Beekeeper

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘Louis, let me stay here with madame and the others,’ sighed Kohler. ‘Don’t bugger about looking for answers we might or might not need. Just ask the woman if she paid up and if the boy was freed.’

  ‘She didn’t!’ wept Juliette. ‘She laughed at my attempts to beg and told me that now I must really pay for my sins. My sins, when Henri-Christophe and I were so in love our hearts ached to be with one another and we could hardly wait to go to a hotel. A hotel … Ah! I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Ours was a secret, an amour fou, and I can still feel the first time he kissed me, the first brush of his hands on my breasts, the tenderness of his caresses, the first time he entered me, the rush of it, the joy, the eagerness of us both.’

  ‘My child …’

  ‘Father, don’t you dare patronize me! You knew the agony I was living. You, who married me to that bastard!’

  ‘It was for the best.’

  ‘Sacré nom de nom, how can you say such a thing? You who knew him far better than anyone else!’

  Pocketing the keys, Louis got out and came round to the other side of the car. Kohler saw him look up to that God of his to ask for help. Danielle de Bonnevies was terrified and on the run and probably trying to reach her brother before it was too late for him, but if no brother, then what? he asked himself and answered, A quiet place where the roots of Helleborus niger can be ground or simply eaten as is.

  A sentry challenged Louis as he stepped between the stone gates, and the beam of a blue-blinkered torch swept over him before alighting on the proffered Sûreté badge and identity papers. Madame de Bonnevies gave a ragged sob to which Father Michel impatiently said, ‘If Étienne de Bonnevies has come home, Inspector, then I greatly fear you have no need to look further for your murderer.’

  Frau Hillebrand simply smoked a cigarette in silence and stared out her side window while Honoré de Saussine muttered things to himself.

  The sofa and armchairs had been in the library since well before the Franco-Prussian War of 1870 to ’71, felt St-Cyr. Their wine-red morocco was crackled and faded but also wore that dark patina of solid comfort and many cigars. Books climbed to the ceiling.

  ‘Inspector, I’ll be frank. I’m a woman who never had any patience for waiters, street beggars, or the police and other civil servants. Please state your reason for this invasion of my privacy.’

  Madame de Trouvelot was in her early eighties, a tall, slim, dignified woman in a soft grey prewar suit of immaculate cut. The single strand of pearls was worth a fortune, the rings and brooch, too, but exactly the right amount of jewellery was worn, no more, no less. The face was narrow, the nose bringing together a sharpness whose deep blue eyes perceptively assessed this Sûreté and plumbed for the depths of his little visit. No matter what Hermann had advised, one did not go quickly with a woman such as this because she simply would not allow it. The bourgeoisie aisée, the really well off, could often be so difficult.

  ‘The aristocracy,’ she said, having read his thoughts. ‘Oh do sit by the fire. You find me in much reduced circumstances, Inspector, but living in one room saves on my having to employ a lot of ungrateful servants. My cook is considerably happier, since he can now steal far more and his new employer is apparently oblivious to it. The maids smile because they are fed a daily diet of compliments and little presents by the Generalmajor’s staff who want, no doubt, to get under their skirts. The chauffeur, however, still considers himself above such plebeianisms, since I’ve always turned a blind eye to his philandering, even to his disgusting habit, when I am not present, of using the back seat of my automobile for his liaisons sexuelles.’

  ‘Madame, a small matter. A few questions. Nothing difficult, I assure you.’

  ‘Must you be so tiresome?’

  ‘The library is pleasant.’

  ‘Am I to understand that you are interested in real estate?’

  ‘Madame, the watercolours that hang among the Old Masters, the exquisite array of small bronzes on your mantelpiece, that portrait photograph … May I?’

  ‘Since you have already picked it up, who am I to deny the police their pleasure in these days of trial?’

  She would take a cigarette now, thought Marie-Elisabeth. This presumptuous Sûreté would try to offer a light she would coldly refuse.

  ‘I have sufficient,’ she said, flicking the lighter the Generalmajor Krüger had given her. She’d let this Sûreté see that it bore the SS runes and swastika, a piece of cheapness the Generalmajor had not wanted on his person perhaps, but an item also that necessity had forced upon her.

  ‘Madame, this portrait photograph is of Juliette de Bonnevies née de Goncourt.’

  ‘Beautiful, wasn’t she, at the age of nineteen? Pregnancy always makes a girl radiant in its first month or two. Flushed, warm, soft, tender. A seductress, Inspector. The earrings dangling like that. Cheap seed pearls and rhinestones that fooled no one.’

  ‘Diamonds, madame. Two strands of magnificent pearls which match in lustre the seeds but are larger and far more expensive. Your son … Did he, perhaps, give them to her?’

  ‘How dare you?’

  The dress, of a white silk crêpe de Chine, was worn well off the shoulder and with double straps. On the right wrist there was the slim, black leather band of a Hermes watch, on the left, some bracelets, no doubt from Cartier’s and again of diamonds. The straight jet-black hair was parted in the middle and pulled back tightly, the dark eyes magnificent and full of warmth and happiness, nothing else. A young girl who was sitting sideways, so as to look over her right shoulder at the camera. Not shy, not bold, just herself and totally in love.

  ‘A girl of few morals and loose ways, Inspector. Oh bien sûr, she seduced my son and the boy wanted desperately to marry her, but passion and love are the least of reasons for one to marry and we could not allow it. A position was found in the Service Diplomatique for Henri-Christophe and we sent him to Indochina. The girl married and had her child, a son, I believe, and then a daughter.’

  ‘And you’ve not seen her since?’ He indicated the photo.

  ‘Not since.’

  ‘Then why, please, have you the photo out? Why the bronzes, the watercolours, all of which were done by Étienne de Bonnevies?’

  The Inspector leaped from his chair to touch the bronzes. ‘Sandpipers,’ he said. ‘Swans. A girl of fifteen, Madame de Trouvelot, a mermaid rising from the Seine near …’

  ‘Do you really think I would let that woman know I had bought them, Inspector? Ah! you police, you’re all the same. Of course I had them removed before she came to see me. I had to have my revenge, but one mustn’t go too far with such things.’

  ‘You bought some of the boy’s work.’

  ‘As a way of encouraging him and because Henri-Christophe had genuinely admired his talent. They never met, of course. To have done so would have been for my son to have broken his solemn promise to me.’

  ‘Then how did he know the boy had talent?’

  ‘Because that mother of his once stopped my son in the street and gave him some of the boy’s sketches.’

  The Sûrete put the mermaid back. ‘The boy’s sister,’ she said, ‘but he does not, I am forced to say, and glad of it too, think of her in the way a man usually thinks of a naked girl.’

  She would give this one a moment to digest such a morsel, thought Marie-Élisabeth, and then would leave him to consider it. ‘Inspector, Juliette should have come to me long before she did. To think that the boy has languished in prisoner-of-war camps all these years since the Defeat. I went the very next day, the sixth of November, to Maxim’s and made enquiries. Fifty thousand francs was, of course, outrageous, but waiters have never known their proper place and times like these only make them far more arrogant. The boy is never to return to the house of that mother of his, you understand, but has sent me a note that he is safely back in France and staying at the country house where he had, before the war, a studio. He will pay me a visit only when I ask it of him. He has, I gather, started to paint
again.’

  ‘At the country house …’

  ‘That is just what I said. Really, Inspector, you can’t have expected me to have told Juliette? Surely not.’

  ‘And have you paid this waiter the final fifty thousand francs?’

  ‘As agreed. I did so as soon as I received the boy’s letter. It was written on the fourth of this month and arrived on the sixth – the mail these days is simply not what it used to be. I went to the restaurant on the seventh.’

  ‘Might I see the letter?’

  ‘It’s there beside the rose my son gave me when he was called away to Berlin.’

  ‘As a diplomat?’

  ‘Thirteenth September 1938. A road accident. There was heavy rain and fog. The other car was totally demolished. Three people … The police claimed they were driving too fast and that my son was in the right, but …’ She shrugged. ‘These things are never clear when they happen in such places and at such times, are they?’

  A nod would be best, since the son could well have been on sensitive business and murdered by the Nazis. The letter seemed genuine enough but, still, he’d best ask, ‘Have you ever had any other letters from Étienne de Bonnevies?’

  ‘The signature matches that on his sketches, Inspector, and I am satisfied as best I can be.’

  ‘Good. Madame, you stated that the boy would pay you a—’

  ‘Inspector, I thought I had made myself clear. He’s very talented and most of what you have seen of this house, and whatever else I possess, will soon be his. I have no other heir to whom I would wish to leave my estate.’

  ‘But he doesn’t look at naked girls in the way your son looked at Juliette de Goncourt?’

  A slight tremor caused her to put her cigarette down, though she said nothing, which was to her credit, since she was trying to protect the boy and still uncertain of this Sûreté.

  ‘Madame, my partner and I are of the law, but believe it should be tempered with reason and compassion wherever possible. Homosexuality is deemed illegal these days, and both our Government in Vichy and the Occupier wish vehemently to stamp it out. As a result, such men, and women, are imprisoned and sent into hard labour in the Reich, or shot.’

  ‘Or beaten to death, but you and your partner are open to reason. Is it not dangerous for you to admit such a thing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then understand that this is why I have insisted the boy stay out of Paris and away from that stepfather of his who will, I greatly fear if aware of his true nature, do everything in his power to have him arrested. Please prevent it from happening.’

  ‘Do you know Alexandre de Bonnevies?’

  ‘I know of him, Inspector. I’ve always known. A woman in my position has to, though these days I am not so able to find things out as quickly as I would wish.’

  ‘And the daughter, Danielle?’

  ‘When I decided to purchase my grandson’s freedom, I had the girl brought here and told her. I wanted to be absolutely certain no harm came to him, and was fully satisfied by her responses and manner. She struck me as being a very intelligent, very capable young woman who loved my grandson dearly. She explained his need to use her as a model, since he had so little money and could not hire another, and while I did not agree, I understood perfectly the sincerity of her reasoning. He is extremely talented, and she wanted only to help him.’

  A match was struck, hands were cupped, and out of the night, the left side of Kohler’s face appeared briefly as he lit a cigarette. Then the match went out and there was only that tiny glow as he leaned on his crutches and secretly shared the cigarette with the sentry. Their voices were muffled. Maybe they’d be talking of home, thought Käthe. Maybe Kohler would joke about a little, but as sure as she was sitting here watching him, she knew he had deliberately left the four of them alone in the car.

  Again the image of that scar came to her. Kohler had defied the SS in his and St-Cyr’s holier-than-thou pursuit of the guilty and they had savagely struck him with a rawhide whip some months ago. Ever since then, both men had been distrusted and reviled by many in the SS and Gestapo, and the Höherer SS und Polizeiführer Oberg would be fully cognizant of this and wouldn’t want the Palais d’Eiffel to be closed and a scandal to erupt.

  Oskar was worth too much to him, and to others in high places, but also knew too much and would be a decided embarrassment should things go wrong. Oberg had been very clear on this. Settle things or else. Get de Bonnevies out of the way. Never had she seen Oskar in such a state. ‘Juliette will open the door of the house and ask you in when you tell her I’ve sent a message. She won’t suspect a thing.’

  Oil of mirbane. It would be on a shelf in the study. The bottle of Amaretto had been on the desk …

  Glancing up into the rearview mirror, she tried to meet the gaze Juliette must give, but there was only darkness. I know she’s watching me, said Käthe silently. Oskar had been so tired of Uma and had wanted his little bit of fun, and it had been exciting – lots and lots of laughs and sex; sex like she’d never experienced before, but now … Would Kohler and his partner really try to smooth things over and hide the truth?

  Juliette had pulled off a glove. Her fingertips were cold when Käthe felt them touch the nape of her neck. ‘A cigarette?’ asked the woman. ‘Could I have one, please?’

  I know you speak and understand French. How else could Oskar have managed when he first came to the city?

  ‘Of course. Here … here, let me light it for you.’

  The lighter was flicked twice, the flame lit up the front seat of the car, but then … then the light went out so quickly, thought Juliette, and said diffidently, ‘Merci,’ as she took the proffered cigarette and put it between her lips. Lips that have kissed yours, Frau Hillebrand? she silently asked. I was blindfolded, wasn’t I, each time you came into Room 4-18 at the Hotel Titania to find me naked and with my hands tied behind my back? Was it you who insisted on the blindfold? You would always say a few words in French to calm me, but I sensed you were afraid if you said more I might be able to recognize you. You trembled, you were so anxious sometimes. Later the smell of the Javel would always be on my fingertips, and you, Frau Hillebrand, are a part of the reason for this. Of course I wanted that husband of mine dead. Of course I lied when questioned by St-Cyr. When one has so much to hide, what are a few more things?

  Oskar knew where the oil of mirbane was kept, Käthe, because I had told him when asked. And getting the keys to the study and to the gates presented little difficulty. There was beeswax on my front-door key one time. Was it wax from when an impression had been made? With that key, it was then possible for someone to enter the house, but will the detectives believe this if I tell them?

  Alexandre usually left his keys on the bureau in his bedroom when he hung up his suit, Käthe. He slept soundly for a man of such cruelty and was so arrogant he never believed for a moment anyone would dare to enter his room at night.

  Danielle, when away, would leave her keys behind and when at home would set them on her night-table before bed. Danielle whose breath came uneasily in a sleep that was often troubled. She fears the worst, poor thing, and has run for her life, but can’t run to Étienne who would surely have come home if he could have to instantly free me from my agony.

  Étienne who is so sensitive a creature, an original in his own right, but never one like Alexandre.

  Étienne who is locked up with hundreds and hundreds of lonely men, Käthe, most of whom will only abuse him terribly.

  ‘Father, I did what I had to do,’ she said and offered to share the cigarette, an offer that wasn’t refused, for he answered softly, ‘My child, God hears and understands.’

  ‘But will He forgive me?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course, as He forgives all who truly repent and accept His love.’

  ‘Then will He forgive my son for being the way he is?’

  ‘And what way is that?’

  ‘You know, so please don’t ask me to say it.’

  ‘
Then yes. Yes, He will. My child, did you manage the boy’s release? Danielle would not have run like that unless she believed Étienne had come home and had killed Alexandre.’

  ‘Father, Madame de Trouvelot adamantly refused to help me. Étienne will not have come home.’

  ‘That boy poisoned Alexandre, didn’t he?’ snapped Honoré de Saussine. ‘While we’re all being held for something we didn’t do, he runs free and that sister of his runs after him!’

  ‘You were offered money,’ countered Juliette swiftly. ‘Oskar must have had a set of keys made to the house and study, mon ami. Please don’t forget that when the opportunity arises I will definitely inform the detectives of this!’

  ‘Salope!’ swore de Saussine. ‘Putain!’

  Kohler yanked open the rear door and leaned into the car to confront him. ‘Our beekeeper was one hell of a problem, wasn’t he, mon fin? He’d have let you have your day in court and willingly would have seen you thrown out of that Society and shut down hard.’

  ‘I didn’t do it!’ shrilled de Saussine. ‘I didn’t need to because Herr Schlacht had arranged for …’ Ah merde, had he walked himself to the widow-maker? he wondered, sickened by the thought. ‘I … I shouldn’t have said that. I … I spoke in haste.’

  ‘Had arranged for whom, exactly, to do the job, eh? Frau Hillebrand?’

  ‘I didn’t!’ cried Käthe. I couldn’t! I … I went there, yes, to the house in the afternoon but … but didn’t even ring the front bell!’

  ‘We’ll see then, won’t we, but it’s good of you to have let us know you were there on the day he died. Now which of you knows anything about Helleborus niger, the Christmas rose?’

  ‘The leaves, the stems and roots are poisonous,’ said Father Michel. ‘But why, please, do you wish me to say this?’

  They listened, Juliette swallowing hard but saying nothing. ‘Violent inflammation of the skin where the plant has touched it. Vomiting and purging that can’t be stopped – the bowels ache to pass waste and constrict but can’t void a thing because you’re totally empty. Severe abdominal cramps and numbness – one of its ingredients, helleborin, is a narcotic; another, helleborein, is a cardiac poison. There is copious sweating – you constantly drool, but can’t figure out what the hell is happening to you. Your heartbeat is very rapid but so faint you can hardly feel it. Consciousness remains until about ten minutes before death, but you drift into and out of it until, at last, the nerve centres that control the heart finally become paralysed. Your daughter, madame, intends to kill herself.’