Beekeeper (34 page)

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.

At forty-five years of age, and with the power of life or death over every living soul in France, he had landed in Paris. Hardly a word of French to him – he'd leave all that to others.

One had to pause and gape, for there he was at last, coming out from the jungle. The field-grey greatcoat, with its wide parade lapels and shining cap, with its silver skull and crossbones, went with the highly polished jackboots and the black leather gloves which were impatiently being slapped into the left hand. Behind him, water from a tiered and sculpted fountain shot up into the air before showering into streams beneath the glass dome of the conservatory, and flanking Australian tree ferns towered above him.

A man of little more than medium height, round and fleshly of face, and with a slight paunch and double chin, and a small, closely clipped, Führer-style moustache, tight sardonic smile, and pale, blue-grey, bulging eyes behind thick and steel-rimmed spectacles.

When approached, the look he gave was simply one of mild impatience as if to say to himself, I can squash this bug any time I like.

It was impossible to clash the heels together, and one crutch would fall away to clatter on the floor as the salute was given!

‘Heil Hitler, Herr Höherer SS und Polizeiführer. Kohler, Kripo, Paris-Central. You wanted to see me?'

‘Kohler … Ah yes. You've been wounded.'

The crutch was snatched up. ‘It's nothing, mein Brigadeführer und Generalmajor von der Polizei. A small accident. I was careless.'

‘Then you mustn't let it happen again. These days, good men are becoming harder and harder to find.'

Oberg let that sink in. ‘This entanglement with the Procurement Office, Kohler.
Das Amt
is a Wehrmacht organization but most useful to the SS.'

The office … the bureau … ‘That is understood, Herr Höherer.'

‘
Gut.
Then in your reports to the General von Schaumburg you should emphasize two things. First, that we have no interest whatsoever in it, and secondly, that this compound is really quite remarkable.'

The tin was about ten centimetres in diameter and the same in height, the label showing an industrious
Panzergruppe
polishing their boots in a Russian flax field while bees floated happily around them.

‘The Soldier's little Friend?' he bleated.

‘Beeswax and lanolin. Herr Schlacht manufactures the compound for the Wehrmacht, Kohler, and has just been awarded a two-year contract. I, myself, find it excellent, and have enthusiastically recommended it to the General von Stülpnagel.'

Oberg had been in the same regiment on the Western Front in 1916 and, as a lieutenant then, had been awarded both the Iron Cross First Class and Second. They were still on speaking terms, von Stülpnagel leaving all ‘political' matters to Oberg.

‘One first warms the boots a little, with a candle flame perhaps, then works the compound well into the leather, Kohler. It has a pleasant smell and is also good for the skin, particularly if the hands are chapped. You'd best keep that tin, I think.'

‘Herr Generalmajor, are you sending me to Russia?'

‘And now you're shitting your pants, is that it?'

Ach du lieber Gott
, how shrill can the bastard get? ‘I …. I only ask because our investigation is not yet complete.'

Reports – whispers – stated clearly that this one engaged in pornographic debauchery with the women he kept, and with both of them at the same time! ‘This murder, Kohler …'

Louis wasn't going to like what was said but might understand if told.
If.
‘It was an accident, Herr Generalmajor. I'm positive of this, but that fool of a French partner of mine can be very pigheaded. All I need is a little time.'

‘A few formalities, then?'

‘Absolutely nothing more.'

No plea to save his women, none whatsoever for the beekeeper's daughter who had spoken out like that, and nothing for his partner. Was Kohler at last learning to be loyal? ‘Then that's settled and I'll not detain you further. Oh, there was one other matter. Now what was it? Ah yes, candles for the Reich, Kohler. Herr Schlacht buys what he can on the black market but the quantities fall far short of the quotas set by Berlin.'

A constant problem, no doubt. ‘So he buys the wax and manufactures them,' sighed Kohler.

‘And supplies both the home market and the Wehrmacht. Candles for our boys in the trenches, Kohler. Please don't forget this in your reports to the General von Schaumburg. Candles and boot grease.'

And a saint, a loyal member of the Party, and one of the
Förderndes Mitglied.

‘There are no slackers in
Das Amt
, Kohler. It is far too useful an organization for me to let an idiot like you help to close down. Now get out of here and let me enjoy a few moments to myself.'

Close it down … Slackers?
Ach, mein Gott!
thought Kohler. No wonder they were worried. The Führer must be shrieking his head off over Stalingrad and must have ordered a witch-hunt. Namely for all those hiding in cushy jobs well behind the lines, and in Paris especially.

‘Be careful, Kohler. You may yet have friends in Gestapo Boemelburg and the General von Schaumburg, since they both still find a need for you. But don't mess up this time. Praise
Das Amt
to the hilt while saying nothing of our interest. Let Herr Schlacht buy what he needs and sell what he makes, and leave that wife of his out of things. Agree to go along with the offer he has extended and keep everyone happy.'

They were desperate. Schlacht had been told to pay up or else! ‘
Jawohl, mein
Generalmajor und Höherer SS. Heil Hitler.'

*
The number needed to keep order had steadily declined to this figure of 30,000, but later increased to about 200,000 by the end of 1943. There were also operational troops in France – about 400,000 in 1942, but by 1944, nearly 1,000,000 during the invasion.

8

The observation hive was walled with glass and one standard frame in width and thickness, by perhaps two in height, and everything the bees did in there could be seen. Maraldi, the Italian astronomer, had, in 1687, recalled St-Cyr, seen observation hives in the Paris gardens of Louis XIV's Royal Observatory. De Bonnevies had kept up the tradition and had used this one to help train his students.

It was not difficult to locate the queen, and to find brood cells that held eggs or larvae, nor to differentiate the larger drone cells from those of the workers and to watch as the larvae were fed by the ‘nurse' bees – fed royal jelly perhaps – while others capped cells and still others foraged afar for nectar, pollen and the resin with which to make propolis, and still others guarded the entrance against robbers and other predators.

‘A maze of cells,' he said as the girl was brought to him by one of her guards, ‘but the mites can't be seen, can they, without a microscope?'

Ashen, she didn't say a thing, only suffered his scrutiny. ‘Your mother tried to keep me from finding a name in that directory of your father's, mademoiselle; you tried to keep me from looking through his microscope.'

‘I was afraid. You were the police. I needed time.'

‘Yet you first accused your mother of poisoning him, and then one of the Society, and now … why now have publicly stated that Monsieur de Saussine is the murderer, the …'

The Inspector flipped open his little black book, startling her.

‘The “assassin”, mademoiselle. How is it that you are so certain now that Monsieur de Saussine poisoned your father?'

It would do no good to lie. To hide what had to be hidden, one must give as much of the truth as possible. ‘I meant, merely, that he was responsible for the deaths of so many of our bees, and for what was happening, the crisis my father tried to stop.'

‘Mademoiselle, you knew very well what your father intended to say in that address, yet when interviewed in his study you denied this.'

‘I did, and I am sorry for it. Will that satisfy you?'

Not even a perturbed sigh was given, the Chief Inspector simply took out his pipe and tobacco pouch as if preparing to stay for ever, should the interview be extended and the police van be delayed. ‘
Acarapis woodi
, Inspector. Until this Occupation of ours, the acarine mite had not been a big problem in France, or Belgium, or Holland and the Reich, for that matter. Indeed, we did not even suspect it had shown up in numbers in Russia, not until Herr Schlacht began to bring in so many hives. With some, the bees were still alive and these escaped and would most certainly have tried to join other hives, if not in Paris, then en route, or formed their own colonies.'

She paused, and as he lit his pipe, the Inspector looked steadily at her, a hard man when it came to the answers he wanted. ‘It's … it's always difficult to positively identify acarine infestation, Inspector. During the honey flow so many bees are being born, it's sometimes impossible to detect those that are unwell, especially if carrying the mite, but in winter when brood laying ceases, there are only the older bees. Several die off, and one wonders. More die off and you know you have a problem, but what is its origin, you ask. Only by using the microscope, by dissection and staining, too, sometimes, can you determine it is the mite. Mme Roulleau and others began to have problems last year in the early fall but by then
papa
had already identified the cause, so what they showed him simply reinforced his belief that the disease was rapidly spreading.

‘The mite can only be transferred by contact from bee to bee, Inspector. It lodges on the body hairs of the young bees and from there makes its way into the tracheae, where the female lays her eggs and the mites multiply until perhaps there are as many as a hundred and the bee, now a full adult, is first weakened and then dies.'

As she spoke, the girl would often catch sight of a forager returning to the observation hive, and when one landed on his coat sleeve, she reached out to let it crawl into her hand before blowing it towards the hive.

‘The disease is terrible, Inspector. It was first identified in 1919 by J. Rennie, in England, but had begun on the Isle of Wight in 1904 and has caused severe losses ever since. But as I've said, we did not have a major problem here, though a watch was always kept and my father insisted this be done, even to training me, as a child, in how to deal with it.'

The sound of the bees came to them, so subdued were the other members of the Society who sat some distance from them, the mother standing behind them, the priest near her but still being shunned by her.

‘The very young bees drift, Inspector. During their play flights, their orientation flights when they get to know their hive and its immediate surroundings, they often enter other hives, the drones especially since they, alone, are always welcome because the virgins need them. Bees also love to rob one another's hives.'

‘So the mites are spread from hive to hive in any one apiary and the queens are also infected.'

‘Once started, it's insidious. At times the bees become so weakened they can't fly and will crawl around the entrance in desperation.'

‘And the treatment with nitrobenzene is the only way to get rid of them?'

‘The most effective way so far. One could kill all of the bees and destroy the hives, I suppose. The mites can't live long without a live host.'

‘And the honey that is taken from those hives?'