tight.

“Not yet. I had a dilemma. To use the gas or the explosives. I was going to gas them first—a mercy killing really—until I heard the jeep pull up.” He glared at Frank. “You foiled things again, Mr. Witt. I thought you were only supposed to be around to photograph big events, not stop them.”

Betty shook her head. “I don't understand. Why are you doing this?”

“There was a boy of fifteen. He listened to an opera and he had an idea of ruling the world. In his madness…” Oskar's words caught in his throat. “My brother was my best friend. The most gentle person you can imagine.” Tears rimmed his eyes.

“I'm so sorry about your loss. But Hitler is dead. The war is over.”

“As long as this house stands, people will come. Not tomorrow or the next day, but they will come. They will stay here.” Oskar's voice rose in volume. “They will walk these halls. They will come and hear the music at the Festspielhaus—darkness will be carried upon the notes. It will come upon them as it did Hitler. I cannot let this stand.”

“It's too late. They've already discovered the explosives in the opera house,” Frank lied. “There are men there right now taking them out. If you turn yourself in now…”

“No!”

“But the women,” Betty said. “We only tried to do a good thing. If you kill them—you would be the same as Hitler. Dierk.” She dared to use his name. “You will kill innocent people just like Hitler did. What do you think your brother Oskar would think about that?”

Dierk's eyes widened. His finger twitched on the trigger.

“I think it's more than that—more than what Oskar—Dierk—is saying.” Frank looked to her. Then he looked to Dierk. “There's a story I heard, you see. It happened in 1908. Claude Monet had worked three years on some new paintings, and they were going to be exhibited in a huge gallery. Two nights before the show, they were previewed by friends, family members, and critics. Everyone said the pieces were Monet's best work. But when workers arrived the next day to prepare for the exhibit, they found three of the paintings had been slashed with a knife. Monet was heartbroken, and the art world in an uproar. No one understood how someone could be so calloused to destroy such beauty. Pleas rose in the papers for the criminal to turn himself in. The perpetrator, of course, didn't do that. Just one day away from the exhibition, everyone was worried the crime would happen again. Guards were posted outside the building, making it impossible for anyone to get in. That night, three more paintings were destroyed—again some of Monet's best work. The crime was committed by the guard who'd been posted inside the building. He was asked, ‘You know what will happen, don't you?'

“‘Yes, I'll be tried and most likely imprisoned for life,' the man answered.

“‘Aren't you sad about losing your freedom?' they asked him.

“‘Yes, I am.'

“‘Then why would you commit such a crime?' they asked. ‘Surely there isn't anyone in all of France who will have pity on you.'

“‘My life is meaningless,' the man said. ‘All my life I've met great men and women and seen them praised. I have no talents, but I wanted to do something to force people to notice me. To put my name in the papers.'

“He was hauled away to jail,” Frank continued, “but not before he gave one last statement. ‘Many people will remember Monet. They will praise him. But now they will also speak of the man who destroyed the work of a master. Losing my freedom is a small price to pay for immortality.'”

Betty looked at Frank, sure he'd lost his mind.
Oh great, I'm dealing with two crazy men now.

“Are you saying that's me? That I'm bent on destroying Wahnfried and Festspielhaus for fame?” Dierk jutted his chin.

“No, for immortality. If you had succeeded, your name would have indeed lived on. Twenty years from now, no one will remember the man who kept the Festspielhaus in running order—through the Germans and the Americans—but they will remember the man who destroyed it—and destroyed Wahnfried, filled with American musicians and singers. Isn't that right?”

“How dare you!” Dierk stood. In his hand, the trigger trembled.

Betty heard something—the sound of wood being smashed. She looked to Frank, but his eyes remained focused on Oskar.

“Admit it! This has nothing to do with your brother. That is only an excuse!” Frank shouted.

“I do not need to admit anything. How dare you accuse me of such things. Besides, these women—singers you call them—these musicians, they deserve to die.” He lifted his hand, as if preparing to release the trigger. “Using such a great stage for their—”

Frank darted forward.

“No—stop!” Betty cried. “Stop!”

A gunshot split the air, and Betty saw Frank dive for the trigger. At the same time she watched as Dierk fell into the chair. Frank grabbed for the man's hand and held it closed around the trigger.

“Betty, don't move!” a voice called from the kitchen area. Betty recognized that voice. She turned just as Officer Frey stepped from the back where the boarded-up door was, gun raised and pointed.

“You okay, Frank?” Officer Frey asked, approaching him.

Frank nodded, taking the trigger out of Oskar's hand, holding it. “I'll feel better when one of your experts can get here and disarm this thing. If it had released all the way, this whole place could have gone up. From what Betty heard at night, my guess is Oskar likely has the whole house wired.”

Dierk slid to the floor, moaning. Officer Frey handcuffed his hands behind his back.

“I see the MP found you,” Frank said, letting out a slow breath, attempting to calm his heart, despite the trigger in his hand.

“Yes,” Officer Frey said. “As far as I was concerned, it was the third time you cried wolf. But since the other two times turned out to be accurate, I decided to respond to the call.”

“You found explosives then? At the Festspielhaus?” Betty asked.

“There were rooms full of them. It looks like this man was stopped before he finished, but there was enough to send up some fireworks, that's for sure.”

A jeep parked in front of the estate, and Betty looked out the window to see four more military police climb out.

“The others—they're in the basement.” She turned to Officer Frey. “I think there's some type of door from the back leading down—or at least that's my guess from what Magdalena said. Oskar's plan would have worked if it wasn't for her.”

“Another hero?” Officer Frey asked.

“Yes, she is. We'll introduce you to her later. And speaking of heros…” Betty hurried to Frank and stroked his cheek. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” Then he looked over to Officer Frey. “Go get the others. I'll be here when you're done. I promise. I'm not going anywhere until this is disarmed.”

“Harmon, Johnson,” Officer Frey said to two of the four MPs that entered, “get over here and haul this guy to the field hospital. We need him patched up enough to face trial. Smith, Adams,” he said to the other two, “you come with me and get that door open to free those girls.”

“Trial? Does that include a murder trial?” Betty asked.

Her question paused Officer Frey's steps. “For the murder of Katherine Wiseman. Between the secret rooms, Oskar's explosives, and the fact that Katherine was wearing one of Oskar's costumes, we have a good case. Then there's this.” Officer Frey pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. Gingerly unfolding it, he revealed a silver cigarette holder.

Betty nodded, tears filling her eyes. “That's Kat's too. Where did you find it?”

“In the room he'd set up. With the needle and poison used for lethal injections there too, we're almost positive we found the murder scene.”

Betty's heart felt as if someone had bruised it. Her mind replayed Kat's last day. Hearing the news about Edward. Her worry about returning to the screen. Trying to perform. Running out.

“Kat no doubt had come upon Oskar—or upon some incriminating evidence—when she was lost,” Betty said. “And Oskar couldn't let word get out.”

“Yes, but think of it this way.” Officer Frey approached and placed a hand on Betty's shoulder. “If that hadn't happened—if Kat hadn't died, Oskar might have pulled it off. She lost her life but saved thousands in the process. If Oskar's plan would have succeeded, the whole place would have gone up, with all the soldiers inside.”

Betty nodded, looking to Frank through tear-filled eyes. “And sometimes knowing that—knowing the lives that were saved—makes it easier to handle our losses, doesn't it?”

Betty looked up at the giant moon as she sat on the front porch of Wahnfried next to Frank. The explosives had been disarmed. Her friends had been found. Rescued. And now they were trying to calm themselves in their rooms. Even the MPs had settled down in their jeeps—expecting a quiet night. She finally had a chance to sit next to Frank and truly think through what had just happened.