Beekeeper (21 page)

Oskar … had Oskar finally done something the Gestapo did not like? she wondered. Oskar was always up to things. But this one couldn't have come because of him. He was just hungry for a woman, like all the others.

‘Guten Appetit, Herr …?'

‘Kohler. Hermann. From Wasserburg, the one that's on the Ihn.'

Ja
, mein Herr, and you are lonely, aren't you? she said silently to herself and nodded inwardly. A veteran from the Great War, he had big, capable hands whose thumbs, first and second fingers were deeply stained by nicotine.

A smoker, a drinker, and a fucker. She would show him and his kind. She would ask for a steak knife when her dinner came. Yes … yes that would be best, and she would give him a lesson he would not forget.

Louis … Louis wasn't here to back him up, thought Kohler desperately. Louis must still be with the beekeeper's sister. But what the hell is it with this one,
mon vieux
? he bleated silently. She
can't
know why I'm here, yet is as uptight as a queen bee with her hot little stinger in my balls.

Line 5, the place d'ltalie-porte Pantin metro was a bitch, the evening rush horrendous and lengthy as usual.

Jostled, shoved – crushed – St-Cyr cursed aloud to none and all in particular, ‘Hermann, you
salaudl
Where the hell have you gone with my car?'

No one bothered to pay any attention to his frustration. No one cared. ‘
JÉSUS, MERDE ALORS
, MONSIEUR, THERE IS ROOM FOR NO MORE!' he shouted.

‘
FOUTEZ-MOI LA PAIX, BÂTARD.
I'LL SHOW YOU!'

‘
SÛRETÉ! SÛRETÉ
!'

The whistle fell from his hand. The whistle was lost. He was jabbed in the small of the back, was jammed against two
Blitzmädels
who managed to squeeze sideways to fit him in and reeked of the cheap, foul colognes that were now so common.

Sweat, farts, colds, coughs, sneezes, the sour stench of thawing, wet overcoats and clothing that hadn't been washed since the Defeat, roared in at him!

‘A patriot,' he muttered under his breath. ‘I am still of such a mind.'
Mon Dieu
, the heat of so many bodies …

The train rattled on. There were so few seats, all thought of getting one simply did not exist. A Wehrmacht gas-mask canister dug into his groin, a jackboot trod harder on his left foot as the soldier turned at his objection of, ‘Monsieur …'

The burly Feldwebel grinned hugely and began to chat up the girls from home. St-Cyr hung on but the acid could not be stopped. ‘The Wehrmacht ride free,
mon General
,' he said in French, ‘while the rest of us have to pay!'

‘
Salut, mon brave
!' sang out a listener somewhere. Was it the one who had told him to bugger off? he wondered.

Another began to whistle Beethoven's Fifth.

Monsieur Churchill's stubborn V was soon on several lips until the protest died through the gaze, perhaps, of a Gestapo. French or of the Occupier, the difference would not matter.

Packed in like sardines – unable to even look down at the floor to search for a whistle that Stores would accuse him of carelessly losing, he tried to hold on, tried to avoid eye contact – it was impossible! Smelt the garlic breaths of a thousand, that of boiled onions, too, for few had grease or oil to fry them in,
tried
to think. I
must
! he said.

Angèle-Marie de Bonnevies had seldom received any visitors other than her brother. The father hadn't even come to see his little girl, had renounced her, and the mother had had to obey him.

Locked up, confined to a common ward, she had regressed constantly, but after the Great War, and the death of the father, the beekeeper had returned and had done what he could. A room – it had taken him years to convince the doctors such would help. And even though still deeply troubled, she had improved – Lemoine had been convinced of this. ‘Monsieur de Bonnevies had asked for weekend passes for her, Inspector. First to take her out simply for an afternoon, then … then, by degrees, to get her used to living at home once more. He was determined she could do it. Never have I seen a man so convinced.'

‘And afraid of what the Occupier might well do to your patients?'

‘Yes.'

But had Madame de Bonnevies decided to put a stop to things? After all, it was her money they were living on and she had been forced to look after the mother. Had the beekeeper's death then really little or nothing to do with Frau Schlacht? If so, then why the fear of our discovering that one name among all others in the husband's little book, particularly if the poison had really been meant for herself?

De Bonnevies had never allowed Danielle to visit her aunt. ‘Madame, of course, has never visited,' Lemoine had said. ‘Nor has her son – I understand it was not his child and therefore of no relation.'

‘And Father Michel, their parish priest?' he had asked.

‘Years ago, but not since Monsieur de Bonnevies returned from the war. The two of them must have come to some agreement.'

‘Why?' he had demanded.

Lemoine had shrugged and said, ‘The priest was interfering in the girl's recovery. Hearing the confessions of the deranged, troubling her unnecessarily. That sort of thing. Always after one of the good father's visits, Angèle-Marie would be silent for hours and would insist on standing in a corner, facing the wall.'

‘No tears?'

‘None. Just voices, but those of the inner mind and never spoken or cried out. We came to dread these visits and I think, in some ways, so did she.'

The train shot into the Saint-Marcel Station. At once there was extreme pressure from those who wanted to get off or on. Dislodged, St-Cyr was shoved brutally out on to the platform, was caught, dragged, heard the doors shutting … shutting, and finally managed to get back in.

‘I've received a letter from home, Freda,' said one of the
Blitzmädels
to the other in
deutsch.
‘All nonessential businesses have been ordered to close. Every male from the age of sixteen to sixty-five has to report for duty. All are being mobilized.'

The Reich had finally done it. The situation in the east must be far more serious even than the defeat at Stalingrad indicated.

‘
Scham Dich, Schwatzerl
' said the shorter, plumper
Blitz-mädchen
sharply. Shame on you, bigmouth. ‘The enemy is listening – silence is your duty!'

The quote had come from a popular poster which showed a duck in coveralls quacking loudly. The temptation was more than he could resist, but perhaps caution had best prevail. ‘
Mein Partner
says it's even rumoured they are watering the beer at the Adlon,' he said pleasantly enough in German. One of Berlin's finest hotels.

‘What can't kill me, strengthens me,' retorted the Feldwebel with a broad grin. Another popular saying, but enough said by all concerned for now!

The train began to cross the first bridge – one could feel the change. Elevated – out in the open air; in darkness, too, it had once been possible to see almost the whole of the Salpêtrière even at night, but now the city was plunged into darkness, now even the dim lightbulbs of the carriage didn't glow through the ether of their times.

From two million passengers a day in 1940, the metro's ticket sales had leapt to four million. And we live as a nation of moles when not on our bicycles or walking, said St-Cyr to himself, but had Rudi Sturmbacher been right? Had the enemy some monstrous new weapon that would rain flying bombs on England?

On our hope, our strength, as is America.

Rudi could do with one of those posters. He'd have to suggest it to Hermann who would immediately insist on it.

We are two
originals
ourselves, he said, but in this, though there has been the greatest of good fortune, there can only be danger. War, like small-town and village neighbourhoods the world over, frowned heavily on all but the ordinary.

Once through the Gare d'Austerlitz, the train headed out over the Seine and he could feel this, too, and knew there had formerly been splendid views of the river, the Île de la Cité and the Notre Dame.

When the train began to dive underground, he decided he'd had enough of it. ‘The morgue,' he said in
deutsch.
‘I've a murder investigation to see to and must get off.'

The Feldwebel shoved several out of the way and stooped – yes, actually stooped – to retrieve the whistle. ‘This is yours, I believe,' he said and grinned hugely again. ‘It was under my jackboot. So sorry.'

And had been flattened just like a certain birdcage!

The warmth, the sounds of the restaurant were all around them but the former bathing beauty still had a gaze that was even emptier than his own and he was getting nowhere, felt Kohler uncomfortably.
Mein Gott
, what was running through that mind of hers?

‘You do not eat,' she said, jabbing with her fork to indicate his stew. ‘It is not good to let it get cold.'

Steadily marshalling food and drink, she had downed potato pancakes and chicken with cream sauce and mushrooms as if there was no tomorrow and to hell with keeping one's figure. The bottle of Riesling had all but been sunk. The steak knife she had requested had yet to be touched but was unfortunately far too close to hand.

From time to time one of her shoes would brush against his trouser leg under the table, as if daring him to make a pass at her. He'd have to use the son again. ‘Lorient,' he lied. ‘I was just thinking … Well, one of the boys we had to question at the submarine base there looked a lot like you, but …
Ach
! It can't be possible.'

Caught off guard, she winced and set her fork down. ‘What boy?'

‘A
Fähnrich zur See.
There was some trouble – not with its crew or the boy, so don't let it worry you. My partner and I had to visit the base to ask a few questions. A local thing. Nothing else. You know how the French are. They kill each other in the most diabolical ways and then try to blame it on their friends from the Reich, when we've only come to put a little order into their lives.'

Louis would have shuddered at that. ‘The sergeant would have been about nineteen, Frau Schlacht. A quite handsome young man. Promoted often. Eager to do his duty for Führer and fatherland and proud of it, too.'

‘Klaus … was it my Klaus?' she stammered. ‘I … I have a photo. Yes … yes, it is here in my purse. A moment,
Herr Inspektor.
' Could he really have spoken to Klaus? wondered Frau Schlacht. Was it possible?

Lorient … so Klaus's submarine had been based there.

Herr Inspektor
, thought Kohler. So she'd figured that one out. Then it would be best to be firm. ‘An
Atlantikboot
Type lXB. U-297, but that's confidential.'

‘Yes … yes, of course.'

‘
Gut.
There are spies everywhere these days.'

The Inspector took the snapshot from her fingers, hesitating long enough to look at her with compassion and no longer such emptiness. ‘He … he was the best of boys,' she said earnestly. ‘A
Kapitän
… I could see him with his own command one day.'

Not in the Freikorps Doenitz, the U-boat Service. Not likely! ‘That's him, Frau Schlacht. I never forget a face. Men like myself are trained to remember and I've had years at it.'

Years … ‘U-297 … And this boat was sunk?' she asked and heard him say, ‘Last December, the fifteenth. A Tuesday.'

Then it was true.
True
!

Pale and badly shaken, the woman swallowed hard, touching the face in the photograph, forcing herself not to kiss it and cry, but to simply put the thing away for later.

And I'm a cruel bastard, said Kohler to himself, but as the Maréchal Pétain is so fond of saying these days,
La cause en vaut les moyens.
The cause justifies the means.

‘Frau Schlacht, you'll forgive me, but we've not met by accident. I need to ask you a few questions. Nothing difficult. They're just routine.'

‘Questions …?'

The emptiness of her gaze returned, the mask perhaps that of the rejected forty-four-year-old housewife whose husband was fucking someone else and who had come to hate all men as a result.

‘
Bitte, mein guter Inspektor
, ask.'

The shrug she gave was that of one who had known all along he was a cop. ‘Let's begin, then, with last Thursday.'

‘Not until I know the reason why.'

‘You'll not have heard yet, but the beekeeper who used to visit you was murdered.'

‘On Thursday?' she asked without a hint of surprise or other emotion.

‘That evening.'

‘And is it that you wish to know where I was?'

This thing was going to go round and round unless he was careful. ‘The afternoon, I think. Let's begin then.'

‘The Lutétia Pool. I go there regularly.'

She was lying, but must he dig a deeper hole for himself and Louis? ‘Can anyone corroborate this?'

He still hadn't begun to eat. ‘Any number of people. The Standartenführer Scheller; his sister, Hildegard also. Both instruct me.'

The SS and a colonel, no less!

She'd let him have it now, thought Frau Schlacht. ‘The one who collects the tickets, the one who tends the lock-up. My little maid, too. She will swear to it, since she was with me. I've taught her to swim and now am teaching her to do it much better.'

‘Then that's settled. No problem,' he lied. ‘Now tell me what you can about de Bonnevies and his visits.'

‘His treatments. But … but how is it that you knew he came to see me?'

This one had been tough since birth! ‘Your name, and others, were in a register he kept. Treatments Mondays at four p.m. Six hundred grams of pollen. Apple or rose, if possible. Two litres of mead a month. Honey in two …'

‘
Ja, ja.
For the facial masks and to soothe the throat when taken with glycerine and warm lemon juice. So how, please, did you know enough to find me here?'