Beekeeper

by J. Robert Janes

  Goggles stood beside the furnace, with a gauntleted hand on the pour-lever which would rock the cradle and tip the melt out. Gradually the other miliciens came into view. Fists were doubled, arms folded tightly across their chests. Bastards … bastards …

  ‘So, Herr Kohler, a few small questions,’ said the one that was fifty and fast greying but tough, too tough. A butcher, probably, in his previous life. ‘Nothing difficult, you understand.’

  ‘DID THEY TELL YOU LOUIS AND I SAID STUFF LIKE THAT IN AVIGNON, EH?’

  Sweat ran down Herr Kohler’s flanks causing the scars from that other war to glisten, as did those of the whip marks. ‘Please, make it easy for yourself,’ continued Vincent Soulages, Chef de Milice du quartier du Mail et de Bonne-Nouvelle. ‘We’re not monsters and must go home to our families as loving fathers or sons, so as to sleep peacefully.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  Stung, Soulages lashed out with his truncheon, hitting the buttocks. Gritting his teeth, Kohler refused to cry out. The chain creaked as it swung back and forth, finally coming to rest.

  ‘I will ask you only once!’ shrieked Soulages. ‘Where did you take the wax and hives?’

  ‘I don’t know. Hey, it’s not that I won’t remember. It’s simply that I didn’t ask the boys who were with me!’

  ‘WE’RE WASTING TIME, VINCENT!’ yelled Goggles.

  ‘A moment, Felix. He has not quite understood.’ Savagely the truncheon was swung back, the blocky shoulders moving with it.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ shrilled Kohler. ‘Hey, I was only kidding but if you hit me again, my lips will be sealed.’

  ‘Then we await your reply.’

  ‘And then you’ll pour the melt – is that it, eh? Ach Du lieber Gott, meine Idioten, you’ve forgotten with whom you’re dealing. Old Shatter Hand, Dummköpfe! He gave us orders to pluck that crap away from your little Bonze and destroy it!’

  The furnace, mounted on rollers, was moved a little closer. A trough of firebrick was put in place and sloped to Herr Kohler as he was lowered until his feet once again touched the floor.

  ‘Look, I’m telling you we had orders from the Kommandant von Gross-Paris.’

  ‘And we are telling you ours come from the Général Oberg, Höherer SS und Polizei Führer of France!’

  Giving them the location might buy a little time. ‘Le Halle aux Vins.’ The central wine store for the city. ‘A cave … The rue de Languedoc, I think, or was it off the Grand Préau? There are, so many caves … One hundred and eighty of them – one hundred and sixteen cellars, two huge magazines …’

  Kohler was just fucking about! ‘POUR IT, FÉLIX!’ shrieked Soulages.

  ‘NO, WAIT! I … I think I’ve remembered. The rue de Bordeaux, the cellars of J.P. Malouel.’

  ‘We will check it out later. For now, a few other small questions,’ said Soulages. ‘The dipper, if you please, Félix.’

  ‘The dipper …?’ blurted Kohler. Mein Gott, they were serious!

  A scum began to quickly form over the dollop of melt in the dipper. Kohler felt his toes curling up. ‘Don’t,’ he softly begged. ‘Please don’t. I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Make certain of it, Félix.’

  A droplet … just one was allowed to fall and splash on the floor, but the shriek when it came, as surely it had to, filled the smelter, terrifying the others on the staircase, thought Godonov, and causing the guinea pigs to cease their foraging and to watch.

  The dogs urinated at the ends of their tightly stretched chains … The pain Herr Kohler experienced was, Godonov knew, excruciating. In and out of the blackness, the detective drifted – he wouldn’t know, couldn’t tell if he’d ever walk again and what the hell good was a detective who couldn’t run?

  Weeping, Herr Kohler hung his head, was still too afraid to look down at his feet. ‘Maudit salauds,’ he breathed. ‘Louis will get you for this. Louis …’

  ‘You questioned Frau Schlacht,’ said Soulages. ‘You were interested in a bottle of Amaretto.’

  ‘She … she bought it on the marché noir, I think.’

  Kohler probably knew more of the source, but that was not important. ‘How much poison was in it?’ shrieked Soulages.

  The detective’s eyes leapt as he shrilled, ‘I don’t know! I haven’t had a chance to talk to my partner. Maybe it hasn’t even been analysed!’

  Analysed … Analysed …

  ‘How much did the beekeeper take?’

  ‘I don’t know! I haven’t seen the autopsy!’

  Autopsy … Autopsy …

  ‘But you are certain Frau Schlacht bought this bottle?’

  Bottle … Bottle … Why the hell bother about it? ‘Yes, on Tuesday. She … Look, I’m almost certain she took it to the visitor’s concourse at the Salpêtrière on Thursday afternoon and … and must have left it with his sister.’

  ‘The crazy one.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why would Frau Schlacht not simply have given it to Monsieur de Bonnevies?’

  ‘I … I don’t know yet. Honest, I don’t.’

  ‘Water … You must give him a little,’ hazarded Godonov from the stairs. ‘It’s the sulphur in the air, messieurs. It makes one very thirsty.’

  ‘THEN BRING IT, IDIOT!’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, and right away as you wish.’

  The Russian hurried forward with a tumbler in hand, but when he held it to Herr Kohler’s lips, the milicien held it, too.

  ‘Water … It is only water, monsieur. All of our vodka has been drunk by yourself and your men, n’est-ce pas’? A privilege of ours, of mine, I assure you.’

  Soulages backed off. The prisoner tried to take a sip. Some of the water dribbled down his chin. ‘Easy,’ cautioned Godonov. ‘Take just a little at first.’

  Fiery, the vodka stung the throat and the prisoner tightened his before gasping, ‘Merci.’

  Whetted, the throat eagerly opened to receive the rest. Yanked away, the Russian let the glass fly from his hand to hit the floor and shatter.

  ‘Amaretto,’ hissed the Chef des miliciens. ‘Who did Frau Schlacht wish to poison?’

  Poison … Poison … Gott im Himmel, why did they have to know what she was up to? wondered Kohler, sucking in another breath to clear his head. ‘Madame de Bonnevies, I think. Frau Schlacht is a very jealous woman and, crazy as it must seem, believes Madame de Bonnevies is having an affair with her husband.’

  ‘So she poisoned the beekeeper instead? Really, Herr Kohler …’

  ‘Look, I don’t even know yet if there was poison in that bottle when she left it at the Salpêtrière, but it’s interesting you should suggest it.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Then who did, eh? Schlacht … Was it Schlacht who asked you to find out from me if that wife of his was intent on poisoning him? Him! Merde, I should have guessed!’

  At 6:17 a.m. Berlin Time there were no other cars parked along the rue Montmartre near the café À La Chope du Croissant. Pedestrians, bundled against the ten degrees of frost, hurried silently to their places of work. Cigarettes occasionally glowed in the pitch darkness. Vélo-taxi bells sounded warnings, their blue-blinkered lights all but lost in the ice fog that had crept up from the Seine to engulf the city.

  Alone and cursing the weather, St-Cyr found the courtyard more by feel than memory. Pushing open the heavy door, he started out. Gabrielle had reminded him that the smelter was down at the far end. Russians … she knew some of them. Godonov, he said to himself. The boss man has an admirable handlebar moustache that is grey and bushy like his eyebrows. ‘The eyes are very blue, and he plays the balalaika beautifully,’ she had said.

  As if such titbits of information could be of any use! He didn’t know what he’d find, thought only the worst. Now all but convinced the beekeeper’s murder was a ‘village’ affair, if not a ‘family’ one, he didn’t know what Hermann had been up to or why the Milice had suddenly decided to jump him.

  But it has to have been something to do with Frau Sch
lacht, he said silently to himself and, pausing by an iron-grilled window, listened hard for nearby sounds.

  There was soot in the air. Soot and the acrid smell of sulphur. The taint of nitric acid, too, and above these, as if the top note of a perfume, that of roasting flesh. Sweet and slightly gamey. A puzzle and a worry.

  Moving through the darkness, picking his way over and around the rubbish, he cocked the Lebel and looked through the grimy window to where the soft glow from a furnace gave an all but ethereal light to the dingy interior. Figures, dressed in grey nightshirts and nightgowns, ministered to the prisoner who lay with legs sprawled on the stone floor and his back propped against a heap of broken slag.

  ‘Er ist vom Tode gezeichnet,’ muttered St-Cyr softly to himself. The mark of death is upon him.

  Pale and streaked by sweat and soot, Hermann neither stirred nor was aware of the constant ministrations. A woman bathed him with great tenderness. A man … the boss … fed tea to him, a tiny silver spoonful at a time.

  ‘He’ll sleep for hours,’ sighed the Sûreté, on silently joining them. ‘No, please do not be alarmed, mes amis. It’s only his partner.’

  ‘We’ll take the day off, then,’ said the one with the moustache. ‘Sit with him, for he cries out and is anxious for you and about the love of his life, his Oona, and needs great comforting. In a little, we will eat and you must join us. Some soup and stew.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  Was it so surprising in this world they shared? wondered Godonov. ‘Kindness is like moonlight, is it not? It comes and goes, and one takes strength and joy from it when one can.’

  ‘Hermann won’t forget this, and neither will I.’

  ‘Good. That is good.’

  A blanket was brought and the patient covered, though Hermann was obviously warm enough. A scarred and broken armchair, was placed nearby and with it, the last two fingers of a clear-glass bottle of vodka. ‘We make it ourselves from potato peelings the Occupier has little need of,’ confided Godonov, touching the side of his nose with a forefinger to indicate silence in the matter. ‘Za vashe zdorov’e, Inspector. Salut.’ Good health.

  ‘À votre santé aussi, monsieur. Merci. Ah! a moment, please. This Oona of whom he speaks?’

  One could not avoid it and had best get it over with quickly. ‘Is being held by the Milice as insurance, but for what, I do not know, of course.’

  ‘Oona …?’ muttered Hermann, tossing his head in despair. ‘Oona … Must get her better papers. Must take her to Spain or Portugal before … Too late. It’s too late for that! Ah …’

  The faded blue eyes widened then slipped deeply back into slumber beneath their sagging pouches. ‘It’s the Benzedrine,’ sighed St-Cyr. ‘His system has finally run out of it.’

  Giving a yawn, the Sûreté settled back and, yes, thought Godonov, was, though favouring a left arm, soon fast asleep himself. Two babes in the woods of the Occupier, the moon above.

  The burns were small but deep among the toes of the right foot, and surely Occupied France owed much to the refuse that had been left on the beaches of Dunkirk.

  Wrapped in British Army tulle gras – a sterilized gauze that had been treated with balsam of Peru and vaseline – and then in khaki that had been cut from trouser cloth, there was, of course, no room for a shoe. Hermann couldn’t have worn one in any case.

  ‘Penicillin or sulphanimide powder should be used, if possible,’ said Godonov’s eldest daughter, her black braids tied out of the way. ‘We apologize, but have none to spare, since such wounds are frequent here, you understand. We can, however, let you have a little extra of the tulle gras, as the dressing must be changed frequently. Have you someone who can do this for you?’

  ‘My partner, if he isn’t too busy,’ retorted the wounded giant, feeling angry with himself for having let it happen and worried … so worried, one had to ignore the taunt and a stitched-up left arm to reach out to him in comfort and urge caution. ‘We’ll get Oona back, Hermann.’

  ‘And what will we find when we do?’

  The Milice had taken her clothing, had burned it here and in front of Hermann. ‘I don’t know. Merde I wish I did, but … but this has to have been a warning.’

  ‘A squeeze! Jésus, merde alors, can’t you see that they wanted information? Schlacht had to find out if that wife of his intended to poison him.’

  ‘Him …?’

  ‘Yes, idiot! Our beekeeper was nervous about his visitor, right? Gott im Himmel, why wouldn’t he have been? A member of the Occupier. A murder. Schlacht was to have been the victim, Louis. Schlact!’

  Must God do this to them? ‘We’re to meet him in the Jardin du Luxembourg in an hour. He sent a note earlier but … but I didn’t want to wake you until necessary.’

  ‘I’ll kill him, Louis.’

  ‘I’m sure you mean it, and for just this reason and just this once, I’ll be the keeper of our guns. Also, since that right foot of yours would only scream if the brake was applied – which it would have to be – I will, once again, drive my beautiful Citroën, if only for a final moment.’

  ‘You’re enjoying this.’

  ‘Not after what you’ve just told me!’

  Using a samovar, the girl had made tea and had left a small pot of buckwheat honey to sweeten it. Louis did just that, using a wooden dipper he took from a pocket.

  Grimly, the one from the Kripo filled the one from the Sûreté in on things, then listened impatiently for the other side of the affair, observed Godonov, silently watching them from a distance. Both anxious and worried, they shared a cigarette as was their custom perhaps on such occasions, or when short of tobacco. ‘They are like comrades in the trenches, Babushka,’ he confided to the old woman beside him. ‘Those two understand each other so well, one will go for a piss when the other needs to.’

  ‘Passing water does not repair the damage life in this place has done to my ears. I would like to hear what they are discussing.’

  ‘A murder, Grandmother. A case of poisoning, but much more.’

  ‘Fornication? Was money involved or simply penetration?’

  ‘Both, I think, but trouble. Much trouble, although I’m no detective, just a worker of small miracles.’

  Left to themselves, the detectives soon became calmer, conversing earnestly and quietly, the Sûreté spreading a few handfuls of foundry sand on the floor between them before taking two candles from a pocket.

  He set them upright and lit them.

  ‘Made from the wax of hives that were loaded with Russian honey and bees that had suffered from acarine mites, Hermann. Our big shot supplies the catacombs with candles.’

  ‘And that village priest of yours, finds bundle after bundle of them left by an anonymous donor on the steps of his church.’

  ‘Madame de Bonnevies …’

  ‘Or Danielle, eh? Danielle, Louis.’

  ‘I didn’t find any among the items she brought back from her foraging.’

  ‘Because she’d already left them, Dummkopf. Ride by the church on the way home, eh? Walk the bike up the steps beside it and on the way, drop the bundle.’

  ‘Could the donor be helping Schlacht with his factory?’

  ‘We’ll have to ask her. One thing’s for certain. That factory must be a hell of a lot bigger than the wax we’ve so far found suggests.’

  ‘Much bigger. Perhaps Herr Schlacht will enlighten us.’

  ‘That wife of his really did mean to kill him, Louis. The poison in that bottle wasn’t meant for anyone else – well, maybe Madame de Bonnevies, too, but primarily for our Oskar.’

  This was not good. Indeed, it was terrible. ‘Please go carefully over things again, Hermann. Leave nothing out.’

  ‘She makes four trips a year to Switzerland and must have the keys and account numbers to the fortune he’s had her salt away for him and for others of the avenue Foch, namely Oberg, Louis. He fools around, so much so, she’s finally had enough of her Oskar and plans to escape.’

  ‘So
she badgers our beekeeper about his weekly visits …’

  ‘And gets him to tell her of his sister and the stepson he can’t tolerate – here, take two drags. You’re going to need them. She finds out everything she can about his little life because she’s convinced her Oskar’s banging the hell out of Mme de Bonnevies. She even gets her maid to confirm this by staking out that fleabag Hotel Titania, then demands de Bonnevies admit it’s happening.’

  The cigarette was handed back.

  ‘Frau Schlacht buys the bottle on Tuesday, Louis. Knowing that de Bonnevies always visits his sister on Thursday afternoons, she takes it to the Salpêtrière and slips it to Angèle-Marie.’

  ‘Whom the brother then caught drinking from it, so the oil of mirabane had yet to be added … But why leave the bottle with her, Hermann? Why not simply take it to de Bonnevies that evening?’

  ‘You’re too innocent. Have you learned nothing from the years with me? She did so because our beekeeper was proving difficult.’

  ‘He had refused to have anything to do with poisoning her husband,’ sighed St-Cyr heavily. ‘He was terrified of reprisals and knew he’d be arrested.’

  ‘And that has to be why she visited the house on Thursday evening.’

  ‘To collect the bottle after he’d added the poison.’

  ‘He’d shaved, had got himself spruced up but …’

  ‘Was very nervous about his visitor and with good reason!’

  ‘And Madame de Bonnevies knew at least something of what was going on, Louis, and was afraid you’d discover Frau Schlacht’s name in that little book of her husband’s.’

  Another cigarette was found but ignored, so lost in thought had Louis become. ‘But when Frau Schlacht arrives, our beekeeper was either in the throes of death or dead,’ he muttered. ‘Yet when you confronted her in the brasserie, she showed no fear of being questioned.’

  ‘Because she’s as hard as they come and would have done that husband of hers in if she could have, and the beekeeper’s wife, and then … And this is where it’s perfect, Louis. She would have pointed the finger at de Bonnevies and put paid to him, too, and Danielle and Madame and the stepson!’