Beekeeper

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘Oskar didn’t kill this beekeeper.’

  ‘I didn’t say he had but we both know he’s in deep trouble, and not just with von Schaumburg.’

  ‘Trouble …? What trouble, please?’

  ‘Rumours – whispers – that there are slackers behind the lines. People in cushy jobs who are helping themselves and getting too greedy while others do the fighting for them.’

  Sickened by the thought that the good times were about to end, Käthe tried to stop her eyes from smarting. Herr Kohler found another cigarette and lit it for her, and though she took it from him and said softly, ‘Danke,’ her fingers trembled and she knew he had noticed this. ‘Are there really rumours the Führer might shut us down?’ Oberg would be furious; Oskar in a panic …

  ‘They’re not just rumours. They’re serious. Oberg’s just asked for my help.’

  Ah Jesus, sweet Jesus! ‘Oskar was very worried, yes. He … he didn’t want de Bonnevies to give that address his daughter gave this afternoon. It would ruin everything, would make things very difficult for him, as it will. Always word of such things is passed so quickly. He … he wanted him stopped, that’s all I know. I swear it is, but … but felt he couldn’t have him arrested.’

  ‘Too obvious, eh? Too blatant for the Kommandant von Gross-Paris to swallow. Besides, there was this other little matter of Frau Schlacht’s having one of his mistresses followed to a certain hotel. The beekeeper’s wife, to be precise.’

  ‘Frau Schlacht had purchased a bottle of Amaretto. Oskar, he … he watches constantly, or has others do the watching for him, so he knew Uma was up to something with that bottle, but … but didn’t know exactly what.’

  ‘Does he like the stuff?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Then let me elaborate. Fearing the worst, he had me taken to that smelter of his and had his friends in the Milice try to pry the answer he wanted from me, but since the beekeeper had refused to help Frau Schlacht poison your boss, who added the nitrobenzene to that bottle?’

  The cigarette was teased from her lips to be shared. Nervously she touched the base of her throat, then fiddled with her scarf. ‘Oskar learned of the poison from one of the other beekeepers – de Saussine, I think – but … but said it had to be done so as to make it appear as if Juliette had done it. She despised her husband and was very unhappy in her marriage. She knew where the poison was kept and had told Oskar of this. A tin on a shelf in the study, above the workbench. A skull and crossbones on its label … Oil of mirbane in bright lemon-yellow letters, mono … mono-nitrobenzene beneath this in brackets. Juliette was to suspect nothing. The daughter would be away …’

  ‘Did you do it for him, since you knew where it was kept?’

  ‘NO! I … Look, I didn’t, I swear it.’

  ‘But he asked you to?’

  ‘And I refused.’

  ‘Then what about the stepson?’ demanded Kohler.

  He was so anxious now she would have to smile weakly at him, she told herself, and softly say, ‘Oflag 17A, you know of it, of how desperate Juliette was to get her son home? She would do anything Oskar wanted her to and went with many men in that place of his. Two … three at a time, if he wanted her to – prostitutes as well – what did it matter, so long as Oskar would buy the boy’s freedom?’

  ‘Did you watch them?’

  ‘Once. Oskar … Oskar thought it was funny. He throws dinner parties and then we … we all go back to that hotel of his to … to observe things.’

  But that was more than once. ‘And did he buy the son’s freedom?’

  ‘To put her out of her misery – one of the French? What do you think?’

  ‘That he’d prefer to spend the money on a bit of sculpture for der Führer.’

  ‘Leda and the Swan, ah yes.’

  ‘No freedom, then?’

  ‘Not from Oskar. This I know.’

  ‘Good. Now let’s stop pissing about. Tell me where he’s keeping Oona.’

  ‘Oona? Who is this, please?’

  Abruptly Kohler moved away from her to deeply thrust into the coals the long iron hoe that was used to pull clinkers from the firebox. ‘The candle factory, where is it?’ he demanded.

  ‘On the rue Championnet, across from the Omnibus Yards.’

  ‘How many employees?’

  Would he threaten to burn her with that rod? ‘Thirty, I think.’

  ‘How many shifts?’

  ‘Two. Each of twelve hours, when … when there is sufficient wax.’

  ‘Any guards?’

  ‘Why should there be?’

  ‘Lorries?’ ‘Two.’

  ‘Gazogènes?’

  ‘Their roof tanks are filled at the Omnibus Yards. Oskar has a … a deal with the manager.’

  ‘Deals and deals, eh? So where do the Milice who keep an eye on that smelter of his hang out?’

  ‘Did they hurt you badly?’ she winced and heard him answer, ‘Not badly enough.’

  ‘The gymnasium on the rue Bonne Nouvelle. They … they have a room at the back and … and use the gym for parades and … and other things.’

  ‘Like beating people up and raping girls they’ve hauled in for questioning?’

  ‘When it’s necessary, yes.’

  ‘Since when were either necessary?’

  ‘You … you know what I meant.’

  ‘So, where is Oona?’

  ‘At the Hotel Titania. There’s a room Oskar uses for … for the girls he’s preparing.’

  ‘Guards?’

  ‘One or two.’

  ‘French?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Gangsters?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anything else I need to know?’

  ‘Nothing! Will the Führer really shut us down?’

  It took all types to make up the Occupier, but he’d best say something to calm her, thought Kohler, setting the rod aside to help her on with her coat. ‘Not if I can prevent it. That’s what the Höherer SS wants and we aim to deliver.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My partner and I, though he doesn’t know about it yet, but don’t go telling your boss that we’ve had this little chat, not when Oberg agreed to let me question you.’

  ‘Did he really?’

  ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t even ask. Oh by the way, I’ll want to interview you again about your use of the name “Juliette” for Mme de Bonnevies, and your knowing all about that tin of … What did you call it?’

  Verdamm!. ‘Oil of mirbane.’

  Honoré de Saussine was in his mid-forties, the picture of health in these days when the sick got sicker and most others became ill through worrying. He did not back away from anything, thought St-Cyr, but met each question with a confidence that was troubling. A civil servant, and no doubt once a lover of la petitesse, the virtue of living small, he had come up in the world. No longer was his tie worn loose so as not to wear it out, nor did he bother to save his cigarette butts.

  ‘Inspector, as assistant director of building codes in the Ninth arrondissement, I was at my desk on Thursday from eight a.m. until noon, and from two until six. I could not possibly have gone to Charonne, nor had I any intention of, or wish to harm Alexandre. Oh bien sûr, we disagreed. Among scientists is disagreement not a fact of life? But to poison him … Ah no. No. It’s impossible.’

  ‘And you’ve those who will swear to your being at that desk?’

  ‘My secretary and my assistants, the director also. Let me tell you nothing escapes that one’s eye. Nothing.’

  ‘Then that’s settled. A moment. I’ll just jot it down in my little book. “De Saussine at work.”‘

  The Sûreté took his time and wrote far more, so as to be unsettling, but one could only smile at such a ruse, thought de Saussine. St-Cyr would find no paste-pot pinching civil servant here, no shifty-eyed accumulator of the rubber bands and erasers of fellow employees.

  From time to time Juliette de Bonnevies would glance their way and he had to ask himself, What has she tol
d the Inspector? That I hated Alexandre even more than she did? That I knew very well where the nitrobenzene was kept – had I not been in his study many times? Had I not my own to use, in any case?

  At the flash of a lewd and knowing grin from him, the woman quickly averted her veiled eyes and turned her back on them, a back that, when naked, had been seen by many.

  The Hôtel Titania, eh, madame, he silently taunted. Was Alexandre aware of the things you did in that place, things Herr Schlacht bragged about to me?

  ‘Your lunch, monsieur,’ said the Sûreté, suddenly looking up from his notebook. ‘Where, please, did you have it on Thursday?’

  ‘My lunch …? In the café at … at the corner of the rue Rossini and the rue Drouot, near the office. We always go there. Myself and two others.’

  ‘The soup, the pot-au-feu … a glass of wine?’

  ‘No wine, Inspector. It was a no-alcohol day, remember?’

  ‘Bread?’

  ‘Two of the twenty-five gram slices.’

  ‘The National?’

  That grey stuff that was made of sweepings and a lot of other things. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bread,’ he muttered and wrote it down. ‘No wine.’

  ‘Inspector, is this necessary?’

  ‘As necessary as is the truth, monsieur. You see my partner has spoken at length with …’

  ‘All right. I … I dined with Herr Schlacht at l’Auberge de Savoie.’

  ‘Thirty-six rue Rodier, but still in the Ninth and not far from that office of yours in the town hall, not far from the auction house either. Before the war, the porters at the Hôtel Drouot were its regulars. They all came from Savoy, a prescriptive right Napoleon insisted on, but now … Now I do not know how things are.’

  ‘Occasionally a few of them still eat there, but … but it’s a busy place and the clientele has changed.’

  ‘Black market?’

  ‘The gratin de pommes de terre de Savoie was superb.’

  Baked, thinly sliced potatoes, cheese, eggs, milk and garlic, with pepper, salt and butter, optional nutmeg and sometimes sliced onions or shallots … in a city where most hadn’t seen a potato since the winter of 1940 to ‘41, to say nothing of the butter and cheese!

  ‘The soufflé de truite à la sauce d’écrevisses was magnificent.’

  Mon Dieu, trout with a crayfish sauce! ‘The Reblochon and the Boudane?’

  Cheeses from Savoy, the latter matured in grape brandy. ‘Those also, and coffee. Herr Schlacht likes to dine well.’

  The Inspector painstakingly wrote all of this down, then took a break to pack his pipe and light it. The match was blown out, not waved out, and then, as an added precaution, spittle wetted a thumb and forefinger and the thing was decisively extinguished.

  ‘One never knows, does one?’ he said. ‘The threat of fire in winter seems even more imminent than in summer.’

  Fire in a greenhouse! ‘Inspector …’

  ‘Monsieur, I am certain Herr Schlacht expressed to you his thoughts regarding your president.’

  ‘He was concerned, yes.’

  ‘Not simply concerned, monsieur. The two of you …’

  ‘What, exactly, did Madame Roulleau tell you, Inspector? That I was deutschfreundlich and assisting one of the Occupier? Since when is that a crime?’

  ‘Madame Roulleau and I did not even discuss you, monsieur.’ This was a lie, of course. ‘But it is interesting that you should think she has accused you of murder.’

  ‘I didn’t say that! I …’

  ‘But the possibility arose between you and Herr Schlacht, didn’t it, and you were asked advice on how best to do it?’

  ‘I refused absolutely to even speak of such a thing.’

  ‘At what time did you finish your lunch? Please remember that the patron will be consulted.’

  ‘At three forty. We … we talked of other matters.’

  ‘The honey you were selling for him. Honey you knew carried diseases and yet … and yet you sold it to your colleagues to augment the winter stores of their hives.’

  ‘Inspector, to not have done so was for them to have lost their colonies. If Madame Roulleau were at all honest and reliable, she would have acknowledged this.’

  ‘You deal on the black market, monsieur; you sell diseased queens.’

  ‘What else did that interfering old woman tell you?’

  ‘That you threatened your president with legal action; that the two of you argued vehemently and that Monsieur de Bonnevies sent out notices to warn others of the diseases you were so thoughtlessly spreading.’

  ‘He had no proof! It was all a figment of his “scientific” imagination. Acarine mites … A crisis in the making? A tragedy? It’s absurd. Idiotic. Their numbers were far too small. Only a few hives showed any signs of it. All were fumigated most thoroughly. All!’

  ‘And Herr Schlacht, monsieur? Didn’t he offer you a substantial reward if you took care of things for him?’ This was another lie, of course, but when needed, could lies not be forgiven in these difficult times?

  ‘I refused. Ask him.’

  ‘Two hundred thousand francs?’ It was a shot in the dark.

  ‘A million. It … it was insane, Inspector. I … I couldn’t agree to such a thing – how could I? Alexandre and I go back too far. When I was but a boy of thirteen, he took me under his wing and shared his love of bees. I …’

  ‘Inspector …’

  It was Lalonde, the assistant gardener. ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘A moment, please. I … I have found something you must see.’

  ‘Can it not keep?’

  ‘Forgive me, Inspector, but it can’t. Your partner also wishes to speak with you in private.’

  Hermann … Merde, what the hell had happened? ‘He’s always in a hurry. Monsieur de Saussine, please remain ready to continue. A million you said? Ah! I must jot that down and get you to … Sign here, please.’

  ‘It … it’s in code. I can’t re—’

  ‘Just sign it, monsieur, and date it. Thirty-first January, 1943 at … four ten in the afternoon. No wonder I’m hungry. I’ve totally missed my lunch!’

  Hermann was waiting in another of the greenhouses and didn’t look up when approached. Humus was scattered. Two of the potted flowers, set well behind a screen of others on the trestle table, had been uprooted and hastily replanted. Broken, blackish-brown rootlets formed a tangled spaghetti on the leaves of adjacent plants.

  ‘Merci, Monsieur Lalonde,’ sighed St-Cyr. ‘You may leave us now, but were absolutely correct to fetch me.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Danielle could so easily have come in here before the meeting, Inspector. The girl is considered almost as one of us and knows well where each type of flower is grown.’

  The gardener was clearly much distressed and with good reason, but had best be told. ‘Say nothing. Let us deal with it. Now go. We will return to the others in a moment.’

  ‘Helleborus niger, Louis. The Christmas rose …’

  ‘Yes, yes. A cure for madness in the days of Pliny the Elder, Hermann, but as to how many patients survived, the historical records are understandably vague.’

  The flowers, of a very uncomplicated but proud look, were large and white or purplish and stood tall and straight, with golden, pollen-covered anthers to which the bees, excluded from this greenhouse, could not come.

  The leaves were serrated and leathery; the stems, a purplish-brown.

  ‘Did she wear gloves?’ asked Kohler.

  ‘If it was Danielle – if, Hermann. We don’t know this yet, but if gloves weren’t worn, then the skin of the fingers – especially that around the nails – will definitely show signs of inflammation.’

  ‘There’ll also be earth under her fingernails, idiot!’

  ‘Unless whoever did this washed their hands afterwards, or wore gloves.’

  ‘The roots, Louis.’

  ‘When dried and ground, they have the look of powdered liquorice and can, at times, unfortunately be mistaken f
or it. A dram of the tisane has been known to kill, but with the powdered root, the exact dosage is unknown and probably varies, though it has to be much less than a gram.’

  ‘She either killed her father or thinks that half-brother of hers did it and now plans to kill herself.’

  ‘And if not Danielle and not Étienne?’

  ‘Then Frau Käthe Hillebrand, or Madame de Bonnevies.’

  ‘Or Honoré de Saussine, or Father Michel?’

  ‘You tell me. Look, we have to talk. The Palais d’Eiffel is about to be shut down. Oberg insists we do everything we can to prevent this. We can find our murderer, but had better leave Schlacht and his wife well out of it, or else.’

  Hermann was clearly agitated and didn’t look well. ‘And Oona?’

  ‘To Spain. It’s what has to be, Louis. I’m sorry, but I’ve no other choice. I’m one of them, remember?’

  One of the Occupier. ‘We’ll discuss it later.’

  ‘Verdamtnt! An order is an order.’

  ‘And Oona? Oona loves you, Hermann. You and Giselle are her link with sanity in a world gone mad. Take the two of you away from her and what remains?’

  ‘Ashes.’

  ‘Then let’s pay the morgue a visit. Let’s both calm down and do what we have to.’

  ‘I knew you’d help. I was just worried about asking you.’

  ‘Then don’t be. We’re in this together. How are the toes?’

  ‘Terrible.’

  The Citroën was packed. Hoarfrost had quickly formed inside the windscreen and windows, and Hermann, his hands not free, what with the crutches and Danielle sitting on his lap, could do nothing to improve visibility.

  Frau Hillebrand sat squeezed between them, with Father Michel, Juliette de Bonnevies, and Honoré de Saussine in the back. The SS followed in two cars; the city was, of course, in darkness. When one lamp, its bluing streaked, signalled that they had finally reached the place Mazas, the forty-watt light bulb that was above the door to the morgue had gone out.

  A bad sign? wondered St-Cyr. Hermann would think so. Hermann hated visits to the morgue, but this one was necessary. Even so, he sighed and said, ‘Louis, there are things you need to know; things I can’t tell you in present company, or in any other, for that matter.’