Beekeeper

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘I have every right, Monsieur le vice-président Jourdan, but let us put it to a vote,’ countered Danielle, clearly flustered and upset, yet determined to carry through. ‘All those in favour of allowing me a few moments of their time; and then, those not in favour. Monsieur I’Inspecteur Kohler of the Gestapo has just arrived with Père Michel, our parish priest and an old friend of my father’s. Perhaps these two could count the votes.’

  ‘THIS IS INSANE! SIT DOWN!’

  ‘TAKE YOUR PLACE, MADEMOISELLE!’

  ‘AT THE BACK, WHERE I WILL NEVER BE HEARD, MONSIEUR DE SAUSSINE? You who have fought so hard to stop my father from speaking out, should at least have the courage to allow his daughter to do so, if for no other reason than to honour the man who taught you virtually everything you know!’

  ‘Let us listen to her,’ grumbled Mme Roulleau, stuffing her knitting away in its bag. ‘Oh come now, mes vieux amis, what can a mere girl say that offends so much?’

  You wise old owl, thought St-Cyr. You know exactly what that girl plans to tell them.

  ‘Those for letting her continue,’ sang out Kohler.

  Hands were raised, some hesitantly and only after others had been lifted.

  ‘And now the nays!’ he cried.

  The SS played no part in the voting, and neither did any of the others of the Occupier, including two Obergrenadiers on leave, a Hauptmann, a Major and another Blitzmädel.

  ‘Praise be to God,’ sighed Father Michel. ‘The nays have it in abundance!’

  ‘Oh no they don’t, Father,’ swore Kohler softly and then, much louder, ‘Thirty-five to eight say she speaks!’

  ‘Merci,’ managed Danielle and tried to smile.

  Father Michel crossed his chest and said softly but acidly, ‘May God forgive you, my son.’

  ‘Mesdames, Mesdemoiselles et Messieurs, will no one speak for the bees of Russia? Reliable estimates tell us that over one-half of all Russian honeybees have already perished – one-half! This tragic loss is not just due to the fierce shelling of tiny villages and hamlets, you understand, nor to other acts of war which leave the farms in ruins and the hives untended. It is also due to disease and its rapid spread. Since few are left to trap the swarms when each colony divides, these establish themselves in the wild and there, too, the diseases spread to decimate those few colonies that are still being carefully tended.

  ‘But … but it’s not simply of these matters that my father wished to speak. There is theft on a massive scale. In most rural areas of the Ukraine and in Poland and elsewhere in the east, the peasants are still using the woven wicker or straw skeps, and now … now especially in winter, these hives are being gathered by German soldiers. Skeps are piled one on top of another without regard to their brood clusters or to disease, and these … these are being shipped by rail to Paris.’

  Again she paused, but this time opened her left hand to release a bee which lingered until gently blown away.

  ‘Normally in the late fall the peasants would examine each hive, and would drown the oldest and heaviest, but also the lightest and weakest colonies, both to destroy any disease and to harvest the honey. But now these diseased colonies, and the healthy ones, too, arrive here. Papa knew that among them some carried acarine mites and European foul brood, also chalk brood which, as many of you know, makes the dead larvae appear as if Egyptian mummies wrapped in white cotton. He tried to stop what was happening, and for this … for this was poisoned.’

  ‘VOYOU!’ sang out one of the men at the front, leaping to his feet to shake a fist at her. Delinquent …

  ‘SALOPE!’

  ‘C’EST SCANDELEUX!’ cried another, joining him.

  ‘God forbid our guests should have to listen to such rubbish!’

  ‘À TOUT PRIX, MONSIEUR DE SAUSSINE!’ shrieked Danielle. At any price!

  She caught a breath and hastily wiped away her tears, calmed herself a little and at a sudden thought, even tried to smile. ‘After all, hasn’t the Maréchal Pétain told us that no neutrality is possible between truth and falsehood? Why, then, should we lie about this matter?’

  ‘Silence, girl. You’ve already said too much!’

  ‘MURDERER!’ she shrilled. ‘ASSASSIN! I WILL FINISH AS IS MY RIGHT!’

  One of the SS nodded at her to continue and in spite of their presence, she found her voice. ‘Those hives are joined by crushed and mangled honeycomb and broodcomb from the Vaucluse, from Normandy, Brittany, Anjou, Touraine and other regions, and this … this is not for the honey they contain but for the wax which is made into candles. The wax!’

  She let that sink in.

  ‘And we all know which of our most revered of institutions must burn only beeswax candles, don’t we, Père Michel? The Église de Saint-Germain-de-Charonne, your very own church, n’est-ce pas? The Notre Dame, aussi, and Sacré-Coeur, and all others, since all have found ways to purchase them on the black market at highly inflated prices. Even in wartime such candles are necessary. Especially so, I think, since no others are available. But some of you here have used the honey from these diseased hives to augment your winter stores – admit it, messieurs. My father knew very well one of these three was selling it to you and lying about it.’

  Either Jourdan, de Saussine, or the man who sat between them, thought St-Cyr.

  ‘She’s a dead girl, Louis. She’s just committed suicide but we had to let her speak out.’

  ‘Agreed. Brave yet foolish, Hermann, but did she have another reason for doing so and is that not why this priest didn’t want her to?’

  ‘You fools,’ swore Father Michel. ‘You call yourselves detectives but are so blind. There is my reason, and hasn’t that woman suffered enough?’

  Not two metres behind them, Juliette de Bonnevies had stood silently watching the daughter whose existence she had hardly acknowledged. Now she gazed steadily at each of them in turn, and the black veil she wore only served to emphasize the hardness of her betrayal and their suspicions of her.

  The uproar had subsided but now the charges were being laid and a deathly calm had settled over the members of the Society, all of whom had been confined to their chairs and placed under an armed SS guard.

  Wary of putting his foot too deeply in the shit, Louis had wisely stayed in the background.

  ‘The girl is accused of buying and selling on the black market, Kohler.’

  ‘And that represents two counts against her, eh?’ he panicked, taking in the blue-eyed, hawk-eyed, greying son of a bitch in the snappy field-grey uniform who was the same SS major as had had him arrested at the Club Mirage! The Golden Party Badge put the bastard among the first 100,000 members of the Nazi Party. The silver Blutorden, with its red and white ribbon, narrowed things down to the Blood Purge – all 1,500 of them had received one in 1933, on its tenth anniversary.

  The SS Dienstauszeichnungen, the Long Service Award, only had a silver swastika with SS runes on the ribbon – twelve years, but this one would be anxiously awaiting the twenty-five-year gilt swastika, since he’d damned well been around since 1923.

  ‘Lots of people buy and sell these days. She’s only a kid.’

  ‘Discipline, Kohler. Discipline! She has also fomented discord by accusing the Army of a criminal act.’

  ‘Mein Gott, since when did the SS ever take up the cause of protecting the Wehrmacht’s enviable reputation? And here I thought they were well able to do that themselves.’

  Kohler would never learn. As a prisoner of war in 1916, he had come to love the French so much he had even learned to speak their inferior language. ‘The girl is under arrest, and will be considered Sühnepersone. She’ll be shot as soon as her name is selected.’

  ‘But … but, Sturmbannführer, she’s a suspect in a murder investigation. Both Gestapo Boemelburg, my superior officer, and the Kommandant von Gross-Paris have ordered us to look into the matter.’

  ‘And that takes precedence over acts of terrorism?’

  ‘Look, be reasonable. We need to question her.’r />
  ‘Then do so. You have exactly one hour.’

  Schiesse! ‘Then begin by hauling before us the pigeons who fingered her on the black-market charges. My partner and I had best question them first.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Oberg must really be in a rage. ‘Would it help if we found it wasn’t murder at all, but simply an accident?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘That way, our reports would contain nothing other than statements from the wife, the daughter and the priest. I’d vet everything. You have my word on it.’

  ‘And that of your partner?’

  ‘Louis will be made to see we have no reason to declare anything else. A clean slate all round and a happy funeral.’

  ‘But … but this would surely not eradicate the criminal charges, Kohler? I, too, must file reports. The Brigadeführer und Generalmajor der Polizei, the Höherer SS und Polizeiführer of France is most thorough and accepts only total loyalty, absolute thoroughness, and the truth above all else.’

  Ach du lieber Gott, what the hell did this one really want?

  ‘Giselle le Roy, Kohler. The Dutch alien, Oona Van der Lynn, to be sent into exile to one of the camps.’

  And never mind the deal Schlacht had offered, even though this one would have known all about it. Never mind even admitting that such an offer had been made.

  ‘Then take me to see your boss. I’ve things I have to say to him.’

  ‘And your partner?’

  ‘Leave him here to do what he does best.’

  Without a word or even a nod, Hermann was gone from the greenhouse and that could only mean trouble, thought St-Cyr. Some of the members simply stared emptily at the backs of the chairs ahead of them; a few smoked cigarettes. All were afraid – this was abundantly clear. Several were embarrassed by, and ashamed of what had been done to Danielle, but all prayed they’d not be arrested themselves.

  That is only human, he cautioned himself. Madame Roulleau and Captain Henri-Alphonse Vallée, from widely differing worlds, held each other by the hand. War did things like that, the Occupation especially. It broke down social barriers and cast aside the customs of centuries.

  Both were much shaken by the girl’s arrest and, though they would earnestly want to speak out on her behalf, knew well what that would almost certainly bring.

  Under guard, Danielle sat in a chair on the dais, her head bowed, the not quite shoulder-length, pale auburn hair falling forward. That she was silently praying seemed evident, and he couldn’t help but feel sympathy for her. The worry of always having to run the controls had finally caught up with her, but as with so many these days, she’d been accused by people who had known her for much of her life, and they’d done so, not out of any sense of public duty, but simply to save their own asses or to get back at her, and never mind the hundred thousand francs reward that might or might not be paid.

  Jourdan, de Saussine, and the third member of their front-row coterie, Bertrand Richaux, stonily kept their counsel. They’d wait to be questioned, and perhaps it would be best to let them, since they’d expect to be among the first and every moment of delay would serve to further put them on edge.

  Alone among the Occupier, apart from the guards, Frau Käthe Hillebrand had stayed behind, and when his gaze met hers, she smiled as if to say, What now, Inspector? She was calmly smoking a cigarette and had taken out a notebook and pen to record things for her boss. A woman, then, who would know more than she’d let on and would now be very careful about what she said.

  Father Michel had tried to comfort Juliette de Bonnevies but without success. Both still stood near him, the woman with her back to the priest, her gloved fingers delicately caressing the petals of a crimson cyclamen as if trying desperately to find a moment’s peace.

  ‘Your son, madame. Has he been released?’ he asked, closing the gap between them as though on impulse. ‘You begged Herr Schlacht to intercede on his behalf, didn’t you?’

  ‘Inspector …’

  ‘Father, later. It’s with this one that I must begin. Please leave us immediately. Well?’ demanded St-Cyr of her.

  Startled, she stiffened and, lifting her hand from the cyclamen, briefly touched her veil as she turned to look at him, the dark brown eyes now rapidly moistening.

  ‘I begged him to, and he agreed that if I would do as he asked, the fifty thousand francs the waiter had demanded would be paid.’

  Her lips had quivered as she’d said this, but quickly she overcame her nervousness.

  ‘Madame, you knew of Herr Schlacht through your husband’s contacts with his wife.’

  ‘Yes. All right. I … I did go through that little book of Alexandre’s not once but several times. It wasn’t hard to contact Frau Schlacht’s husband. The Hôtel Drouot … We met six months ago and he decided what he wanted from me in exchange, while I, poor fool, believed him. I did! damn you. I was desperate.’

  ‘But he didn’t pay up.’

  ‘No, he did not. Two or three times a week I’d go to that filthy place of his and …’

  ‘The Hôtel Titania.’

  ‘Room 4–18. From its little balcony there is a rather pleasant view of the Sacré-Coeur, even in winter.’

  ‘Then in so far as you know, Étienne is still in Oflag 17A?’

  ‘Yes, and I would willingly give myself to anyone, male or female, who would see that he was allowed to come home.’

  ‘But your husband didn’t want him to, did he?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  The dark, almost black hair and sharply defined features with their pale complexion suited the veil most admirably and she knew it and used it to good advantage, so much so, he was reminded she’d been very much of the Sorbonne and the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, but never of the quartier Charonne.

  ‘He wanted his sister to return and you couldn’t have that, could you?’ asked St-Cyr.

  ‘As I’ve already told you, Inspector, I didn’t poison him. Oh bien sûr, if I’d known how to, I most certainly would have tried to, but …’ Her slender shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug as she looked away.

  ‘But would Danielle?’ he asked.

  ‘Have told me how to – Is this what you’re after? Well, is it?’

  ‘No, madame. Would Danielle have told your son?’

  ‘Who despised his father for the way he treated me and would want to stop it?’

  ‘Before Angèle-Marie was allowed to compound your suffering.’

  ‘Étienne isn’t in France, Inspector. Oskar always promised to pay for his release. He’d always say, “Next week, or tomorrow, or in a few days,” and I’d let him do whatever he wanted to me. I’d even beg him to do it and willingly I’d allow others into the room to watch or participate, if that was what he wished. What did it matter, really, so long as Étienne came home?’

  ‘Then could anyone else have paid for that boy’s release?’

  ‘His real father – Is this what you’re wondering, because if it is, then I must tell you that he died in 1938.’

  ‘His name, Madame de Bonnevies? I’m sorry, but it’s necessary.’

  ‘But … but it has no bearing on my husband’s death. How could it have?’

  ‘All things have bearing, even the rape of a fifteen-year-old girl in the Père Lachaise on 20 August 1912.’

  How cruel of him. ‘Henri-Christophe de Trouvelot. His widow has since remarried, and now the mother who refused her son the joy of his one true love, lives alone.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Forty-two boulevard Maillot.’

  In Neuilly, overlooking the Bois de Boulogne, and money … lots of money. ‘Ah bon! that’s all I want from you at present. Next … who’s next?’ he called out and then, in deutsch to a guard, ‘You may release this one.’

  But no one was to be released until the major had returned.

  The conservatory was warm, huge and humid, and stepping into it like entering a verdant jungle where one expected monkeys to chatter and pythons to
lurk.

  Or scorpions, thought Kohler uncomfortably as he leaned on his crutches. The major and his adjutant had ushered him through the entrance of this dripping glass house and now stood guard outside it!

  Merde, what the hell was up? This wasn’t the Luxembourg but the Jardin des Plantes where, not so long ago and in its zoo, a bomb had been left for him to defuse. Sweat and all the rest of it. Suspicions of Résistance people – Gabrielle no less – and a safe-cracker named the Gypsy.

  Scheisse! Oberg couldn’t have liked the outcome of that affair, nor what had happened in Avignon, and had deliberately chosen to meet him here as a reminder. But that could only mean the meeting had been decided on well before he’d even asked for it. And why, please, the secrecy?

  There were flowers – things called Flame of the Woods and Bleeding Glory Bower. Orchids, too, and hadn’t Oberg liked them? They grew on the ribbed trunks of the palms, and in among the creepers. One was high above him, another over there … Pretty things that seemed to wait in silent judgement.

  Bananas, too. Their thick stalks and long, broad leaves all but hiding pale green bunches.

  Spiders, most probably. Black widows maybe.

  In 1926 Karl Albrecht Oberg had landed a job with a wholesale tropical fruit importer in his home town of Hamburg. Perhaps he had dreamt of jungles like this while tallying the books, perhaps of naked Polynesian maidens, but he’d have thought of them with disgust, no doubt, for he had been, and still was, contentedly married and was as strait-laced, severe and no-nonsense a son of a bitch as one could find. A plodder with women. A man of little joy. Within three years he’d left to join a competitor, only to have the Great Depression shove him out the door and into the tiny tobacco kiosk he’d managed to buy in the Schanenburgerstrasse, near the town hall.

  In June of 1931, he had joined the Party – number 575205 – and months later the SS, where Reinhard Heydrich had put him in the Sicherheitsdienst and had shot him up the ranks.

  September 1941 saw him as S.D. und Polizeiführer at Radom, where he earned the epithet ‘The Butcher of Poland’ for his ruthless suppression of resistance and passionate extermination of Jews and other so-called undesirables, most especially the Gypsies, ah yes.