Beekeeper (23 page)

This sand was clean, very fine, and of white quartz with only a few grains of naturally occurring black magnetite and ruby-red garnet.

And the girl had had freshly laundered undergarments in her suitcase of trade goods and these had been washed with the aid of the same sand.

‘Danielle has the perfect alibi,' he muttered, still not looking up. ‘Not only was she not in the city, she simply couldn't have poisoned you, and I'm convinced of this, so please don't trouble yourself unduly.'

And the son of that bitch my wife? the victim seemed to demand. What of Étienne, eh? Oflag 17A,
mais certainement
, but she was trying her utmost to secure his release.

The son of another man, a former lover of Madame de Bonnevies who was still alive? wondered St-Cyr. They'd have to find out and get the man's name.

‘Did you tell anyone about what the taste of honey would do to that sister of yours?' he asked. ‘Someone knew only too well what would happen and made certain it did. They wanted the doctors to see her true state and to stop all this nonsense of your having her home.'

Then that person must have been my wife, Inspector, the corpse seemed to answer, and continued: There was a crowd of at least two thousand visitors, people coming and going all the time. Juliette would have known the approximate time of my visit and could have been there earlier.

A small jar of honey, a wooden dipper, a gift and gone. Damage done and message certain.

‘But … but your sister said it was a man who had given her the honey, monsieur,' said St-Cyr, ‘and I have to ask could the same person have left the Amaretto?'

He seemed to smile, this victim of theirs, to take academic delight in the dilemma, and say, Inspector,
pardonnez-moi
, but have you forgotten the list you took from my pocket?

‘Ah
bon
!
Merci.
But at the time I found it, I asked myself why should anyone you were to visit on the following day have felt a need to poison you, and I ask it again?'

There was no answer.

Searching his pockets, the Chief Inspector at last found what he was looking for. Unfolding a scrap of paper, he stood a moment in silence as he studied it beside the corpse. Then he said quietly, and without turning or looking up, ‘We've a visitor again.
Merde
, the nerve! I knew his father well. M. Victor Deschamps, but so often a son fails to please or live up to the aspirations of a parent. Piss off,
mon ami
, before I personally wipe the floor with you!'

Had he eyes in the back of his head? wondered Deschamps.

‘I have!' shouted the Sûreté.

There were four names on the list de Bonnevies had planned to visit on Friday. No further details were given but, laying the list on the shroud, he found the victim's little ledger and soon had paired addresses with all of them.

After the General von Schaumburg, the beekeeper had intended to visit the long-standing keeper of one of his out-apiaries. Madame Roulleau was the concierge of the building at 14 rue d'Argenteuil, in the first arrondissement and not far from place Vendôme and the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré where Madame de Bonnevies's father had once had a shop, and where the beekeeper's father had been head clerk. A person, then, who quite possibly might have known the victim from years and years ago.

The third name on the list was that of a Captain Henri-Alphonse Vallée, the visit to deliver a small bottle of pollen and a little honey, ‘for the energy of an old and much-valued comrade in arms, and for wise counsel on all difficult matters.'

The address was 2 place des Vosges and not too far from the morgue, if time allowed. A
vélo-taxi …
would one be possible? he wondered.

The fourth name was that of a Jean-Claude Leroux. No reason was given for the visit, simply the address: 53 rue Froidevaux. It was in the Fourteenth and overlooking the Cimetiére du Montparnasse.

‘From one cemetery to another,' he muttered. ‘Is this the one who visits
Le chat qui crie
on Sunday nights once a month and takes only Charlotte who is eighteen?'

The corpse did not reply but seemed to silently return his gaze.

Not waiting for Herr Kohler to open the gate for her in the convenient absence of the concierge, Uma did so herself and stepped into the lift at 28 quai d'Orléans. She'd fix this one from the Kripo; she'd deal with the girl and, afterwards, with that bitch who managed the building. She'd show the two of them that they couldn't talk about an employer behind her back and think to get away with it. The girl would be on the train first thing tomorrow – straight to Dachau; the woman to one of the camps in the east.

Reluctantly Kohler followed her into the elevator. One had always to make these little sacrifices. But
Gott im Himmel
, what the hell was he to do? She'd accuse her maid of being one of the terrorists and it would be game over. Oona's and Giselle's names and the address of the flat he rented would come up – the kid would have to spit them out; that of the Club Mirage also, and Gabrielle. Water … would the boys down in the cellars of the rue des Saussaies use the torture of the bathtub on the kid? Of course they would. They'd strip her naked just for the fun of it.

He's afraid, this
Schweinebulle
, snorted Uma inwardly. In a moment he will be on his knees begging me to forget all about his disturbing a quiet meal after first having questioned my maid and that other one.

‘Oskar is clean, mein Herr. I really can tell you nothing.'

The woman had reached the door to her flat. Unlocking it, she entered and shouted angrily, ‘Mariette …'

‘
Oui
, Madame,' sang out the kid, from somewhere.

‘
Komm
'
hier
!'

‘
Oui
, Madame.'

The kid still hadn't appeared, but the woman went on in a rage, ‘Tell the
Detektiv
Kohler you were with me at the pool on Thursday afternoon. Stop him thinking otherwise, then repeat for me exactly what you said to him when he was here earlier.'

‘
Oui
, Madame,
mats qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?
' But what's happened? ‘I know of no detective, Madame,' she said in German.

Sacré nom de nom
! swore Kohler silently. The kid had icing sugar smeared on her chin and lips. Frau Schlacht had seen it …

‘
Hure
, how many this time?' shrilled the woman. ‘
Bitte
, you little
Schlampe
!'

Brutally pushing the girl aside, she headed for the bedroom and when she had the box of Turkish delights in hand, raced her eyes over it. ‘Three!' she shouted, stung by their absence.

‘Madame …'

Violently the box was thrown at Mariette, the kid slapped hard and hard again.

Bleeding from the lips, she fell backwards on to the rug, winced, cringed as a hard-toed shoe drove itself into her stomach.

‘Enough!
Verdammt
! They're only candies, Frau Schlacht!'

‘And she has stolen
three of
them! Arrest her. Do it, or I will call in others who will!'

The woman was livid. One had best not grin. ‘Now look,' he said, ‘I've accepted your word that she was with you all afternoon on Thursday and probably throughout the evening. Isn't that right, mademoiselle?' he asked in French.

Badly shaken, the girl hurriedly nodded then bowed her head and shut her eyes. Tears were squeezed.

‘There, you see,
meine gute Frau
,' said Kohler. ‘The perfect alibi. Why not give her another chance?' And
grâce à Dieu
for a kid who had the brains and guts to think ahead and take the rap herself to protect the concierge and hide the fact he'd been here earlier.

‘A week's wages. No, two, and no half-days off for a month!' snapped the woman.

‘
Gut
! That's perfect. Now everyone's happy.'

The girl was told to leave them and dutifully curtsied before doing so. Frau Schlacht led the way into the grand salon but didn't suggest they sit.

‘Your questions,
mein
Herr?'

‘May I?' he asked, pointing to one of the Louis XIV sofas.

‘As you wish. For myself, I will remain on my feet.'

Tough … by Christ, she was tough. ‘A drink would help – for the two of us, Frau Schlacht. You see, my partner and I have this theory, and evidence to back it up, that your beekeeper was murdered for one reason.' This wasn't exactly true, but what the hell …

‘Coffee will be ready in a few moments, Madame, should you wish it,' sang out the kid in
deutsch
from the kitchen.

No answer was given. The woman's arms were folded tightly across her chest, her feet spread firmly for battle.

‘What reason?' she demanded, her gaze fixed hatefully on him.

‘He got in the way. That husband of yours has been using relatives in the occupied territories to send him beeswax. The problem is, his collectors know nothing of honey-gathering or bees, and have been sending him squashed hives, buckets of mangled comb, and one hell of a lot of sick bees.'

‘Explain yourself.'

‘Acarine mites in Caucasian bees, some of whose honey may well have been used to augment the winter stores of Parisian bees.'

‘The sickness spreads …,' she said and, losing herself to the thought, abstractedly added, ‘Candles. You mentioned a factory, but I do not know where it is.'

‘But did de Bonnevies ever mention it?'

‘Only to say that bundles of altar candles were being left regularly on the doorstep of a church. The one to which he belonged.'

And Father Michel, the parish priest, hadn't told Louis a thing about them!

‘Your husband controls a precious-metals foundry. What else does he do?'

This one was not going to go away until he had something to chew on. ‘I've already told you Oskar is a businessman and that I know nothing of his affairs.'

Nothing about the trips to Switzerland you make for him? wondered Kohler, but this couldn't be asked – he had the girl's safety to think of.

‘Is he into real estate, do you think?'

‘I wouldn't know.'

Maisons de passe
? wondered Kohler, but he really couldn't ask that one either. ‘The beekeeper had a son. Did he ever say anything of him?'

‘Lazy. Not like my Klaus. A coward who hid behind a Red Cross armband but was badly wounded by mistake, of course, during the blitzkrieg in the west. The boy was no good. An artist, a sculptor who made nude statues and drawings of his half-sister. Herr de Bonnevies said it wasn't proper and that the girl should not have posed like that for the boy. Her one mistake, he said, was to trust her half-brother blindly and to encourage his every endeavour.'

That was two mistakes, but no matter. ‘Trust?'

‘Be the best of
Kameraden.
'

‘And the son, where is he now? Two metres under?'

‘Really,
mein lieber Detektiv
, you must already know where he is. Why, then, ask it of me?'

The woman hadn't moved and still stood in exactly the same way. ‘
Bitte
, Frau Schlacht, just let me hear it from you.'

‘Oflag 17A, in what was formerly Austria,' she said, gazing emptily at him.

‘And the boy's mother? How does she feel about it?'

‘I wouldn't know. He seldom spoke of the woman.'

Except to tell you he thought she was having an affair with your husband, thought Kohler, but he couldn't ask it. ‘There was a sister,' he hazarded. ‘Now where did I write that down?'

The
Schweinebulle
took time out to flip through the little black notebook he had been holding all this time. ‘
Ja.
Here it is,' he said and showed her the entry. ‘The Salpêtrière, the house for the insane. Was he worried about this Angèle-Marie?'

‘I wouldn't know, Inspector. Such family disgraces are best kept hidden, are they not?'

That bit about her not knowing of the sister was another lie but he'd best say something. ‘You're absolutely right, of course. A disgrace. It was dumb of me to have even asked.'

‘Then if there is nothing more, it is time for you to leave.'

‘There is just one other thing, Frau Schlacht. Minor, you understand – you must forgive the plodding mind of a
Detektiv.
Always there are these little details, but one never knows when something might turn out to be important.'

‘Why not just ask?'

It would be best to give her a nod and to consult the notebook again. Any page would do. ‘Your husband is one of the
Förderndes Mitglied
, is he not?'

‘
Verdammt
! Just what the hell has the fucker done?'

Schlacht's infidelities had wounded her, all right. ‘Nothing but what we've discussed, unless there is something else you'd like to tell me.'

You bastard, swore Uma silently.

One had best leave her with a little something to worry over. ‘Apparently he lost what the Reichsführer and Reichsminister Himmler took great pains to present. It might well have fallen into one of those pot-furnaces of his – maybe he was checking the melt – but I still have to think that badge is a problem.'

‘What problem?' she asked and swallowed, blanching.

‘You see my partner and I tend to believe he must have left it somewhere and we'd like to know where and with whom.'

‘Idiot! I know nothing of his affairs. Ass here, ass there,' she said and flung an arm out to emphasize the sweep of territory Paris presented. ‘Certainly he has had many, but …'

She actually managed to smile ingratiatingly.

‘But what is a forgotten wife to do, Herr Kohler? You're married, aren't you? You've left your wife at home, haven't you? Well?'

‘My Gerda married an indentured French farm labourer after the divorce came through by special order, since a relative of hers had pull. But war's like that in any case, Frau Schlacht. It splits couples apart and puts others together. German with French; French with German. Love – even carnal love – knows enough to find its greenest pastures in times of strife. I'll be in touch if I need anything further.'