The Stolen Lady by Laura Morelli

Author:Laura Morelli
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: William Morrow Paperbacks
Published: 2021-07-05T00:00:00+00:00

Anne

Montauban, France

1940

Anne peered into the awkwardly mounted side-view mirror of the truck to take in the strange sight of Lucie astride a motorbike. Her scarf whipped in the wind as they bellowed along another curve in the mountain pass. It took all of her attention to control the heavy truck as it swayed and struggled around the mountainous curves. Ahead, Frédérique sat in the passenger seat of a large truck with her father, teetering canvases lashed down and covered in tarps in the back.

They couldn’t be far from Montauban now. Even though the distance from Loc-Dieu was only a little over sixty kilometers, it had taken them hours to struggle their way toward their new destination with the scores of paintings, sculptures, artifacts, and antiquities tucked into their crates and loaded onto the trucks once more. Another trial of loading the fragile works. Another excruciatingly slow journey to endure. As she watched the trucks sway and teeter before her, Anne hoped it would be their last.

As the convoy made its slow progress through the countryside, Anne’s only solace was that this time, their destination was not some dank medieval church or a castle that was an easy target. Instead, they were going to a real art museum. At the Musée Ingres in Montauban, she had heard, the Louvre director’s office had secured a safe space for them—and the artworks. Still, it had made Anne’s heart sad to leave the peaceful grounds of Loc-Dieu.

But when they rounded the next turn and Anne saw the town of Montauban spread out in the valley before them, she began to hope this wouldn’t be so bad after all. The town lay deep inside the Free Zone, and from this distance, Montauban looked untouched by the conflicts that had flushed people from their homes with their belongings strapped to their backs. The lazy loops of the Tarn wound through the town, languid as a resting python, fat with rain. There were no bombs or German uniforms or swastikas here.

Anne was starting to relax when there was an appalling squeal from the truck in front of her. Then a cloud of smoke burst from its axles. Cursing, Anne stamped hard on the brake. The rattle of crates in the back of her truck made her cringe. But André’s truck didn’t slow down despite the approaching bend. From her motorbike, Lucie was waving an arm frantically; the truck hurtled toward the bend, swaying, and Anne could only watch helplessly as it headed for its doom. At the last moment, the truck swerved hard. It teetered, the bed tipping horribly, but the bend had slowed it somehow, and the truck rolled gradually to a halt along the precipice.

Anne stopped her own truck behind it and jumped out. Lucie was pulling off her helmet and disembarking from her motorbike, her face ashen. “André!” she cried.

As the women approached, they saw André press his forehead to the steering wheel. He was sweating, and his hands shook where he clenched the wheel.

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