Beekeeper

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘Cowards,’ she muttered under her breath but loudly enough. ‘Papa called them cowards because they were afraid of being arrested.’

  ‘Some of them didn’t want him to speak out, did they?’ she heard the Sûreté saying as he came closer, too close, and she could, though not daring to face him yet, see the white breath of his words as they fell on her.

  ‘No, they didn’t,’ she said defeatedly, but then, as if in anger, she turned and said accusingly, ‘I saw Herr Schlacht telling the tall one with the crutches something he did not want to hear.’

  The girl must have spotted them as she’d come along the promenade between the plane trees. ‘Hermann and he are having a little heart-to-heart of their own, mademoiselle, but it’s interesting that you should know of Herr Schlacht.’

  ‘I … I don’t know him well. Maman has … has only spoken of him once. Just once.’

  ‘And yet you could identify him so easily?’

  ‘He … Maman … They …’

  ‘They secretly met at a hotel in the Eighteenth.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hastily she dragged off a mitten and wiped her eyes – tried to find composure and took to staring bleakly down at the beehive in front of her. Snow capped its flat roof. ‘Brood chamber below and honey super above,’ she said hollowly of the two-tiered boxes. ‘Six to ten frames of comb in the brood chamber should tide the colony over, but here there are extras in the upper chamber so that the worker bees can place the honey and pollen where they feel it best and the wintering cluster can move slowly about the hive as it wishes. Papa always put a super like this on top of the brood chamber and then a square of heavy tarpaper to shed the rain and snow melt.’

  ‘He loved his bees, didn’t he?’

  ‘As a husband ought to love a wife, only in his heart there wasn’t room for one.’

  ‘Did your mother go willingly to the Hotel Titania on the boulevard Ornano?’

  ‘You’re simply trying to get me to tell you she had another reason.’

  ‘And did she?’

  Étienne … was he wondering about Étienne? ‘I wouldn’t know, would I, Inspector? We seldom spoke.’

  ‘Yet surely you knew of her repeated attempts to free your brother?’

  ‘My half-brother.’

  ‘Father Michel refused to find three willing workers to be sent to the Reich in exchange for her son. Maxim’s, mademoiselle. Isn’t Maxim’s the reason your mother went to that hotel?’

  To prostitute herself. To let Herr Schlacht paw her naked body and rape her, yes rape her in return for his paying the necessary 50,000 francs down. ‘I … I really wouldn’t know, Inspector. Étienne was someone she and I never discussed.’

  ‘Even though she was so worried about him and had done everything she could to secure his release?’

  The girl didn’t answer. Cramming her mittened hands deeper into the pockets of her overcoat, she waited in silence. And what was it Hermann had said Frau Schlacht had told him about the half-sister and half-brother? That the beekeeper had complained to her that Danielle’s one mistake was to blindly trust Étienne and to encourage his every endeavour.

  ‘You posed for your brother, mademoiselle. You were the best of comrades. He made sketches of you and at least one superb bronze we know of.’

  ‘Did I pose naked for him – is this what she told you?’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Mother, of course. She hated my being close to her son. Étienne and I used to tease each other about it. Jealous … she was so jealous, I’m not surprised she told you I was naked when I posed.’

  ‘And were you?’

  ‘What do you think, Inspector? Do I look the type?’

  Wryly she tossed her head at his silence and said, ‘When I was three or four I did when bribed with the whole of a peach flan, but not since then.’

  Yet that father of yours believed you had done so right up to when the boy went off to war, thought St-Cyr and heard himself ask harshly, ‘Was Étienne de Bonnevies’ release arranged and paid for by Herr Oskar Schlacht?’

  ‘Did Étienne poison my father – is this what you’re wondering? If so, then the answer is no, Inspector. Étienne couldn’t kill anything. Not in this war we lost and not before it either. “All who are born have a right to life,” he’d always say and leave the job, if absolutely necessary, to me. To me, Inspector. Me, the fumigator par excellence of my father’s hives. You’ll not have forgotten that, I think!’

  ‘When questioned in your father’s study, mademoiselle, you tried to keep me from the microscope he’d been using and denied having been told why he felt a disaster was so certain.’

  ‘Acarine mites in Caucasians from Russia. All right, I knew that Herr Schlacht was causing diseased hives to be brought into France. Does that satisfy you now?’

  ‘How long has it been going on?’

  ‘How long did papa and I know of it? Since early last summer. We knew it had to be stopped. Things like that can be so easily spread – in one season half the hives can be wiped out in any apiary, sometimes all of them.’

  ‘So when Frau Schlacht wanted honey for facial masks and bee stings for her arthritis, your father was only too willing to supply them?’

  ‘She’d been a client right from September of 1940.’

  ‘And the candle-making has been going on since when?’

  ‘The … the fall of last year, I think. Earlier perhaps.’

  ‘The fall of 1941?’

  ‘Yes … yes, perhaps.’

  ‘And where is the factory located?’

  ‘The factory …? I … We … Papa and I tried to find out, but then I … I told him that it was best if we … we left the matter alone.’

  ‘Why? Because you knew that fifty thousand francs had been paid?’

  ‘And Étienne had come home yet mother didn’t know of it? I’d have told her if I’d known such a thing, Inspector. Believe me, I’d have gladly ended the little hell I’ve had to endure with her. Going out in search of food – peddling my merchandise and constantly running the controls, so much so my nerves are all but shot? Shot, do you understand? Only to come home to nothing but silence and disapproval from her? You saw the way she slapped me when I asked if she’d put the oil of mirbane into that … that bottle of Amaretto. You and your partner questioned her thoroughly, didn’t you? Well, didn’t you? You saw how she feels about me, the “accident”, the “tragedy” her womb committed, its betrayal – God, why couldn’t she have drowned me at birth? I … Ah nom de Dieu, forgive me. You see the state I’m in.’

  But had the outburst been deliberate? wondered St-Cyr, forcing himself to question, as Hermann did, if the girl might well be guilty.

  Thinking it best to give pause to his questions, or perhaps wanting to better plan his little campaign, the Inspector indicated that they should walk towards the promenade that would lead them to the terraces and his partner. He wouldn’t leave her alone now, but would keep on asking things, felt Danielle, and she would have to answer with sufficient truth to counter disbelief.

  ‘That bottle, mademoiselle. You stated that when you left the house at five a.m. on Thursday it wasn’t in the study.’

  ‘I’d never seen it before.’

  ‘But you stated first that your mother had poisoned your father and then … then felt one of the Society might have done it?’

  ‘Mother couldn’t have, and I told you this, that I’d spoken out of despair. As for a member of the Society, come and meet them. Hear what they have to say to me, then decide for yourself!’

  It was nearly two o’clock and still there was no sign of Louis. Had he left the Jardin du Luxembourg? wondered Kohler anxiously. Had he realized Schlacht would have to offer a deal that couldn’t be refused because Oberg and the SS had first been consulted?

  Louis would feel a need to sort things out and redefine his side of the partnership. He’d want to be by himself. Mein Gott, the Bonze made gold wafers for the SS of the avenue Foch, and sure as hell Oberg
wouldn’t want Old Shatter Hand finding out about it! That was why Oona was a hostage. No other reason. Oona …

  With difficulty, he hobbled back up the steps to the highest of the terraces, to stand again, leaning on his crutches, forcing himself to let his gaze sift calmly over the Jardin. A Wehrmacht concert band, oblivious to peace and quiet, struck up Deutschland über Alles as if to thumb their noses at the loss of the Sixth Army – 24 generals, 150,000 dead, 100,000 taken prisoner, tanks, guns, everything – and to let the French know the Occupier was here to stay. Few turned to pause and listen, most just kept on as they were and tried to ignore the racket.

  A Bach fugue followed to crash sorrowfully around the ears, but then the oompah-tubas and other brasses hit their stride with that old beerhall favourite In München steht ein Hofbräuhaus!

  ‘I feel like an idiot standing out here like this,’ he swore softly. The French would hate him when this Occupation ended, as surely it must, and never mind Rudi’s talk of flying bombs, or the Milice, or the Cagoule. The Résistance would grab Oona and Giselle if he didn’t do something soon and fast. They wouldn’t understand that he wasn’t one of the Occupier, not really, and that neither Oona nor Giselle had given themselves to the enemy. They’d blame Louis for collaborating. They’d hang that patriot or slam him up against the post without even a blindfold! They wouldn’t listen to a word his partner screamed.

  It was at times like this that a priest, if one believed in such, might be helpful, and as sure as that God of Louis’s had called them, one hurried past. Was it a sign? wondered Kohler bleakly.

  Knitted dark black, bushy brows formed thatches over dark brown, harried eyes that were behind heavy black horn-rimmed bifocals. The black overcoat had been carefully brushed, the black beret cleaned and ironed …

  ‘Father, just a minute!’

  Swiftly the priest took him in at a glance. ‘Not now. Can’t you see I haven’t time?’

  ‘Kohler, Father. Gestapo Paris-Central and that little murder in Charonne, eh?’

  ‘My son, forgive me, but … but if I don’t hurry, a young life may be lost. The métro was stopped by your people, and now …’

  ‘Now you’re late and worried about Danielle de Bonnevies.’

  ‘Now I greatly fear she is about to make a terrible mistake.’

  Brusquely Father Michel indicated the greenhouses that were behind hedges and a high stone wall next to the School of Mines, in the southeastern corner of the Jardin.

  ‘Then I’d better come with you,’ sighed Kohler. ‘Here, let me rest a hand on your shoulder. These crutches of mine are a curse.’

  ‘Is she suspected of poisoning that father of hers?’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘No. No, of course she didn’t. What makes you think so?’

  ‘Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to ask the questions?’

  ‘Then stop her from speaking out. Let me defend her.’

  ‘Against whom?’

  ‘Herself and them. Juliette also, for I’m certain she has tried to prevent Danielle from doing this and has failed.’

  Forbidden territory, open only to a select few and then but rarely, the greenhouses of the Jardin were the domain of its gardeners who understandably resented any and all intrusion. But oh mon Dieu, thought St-Cyr, forgetting their troubles for the moment. It was like stepping into spring.

  Tulips, crocuses, daffodils and cyclamens, begonias and baby’s-breath – the tiny-flowered variety so affectionately called Paris Market – were here en masse. There were freesia and alyssum and forget-me-nots, and over the weathered lattice of an arbour that divided the long length of the greenhouse in half, soon a vibrant display of orange-flowering nasturtiums.

  Shrubs were in terracotta pots and tubs on the crowded banks of trestle tables along whose aisles the members had filed: acacia, soon with its delight of tiny clusters of yellow; star jasmine in its late blooming, the perfume mingling with that of calla lilies and around them, masses of anemones, primroses and sky-blue scilla.

  ‘Monsieur …’

  The gardener sternly indicated the crowd of forty or so who had finally made their way to the far end where chairs had been set up in the aisles. ‘It’s not the Orangery,’ muttered St-Cyr, ‘but is every bit as pleasant. I envy you.’

  ‘Few would.’

  A pessimist? he wondered. Every fall the oleanders, date palms, orange and pomegranate trees, grown in large wooden planters about the garden, were taken indoors to the Orangery, but it, too, must be reserved for the Occupier and out of bounds even to such a long-standing and respected group as the Society.

  Instead of it, they had to be content with row upon row of magic, a veritable jungle of colour where hot-water heating pipes banged because it was their nature, and moisture constantly dampened the flagstone floor.

  Bees unobtrusively went about their business. ‘They’re working overtime,’ he quipped, for the man was trying to hurry him into joining the others. ‘Like detectives, they’re not allowed vacations.’

  A coat sleeve was urgently plucked at.

  ‘Was he really murdered?’ asked the gardener, his expression now one of deep concern.

  They were still some distance from the assembled. Danielle de Bonnevies had hurried on well ahead of them. ‘St-Cyr, Sûreté, Monsieur …?’

  ‘Lalonde. Paul-André, sous-jardinier.’

  Assistant gardener. ‘What do you think?’

  Short, wiry and dressed in unbelievably faded coveralls, and wearing an old grey fedora, Lalonde was over seventy, the face thin and with a high forehead and bony hands that had been wrinkled and blotched by a life spent largely outdoors.

  No glasses, though, and an enviable clearness to deep blue eyes that now gave the frankest of gazes.

  ‘What you mean to ask, Inspector …’

  ‘It’s Chief Inspector, but yes, I want to know which ones.’

  ‘Any of several.’

  ‘Please save me time I can’t spare.’

  ‘Then any of the most vocal three. Monsieur le président de Bonnevies was not an easy man. Oh bien sûr, one could always ask his advice but he was far too unyielding a scientist for them, too much the perfectionist. It was his idea to release a few bees here, so as to bring more meaning to the winter’s lectures he will now no longer be able to give. Monsieur Baucour, my superior, tried many times to get him to remove the bees, but Alexandre refused to hear of it. Once his mind was made up, it stayed that way, but …’

  Lalonde gave a sheepish grin and sucked in on his grizzled cheeks. ‘But I, myself, have become quite accustomed to them and find them most restful.’

  A man after my own heart! thought St-Cyr.

  Lettuces, radishes, shallots and green onions were being grown in among the flowers and as they walked along the aisle, the assistant gardener kept an eye on everything.

  ‘Alexandre was a very worried man, Chief Inspector. He and the three you will hear most, fought constantly. They didn’t want him to …’

  Danielle had stepped up on to the rostrum. Suddenly her voice sang out with, ‘Mesdames, Mesdemoiselles et Messieurs, attendezvous. My father is gone and I must take his place.’

  ‘STOP HER, PLEASE!’

  Father Michel and Hermann had just entered the greenhouse and were at the other end, the priest with an arm raised.

  ‘NO, FATHER, THEY MUSTN’T!’ shouted Danielle.

  ‘INSPECTOR, I BEG YOU!’ cried the priest as he hurried along an aisle, with Hermann trying desperately to catch up.

  ‘Mademoiselle de Bonnevies, you are out of order!’ shouted one of the men at the front.

  ‘ORDER!’ shouted another.

  ‘Please let her speak,’ said an older woman tartly. ‘She has every right and more than enough experience.’

  ‘Madame Roulleau, you mind your tongue!’ seethed the one who had cried for order.

  ‘My father …’ began Danielle again. ‘Many of you know he planned to give an important address today but … but was prev
ented from doing so – was poisoned, do you understand?’ she shrilled, her voice echoing under the glass.

  No one moved in their seats or said a thing. Were they too afraid of or embarrassed by what was to come? wondered St-Cyr. The speech de Bonnevies had been working on was still tucked in his jacket pocket – merde, there’d been so little time and he’d put off reading it! But now the girl, having denied any knowledge of its substance, was freely admitting she had lied.

  As Father Michel, and finally Hermann, caught up with him, he indicated the offending document. The three of them stood side by side in the centre aisle at the back of the gathering, the girl up front on a makeshift dais that gave her the advantage of but a half-metre of height over those who were seated. There were several of the Occupier – two SS from the SIPO, the Sicherheitspolizei, their security police who specialized in investigating enemies of the State – Jésus, merde alors, why had they come?

  The German overseer was here, too. Every segment of French agriculture and industry, even apiculture, had one, usually a specialist in his field.

  ‘Frau Käthe Hillebrand,’ breathed Hermann, nodding towards a smartly dressed blonde in a light beige, camelhair overcoat, soft lemon-coloured cashmere scarf, brown leather gloves and a wide-brimmed tan fedora that all but hid the right half of her brow and was, yes, very provocative.

  ‘That is our Bonze’s secretary, Louis, but what the hell is she doing here?’

  ‘Listening, perhaps.’

  Madame Roulleau was knitting a pullover from scavenged unravelled wool, but held the needles poised for more dialogue, the fingers pudgy, the face lined with worry and with deep pouches under soft brown eyes.

  De Bonnevies was to have paid her a visit on Friday. Beside her sat an elderly gentleman who wore the yellow and green ribbon of the Médaille Militaire. ‘Captain Henri-Alphonse Vallée, of 2 place des Vosges, Hermann,’ said St-Cyr quietly. ‘Confident in all difficult matters.’

  ‘Mesdames et Messieurs …’

  ‘SIT DOWN! YOU’VE NO RIGHT!’

  This had come from one of the three men at the front: a grey business suit, and with immaculately groomed grey hair.