Beekeeper (44 page)

More rectangular cages and vats held the larger church candles, the
cierges
without which the Mass would not seem the same. But short, squat, votive candles were also being made – cast in water-jacketed tables that held perhaps thirty dozen at a time and whose piston arrangement pushed the finished candles out and automatically cut off the wicks which were fed from below and through the pistons. For this operation the wax was being melted in galvanized iron drums that stood atop gantries at one end of the tables. There were lighted gas rings under them, and each drum was equipped with a spigot which, when opened, would let the molten wax run down a trough before spreading out to flood and fill the moulds.

Elsewhere, machines braided cotton threads into wicks of various sizes, while others inserted wicks into candles that had been cast without them. Of the fifteen or so females who operated the machines, sorted, polished and packed candles, only two were white and not of North African descent. The foreman, his assistants and two others, all of whom were busy unloading lard pails of wax and honey, were Caucasian.

Behind the windows of an office on the far side of the working floor, Schlacht was clearly in a rage. Frau Hillebrand stood next to him, irritably smoking a cigarette, while Juliette de Bonnevies sat beside Father Michel and Honoré de Saussine was with Oona and Giselle.

There was no sign of Hermann.

The Senegalese was tall and thin, and when he came upon her suddenly in the room where the wax was being separated from the honey in a press, Kohler touched a finger to his lips.

Startled, confused, she didn't know what to do. Should she cry out a warning; should she remain silent? she wondered.

He threw an anxious glance over his shoulder towards the door through which he'd come, this giant who was even taller than herself. Everything about him smelled of fear and yet … and yet …

Her dark eyes settled on him. ‘You're from the police, but are afraid,' she said.

An observant woman. The jet-black hair was all but hidden under a tightly knotted kerchief. ‘Visitors,' breathed Kohler. ‘
Miliciens
from the quartier du Mail et de Bonne-Nouvelle. Old friends your boss has called in for a little more help.' And
nom de Jésus Christ
, why had it to be this way?

They had arrived in a hurry in two cars and had parked these across the entrance to the courtyard, thus sealing it. ‘They'll soon be after a girl,' he said sadly, only to hear the woman anxiously ask, ‘Which one?'

‘Not one of yours.'

‘What's she done?'

‘It's not what she's done but what she intends to do.'

Once separated from the honey, the wax was cleaned by placing it in flour sacks which were submerged in boiling water – the woman used a stout stick to prod these. ‘As the wax melts,' she said, ‘it passes through the sacks and leaves behind the …'

‘
Ach
, I know all about it. The unwanted bits of bee carapaces, et cetera. The wax rises to the surface of the water and you skim it off. No problem, madame, except that there are lots of extra sacks on that washing line of yours and some of them are missing from the end next to that door I came through.'

‘Missing …?'

‘Four, I think.' Soaked through with residual wax, and then dried, as they now must be, any of them would make an ideal wick, but all the kid really had to do to set fire to the place was to turn up the gas rings under the drums that fed the votive candles. Wax should never be boiled or allowed to get too hot, because if it reached its flash point, it would rapidly expand to vapour and ignite with a deafening bang.

‘Pass the word, will you? Tell the others you'd best go on strike and leave the building while you can.'

Louis … he'd better find Louis. ‘Go on, damn it. Hurry!'

Seen from above, there were seven
miliciens
and as they poured from the office, St-Cyr watched Juliette de Bonnevies press herself against the windows to cry out, ‘Danielle …,' though he could not hear her. Each of the
miliciens
carried a lead-weighted, black-leather truncheon which they now used to herd the shrieking workers into a corner, refusing to let them leave. They knocked things over in their haste. The iron wheels continued to turn; the pistons to spit out the votive candles. The two white girls were joined by another who called out, ‘The burners, messieurs. I must shut them off!'

They let her go and, from high above the working floor, he watched as she went to the gantried drums. She wore a kerchief, a block-printed smock, and wax-covered, charred asbestos gauntlets, showed no fear or uncertainty, knew exactly what she would have to do.

Some of the
miliciens
, still not realizing who it was, began to search for her and went up the stairs. She gave them time, called out firmly, ‘
Un moment
,' when yelled at to join the others, then, having turned up the burners and flung off the gauntlets, pulled the Lebel from under her waistband.

Firing only once, Danielle put a hole in one of the drums and let a stream of molten wax pour out over the floor.

‘Mademoiselle!' called out St-Cyr. ‘Mademoiselle, you mustn't do this! We know your brother couldn't have come home.'

Against the thud and clank of meshing gears, the sound of his voice echoed.

‘I must!' she cried. ‘Herr Schlacht had my brother killed!'

Killed … Killed …

‘No he didn't! If anyone, it was your father.'

‘
Papa
…? But … but how could this be, please?'

‘By writing to the Kommandant of Oflag 17A.'

‘Ah no.
Maman
, is this true?'

Someone must have switched off the machines, for the wheels and gears soon ground to silence.

Allowed to leave the office, the mother walked out on to the floor, was pale and badly shaken. ‘Is Étienne dead,
chérie?
' she quavered.

‘
Maman
, I thought he was alive and had come home to us. I thought he was staying at the studio but …'

‘But couldn't have?' asked Juliette.

‘He wasn't there,
maman
, and only later did I find what had happened to him. I … STAY WHERE YOU ARE! DON'T MOVE!' she shrieked at
miliciens
who had been tempted to close in on her. ‘THIS PLACE IS FINISHED, MESSIEURS. I DO IT FOR THE BEES OF RUSSIA AND FRANCE!'

‘Danielle, you mustn't! You're not a murderer. Some may be killed, others badly burned.'

‘
Maman
, did
papa
write such a letter?'

Letter … Letter …

‘He … he threatened to, yes. He … he even showed it to me. To me!'

‘And did you know Herr Schlacht had been to the studio?'

The studio … The studio …

‘
Chérie
, listen, please. I could not have stopped him. He …'

‘You knew he wanted to rape me,
maman! Me
!'

Some of the wax from the hole was flooding down the side of the drum. It was only moments away from curling under to the burner. The burner …

‘The other drum, Louis. The kid was going to come up here and, after torching these, throw them down, but must have felt they wouldn't work.'

There were flour sacks in Hermann's hands. ‘Do I shoot the daughter?' asked St-Cyr.

‘You're the diplomat. Try that first and buy me a little time. Oona and Giselle are still in that office with our
Bonze.
'

‘Madame de Bonnevies,' called out St-Cyr. ‘If my partner and I can negotiate a reprieve for your daughter, would that not be best? The two of you to Spain, perhaps, with sufficient funds to make a new start.'

Juliette looked questioningly at Schlacht as he came out of the office with Frau Hillebrand; she looked at Danielle. ‘Spain,
chérie
, and a chance to leave it all behind. Is it possible?'

‘THE INSPECTOR IS LYING!' shrilled Danielle. The fountain of wax was still pouring on the floor; she still had the revolver and would use it if necessary …

‘We'll die together, is this what you want?' asked Juliette. ‘I felt certain Étienne wasn't coming home, Danielle. I had only to look at those sketches that Herr Schlacht had taken from the studio to remind and taunt me, and I knew that something terrible must have happened and would also happen to you. I did not know what to do. Should I add the poison and hope Frau Schlacht's husband would drink it, should I not do so? And all the while I was so worried about Étienne.'

‘Pneumonia.'

‘Don't cry. Turn off the burners. You've done what you really had to do. You've made me see how much my silence has hurt you.'

‘HERR SCHLACHT,' called out Louis. ‘WILL YOU AGREE TO GET THEM
AUSWEISE
AND LET THEM ACCOMPANY MADAME VAN DER LYNN TO SPAIN?'

TO SPAIN … TO SPAIN …

Kohler had reached the working floor and would now, thought Schlacht, begin to make his way up behind the two of them. He hadn't yet drawn his gun, so must be planning to grab the revolver and switch off the burners. But the drums were separated by a good three metres, and while the one began to boil and clouds of heavy white vapour poured from it, the other continued to piss its stream.

‘Oskar, agree! You have to,' hissed Käthe. ‘If you don't, and this place goes up, it really will be the end of the Palais d'Eiffel.'

‘Those two to Spain. The Van der Lynn woman stays in Paris,' called out Schlacht. Father Michel crossed himself; Honoré de Saussine began to slip away, but was held back by Frau Hillebrand.

‘
Dieu merci
,' said Louis as the girl handed the revolver to her mother and crouched to switch off the gas ring under the leaking drum, then turned off the other one.

‘The office, I think,' said Kohler, ‘so that we can clean this mess off our shoes, eh? You've nothing else planned, have you?' he asked Danielle and saw her shake her head.

The morning grew, the rays of feeble sunlight at last finding the streaked and grimy outer windows of the office. Juliette de Bonnevies tried to clean the windowpane in front of her, to stare better at freedom, but it was no use. Behind her, she knew the others sat or stood waiting, too, to hear what the detectives had to say.

Father Michel would be looking inwardly, his gnarled fingers moving the beads of his rosary as he silently recited the decades. Frau Hillebrand was sitting next to Herr Schlacht who, though impatient, would have to let the detectives proceed.

Honoré de Saussine would be pale and silent, nor would his gaze meet hers or anyone else's, except but briefly.

‘
Mesdatnes, Mesdemoiselles et Messieurs
,' said St-Cyr, and there was a watchfulness to him she sensed right away. ‘A bottle sits alone on a desk for but a few hours. We now know how it got there and what happened those few hours later. We also know that the gates to the apiary and the garden, and the door to the study were locked that afternoon and would have had to have been opened had someone other than the immediate family or Father Michel poisoned that bottle. Frau Schlacht wanted our beekeeper to add the oil of mirbane so that she could give the Amaretto to you, Herr Schlacht, but by then you knew what your wife had planned. Using
miliciens
to question and torture my partner on Saturday only confirmed your worst fears.'

‘Get on with it.
Verdammt
, I haven't all day!'

‘Louis, he had the set of keys he and Frau Hillebrand had removed from the studio.'

‘Yes, certainly,
mon vieux
, but were they used that afternoon by himself, his secretary, or M. de Saussine?'

‘
I didn't do it
!' shrieked de Saussine. ‘
I couldn't
! I … I was too afraid Alexandre wouldn't drink it.
Mon Dieu
, how the hell did anyone know he would? He didn't
like
that stuff. His was always the …'

‘Yes, yes, monsieur, but you had been offered a million francs and I have your signature to this statement as proof!'

‘I signed it under duress. You forced me!'

Schlacht had taken a bottle of cognac from his desk and had set out several glasses which he now filled, laughing as he did and downing one after another. ‘
So, bitte, meine lieber Detektivs
, will you join me?' he asked, enjoying his little joke and causing Juliette to shudder as she turned at last to face them.

‘Of course,' said St-Cyr, and taking two of the glasses, crossed the room to where the ones called Giselle and Oona sat tightly holding each other by the hand. ‘Relax,' they heard him say gently. ‘I think we can settle this.'

Impulsively the one called Giselle leapt to her feet to kiss and hug him and let her tears spill down his cheek while the one called Oona smiled faintly and said, ‘Spain. It's not possible for me, Jean-Louis. You know it and so do I.'

‘This murder,' said St-Cyr, when the two had downed their cognac. ‘Always there has been the problem of its being intended and yet also accidental. Had de Bonnevies not panicked and thought you had done it, madame, he might well have recovered, had he taken only a sip and spat it out. But he downed a good sixty cubic centimetres, and the rest of what he did only speeded up his demise.

‘Mademoiselle Danielle, you were always a suspect. First with my partner, and then myself. You had continually left candles for Father Michel and yet had denied any knowledge of the whereabouts of this factory. You had, I think – and this is crucial – firmly believed for some time that your brother would return.'

‘Back in November of last year, Madame de Trouvelot asked to see me and revealed that she had paid for Étienne's release but that it would, of necessity, take much time.'

‘
Chérie
…'

‘
Maman
, I couldn't tell you. Madame de Trouvelot made me promise.'

‘You believed,' said St-Cyr, ‘and Father Michel sensed this and also came to believe that the boy had, or would, return but that, for very good reasons, you hadn't told your mother.'