Beekeeper (25 page)

‘Ariadne …' he muttered, at the thought, for she'd been a necessary part of what had happened in Avignon. A coin, then, with a maze in relief on its reverse and the suggestion from the victim that they find the thread. ‘And now here she is again,' he whispered. Hermann wouldn't have liked it. Hermann could, at times, be very superstitious.

Everybody had to have their piece of paper these days, thought Kohler. They'd bitch and fart about in abject misery, but if you slapped a freshly franked wad of nonsense into their hands, they might or might not read any of it in the freezing cold and blue-blinkered light of their torches, and like as not they'd say, ‘
Jawohl
, Herr Oberst, this way.'

Herr Oberst … it sounded good. But getting receipts and requisition orders had meant stealing them from the appropriate desk at Gestapo HQ, 11 rue des Saussaies; HQ, too, of the Sûreté Nationale. Even at 23:42 hours that little hive had been busy. Trouble in the halls; trouble on the main staircase with two teenagers. That bastard Heinemann had been on the duty desk but had rushed to help out, a stroke of luck but bad for the kids. Boots and fists, et cetera.

God only knew what the papers were really for. Works of art or gold coins, cognac or someone's prized stamp collection. And using Herr Oberst could well yield difficulties of its own, but what the hell, they were on their way at last!

‘You sign here,' he said, leaning in on one of the lorry's opened side windows. ‘And you, here,' he indicated where the fresh stamp had been applied. Swastikas, eagles and all.

They'd brought two lorries and lots of help, and that was good.

‘And you?' asked Franzie Jünger, lorry driver for the Wehrmacht's Supply Depot number seven.

‘What does it matter, since you both will have lied and neither of you had to pay Occupation marks to get these. Five thousand
Reichskassenscheine, miene lieben Honig-Bienen -
that's one hundred thousand francs, eh? so please don't forget it.'

Stuffing the papers into a pocket of his greatcoat, Kohler thumped the bonnet of the lorry and strode off to the Citroën, giving them a nonchalant toss of a hand. Easy … this was going to be easy.

The honey bees would follow. They'd hit the restaurant of the Gare de Lyon first, would plunder its lard pails from Peyrane and then would empty Shed fourteen at the Gare de l'Est.

‘Confidence is everything,' he sang out and grinned as he got behind the wheel. Louis should be with them but wouldn't agree, of course – he'd be terrified. ‘Trouble … we're already in enough trouble, Hermann.' And worry, worry. ‘Your horoscope,
mon vieux …
Permit me to tell you that it said you
weren't to
venture out after dark!'

‘Piss off. You know I don't believe a word of that crap.'

‘You do! Don't lie to me. Giselle reads them faithfully.'

Schlacht wasn't going to like it. Relatives would have to be contacted. New supplies brought in. Production halted. But maybe, just maybe, the hive of this whole thing, having been well stirred, would open up with the truth.

In any case, Mariette Durand would have a far better chance of running to Giselle and Oona, and if not to them, then to Gabrielle. Frau Schlacht would miss her little maid and begin to put two and two together – he'd have to trust her concierge would use the girl's absence to cover her own indiscretion.

But word of the missing F.M. badge would reach Schlacht via that wife of his or from Rudi, and one Nazi big shot would come to realize exactly with whom he was dealing!

‘And we'll have something he needs,' sighed Kohler. ‘His wax, which we'll return with pleasure via the Kommandant von Gross-Paris or not at all.'

The Gefreiter on guard at the restaurant of the Gare de Lyon wasn't helpful. Reluctantly Lance-Corporal Kurt Becker moved out of his little nest to shoulder his rifle and stare bleakly at the papers that had been stuffed into his hand. ‘Herr Oberst, this is highly irregular.'

‘We're simply shifting it to a more secure location.
Gott
alone knows why Old Shatter Hand wants it done or insists guys like you should numb your balls guarding it, but an order is an order, eh, and I've mine.'

Kohler stabbed at the papers but the Lance-Corporal breathed, ‘I'm not alone.'

Oh-oh. ‘Who's with you? Well, come on. Out with it.'

The concourse below was indicated. ‘The soup kitchen,' said Becker. ‘Unterfeldwebel Voegler is warming his toes. Apparently this “Old Shatter Hand” of yours feels the two of us are necessary, especially as the curfew has begun and the doors are all supposed to be locked.'

A wise one; and a sergeant too! ‘And how long will he be down there?'

‘A half-hour, maybe a little more. You see, Herr Oberst, he was a shoemaker in his other life and likes to keep his boots warm and dry and away from the Russian Front so as not to spoil the leather.'

‘Okay, okay, I'll speak to him.'

‘I wouldn't, if I were you. He's a very loyal member of the Party and a true believer in the Führer.'

Jésus, merde alors
, this guy was really something! ‘Got any suggestions?'

Becker folded the papers and stuffed them into a pocket. ‘Ten thousand
Reichskassenscheine
for the little dent you will put in the back of my head.'

‘Ten …'

‘And please don't bother to go through my pockets looking for it while I'm asleep, since Herr Voegler will most certainly order me to empty them, and I will have tucked your little reward inside my shirt.'

‘Look, you can trust me.'

‘It's the others who are with you that worry me.'

A cigarette was offered to cement the bargain and then a long pull at the antifreeze of the bottle of three-star cognac that would be used. ‘Another,' said Becker, ‘and another. It's always best to take precautions when expecting pain.'

‘Idiot, he'll accuse you of drinking while on duty!'

‘Please don't trouble yourself. I'll leave enough to be showered. That way he won't think of it, particularly if you take my rifle and cartridge case and I tell him it was the terrorists.'

Mein Gott
had things among the troops in Paris really degenerated so far?

‘I'd hurry, if I were you,' said Becker. ‘Once the mind is made up, it's best to carry through. Take the walnuts, too. Then I can say the terrorists were after potatoes and made a mistake.'

The guard on Shed fourteen, was not so easy. Retaliating against the rape of a young woman and collusion between the railway police and the
Milice
, von Schaumburg had placed Wehrmacht sentries two by two with Schmeissers and dogs.

It wasn't good. Even from a distance this could be seen. Breath billowing from man and beast. Helmets battened down. Greatcoat collars up. Snow softly falling to give the lines of track the uncomfortable look of a lost world just waiting for trouble.

‘You've met your match,' confided Franzie Jünger. ‘Sorry, Herr “Oberst”, but this is too much even for us.'

‘Not at all,' breathed Kohler. ‘Find the air-raid sirens.'

‘You're serious.'

‘It's the only way.'

‘Just what the hell are you really up to, eh? This place will be crawling with wardens and a person such as yourself must know how those bastards behave. If we get arrested for failing to run to the shelters, it's not only a loss of rank and a few days in the clink. It's Russia.'

‘I'll deal with them. This is good. It's everything I could have hoped for. First the terrorists get the blame for the Gare de Lyon job, and now Old Shatter Hand is going to have to think the guy who brought this stuff in, stole it back!'

‘Who is he and why are you after him?'

‘That's not your concern.'

‘It is. You see,
mein
Herr, someone such as yourself, with such easy access to Gestapo Headquarters, must be one of them.'

‘He's wanted for questioning in a murder investigation.'

‘So you get us to steal his wax and honey?'

‘You ask too many questions. That's not healthy and you know it. Now find the sirens and let the world hear them. We won't take everything. We'll just take what we can. That'll make it look even better and will seal the rest so tightly, that little
Bonze
will never get his mitts on it.'

‘You're a bastard.'

‘The world's full of them, or hadn't you noticed?'

‘And this “partner” of yours?'

‘Don't even ask. He hates guys like you. I don't. With me, you'll get what you want.'

‘Amaretto … is that what this is all about? Well, is it?'

‘I need its source.'

‘Ersatz?'

‘Yes.'

‘And that bastard behind the bar at the Brasserie Buerehiesel put you on to me?'

‘Why ask?'

‘To get things straight.'

‘Well?' demanded Kohler.

‘One of his regulars wanted a bottle. I did it as a favour.'

‘When?'

‘On Tuesday. The customer had to have it in a hurry. Don't ask me who she was or why. I simply don't know, but you must, since you mentioned she would like a few tins of my condensed milk for her face.'

‘And you didn't even bother to tell me,' sighed Kohler.

‘There were other matters, if I remember it, Herr “Oberst”. The honey and the wax.'

The candle guttered as its flame was quickly teased by the draught that moved constantly through the catacombs. Pinching the flame out, St-Cyr felt molten wax run over his fingers, the smoke smelling strongly of buckwheat honey.

Water dripped. Water hit puddles on the stone floor, and the sound of this was very clear, now near, now far against the muted, constant trickle of a spring.

He was well along the entrance corridor, in pitch darkness, hadn't called out on entering the pavilion above, had decided to go cautiously, but whoever had been whispering must have sensed his presence.

Feeling his way forward, he remained in darkness. A lantern glowed faintly in the chamber ahead. The sound of the spring was now much clearer.

‘Héloïse, I tell you I heard something,' came a man's voice, thick with the accent of the quartier Charonne. Madame Debré, could not as yet be seen.

Yellowish, ochre-brown to grey-white femurs and tibiae were packed solidly, their knuckles facing outwards and all along the chamber's walls and to its ceiling high above. Shadows from the custodian passed over them and the empty-eyed skulls that grinned from long rows among the bones. Some skulls had a few teeth, most had none; others were without the lower jaw.

Swastikas had been painted in lipstick on the foreheads of many. Two flagrant violations of the regulations sat on the steps of the spring where Jean-Claude Leroux knelt. Army-issue condoms had been stuffed into the eye sockets and dangled limply from them. Grinning lips had been crudely painted on each skull with lipstick also.

‘
Bâtards
,' hissed Leroux. ‘
Fornicateurs.
If I catch them, I'm going to report those fuckers and their
putains
to the Kommandant von Gross-Paris himself. I'm not going any lower in rank than that!'

He was so worried he was sweating even though he wore an overcoat, was portly and of less than medium height, but with big hands, a broad, flat nose, and wide lips that were grimly turned down. A short, iron wrecking bar, with a nail-pulling hook, lay on the steps next to his right hand.

Hoarfrost had grown on many of the skulls and knuckles, and this caught the light and made them appear as if varnished.

Suddenly the custodian's shadow flew up over the ceiling. ‘Héloïse, I was speaking to you,' he whispered urgently.

Removing the navy-blue cap, with its shiny peak and gold braid, he dipped a hand into the Fountain of the Samaritan Woman and wet his brow and the wide dome of an all but bald and greying head. ‘Héloïse, please answer me. Don't wander off!'

Large, wounded brown eyes glistened as he looked up in surprise at some hidden sound and held his breath. Swallowing hard, Leroux cupped a hand and drank a little. ‘The water is very cold tonight,' he muttered to himself. ‘But, then, it is always cold.'

‘The curfew's begun,' cursed the woman from somewhere distant in the darkness of the next corridor. ‘Now I'm going to have to stay here until it's over.
Merde
, it was crazy of me to have come.'

‘Why did you then? Letters … you had to send me letters. Why should I listen to such as you?'

‘Because I was fool enough to think you were one of us and that you mattered. I felt I had to warn you.'

‘One of whom, please?' he taunted.

‘You know very well,' she countered acidly. ‘Angèle-Marie, idiot. The Père Lachaise. The four of you.'

And so long ago.

Leroux took another drink of water and wet his forehead again before moving the lantern up on the steps, to the lip of the spring.

‘Why did you tell us she'd be there after hours, Héloïse? Why did you promise André and the others the reward of their lives if we took care of her for you?'

‘Why? Ah! Why does one do such things when one is told by a dear friend's father that one has lice and is too dirty to enter his house?'

‘No one bathes regularly, Héloïse. There is always perfume or cologne. You'd do better to tell me the truth.'

‘That brother of hers took me in that shed of his and refused absolutely to marry me.'

‘You tempted Alexandre?'

‘What if I did?'

‘
Merde
, and you got even by making us go at his sister.'

‘André first, then Jacques and then Thomas, and after them, you.'

‘
Salope
!' Slut!

‘
Violeur
!' Rapist!

Very much of Charonne, too, her hands stuffed deeply into the pockets of a charcoal woollen overcoat that had been made over years ago, she hesitantly came out of the darkness, but remained standing in the entrance to the exit corridor.