Beekeeper (32 page)

‘That bottle, mademoiselle. You stated that when you left the house at five a.m. on Thursday it wasn't in the study.'

‘I'd never seen it before.'

‘But you stated first that your mother had poisoned your father and then … then felt one of the Society might have done it?'

‘Mother couldn't have, and I told you this, that I'd spoken out of despair. As for a member of the Society, come and meet them. Hear what they have to say to me, then decide for yourself!'

It was nearly two o'clock and still there was no sign of Louis. Had he left the Jardin du Luxembourg? wondered Kohler anxiously. Had he realized Schlacht would have to offer a deal that couldn't be refused because Oberg and the SS had first been consulted?

Louis would feel a need to sort things out and redefine his side of the partnership. He'd want to be by himself.
Mein Gott
, the
Bonze
made gold wafers for the SS of the avenue Foch, and sure as hell Oberg wouldn't want Old Shatter Hand finding out about it! That was why Oona was a hostage. No other reason. Oona …

With difficulty, he hobbled back up the steps to the highest of the terraces, to stand again, leaning on his crutches, forcing himself to let his gaze sift calmly over the Jardin. A Wehrmacht concert band, oblivious to peace and quiet, struck up
Deutschland über Alles
as if to thumb their noses at the loss of the Sixth Army – 24 generals, 150,000 dead, 100,000 taken prisoner, tanks, guns, everything – and to let the French know the Occupier was here to stay. Few turned to pause and listen, most just kept on as they were and tried to ignore the racket.

A Bach fugue followed to crash sorrowfully around the ears, but then the oompah-tubas and other brasses hit their stride with that old beerhall favourite
In München steht ein Hofbräuhaus
!

‘I feel like an idiot standing out here like this,' he swore softly. The French would hate him when this Occupation ended, as surely it must, and never mind Rudi's talk of flying bombs, or the
Milice
, or the
Cagoule.
The
Résistance
would grab Oona and Giselle if he didn't do something soon and fast. They wouldn't understand that he wasn't one of the Occupier, not really, and that neither Oona nor Giselle had given themselves to the enemy. They'd blame Louis for collaborating. They'd hang that patriot or slam him up against the post without even a blindfold! They
wouldn't
listen to a word his partner screamed.

It was at times like this that a priest, if one believed in such, might be helpful, and as sure as that God of Louis's had called them, one hurried past. Was it a sign? wondered Kohler bleakly.

Knitted dark black, bushy brows formed thatches over dark brown, harried eyes that were behind heavy black horn-rimmed bifocals. The black overcoat had been carefully brushed, the black beret cleaned and ironed …

‘Father, just a minute!'

Swiftly the priest took him in at a glance. ‘Not now. Can't you see I haven't time?'

‘Kohler, Father. Gestapo Paris-Central and that little murder in Charonne, eh?'

‘My son, forgive me, but … but if I don't hurry, a young life may be lost. The métro was stopped by your people, and now …'

‘Now you're late and worried about Danielle de Bonnevies.'

‘Now I greatly fear she is about to make a terrible mistake.'

Brusquely Father Michel indicated the greenhouses that were behind hedges and a high stone wall next to the School of Mines, in the southeastern corner of the Jardin.

‘Then I'd better come with you,' sighed Kohler. ‘Here, let me rest a hand on your shoulder. These crutches of mine are a curse.'

‘Is she suspected of poisoning that father of hers?'

‘Did she?'

‘No. No, of course she didn't. What makes you think so?'

‘Aren't I the one who's supposed to ask the questions?'

‘Then stop her from speaking out. Let me defend her.'

‘Against whom?'

‘Herself and them. Juliette also, for I'm certain she has tried to prevent Danielle from doing this and has failed.'

Forbidden territory, open only to a select few and then but rarely, the greenhouses of the Jardin were the domain of its gardeners who understandably resented any and all intrusion. But oh
mon Dieu
, thought St-Cyr, forgetting their troubles for the moment. It was like stepping into spring.

Tulips, crocuses, daffodils and cyclamens, begonias and baby's-breath – the tiny-flowered variety so affectionately called Paris Market – were here en masse. There were freesia and alyssum and forget-me-nots, and over the weathered lattice of an arbour that divided the long length of the greenhouse in half, soon a vibrant display of orange-flowering nasturtiums.

Shrubs were in terracotta pots and tubs on the crowded banks of trestle tables along whose aisles the members had filed: acacia, soon with its delight of tiny clusters of yellow; star jasmine in its late blooming, the perfume mingling with that of calla lilies and around them, masses of anemones, primroses and sky-blue scilla.

‘Monsieur …'

The gardener sternly indicated the crowd of forty or so who had finally made their way to the far end where chairs had been set up in the aisles. ‘It's not the Orangery,' muttered St-Cyr, ‘but is every bit as pleasant. I envy you.'

‘Few would.'

A pessimist? he wondered. Every fall the oleanders, date palms, orange and pomegranate trees, grown in large wooden planters about the garden, were taken indoors to the Orangery, but it, too, must be reserved for the Occupier and out of bounds even to such a long-standing and respected group as the Society.

Instead of it, they had to be content with row upon row of magic, a veritable jungle of colour where hot-water heating pipes banged because it was their nature, and moisture constantly dampened the flagstone floor.

Bees unobtrusively went about their business. ‘They're working overtime,' he quipped, for the man was trying to hurry him into joining the others. ‘Like detectives, they're not allowed vacations.'

A coat sleeve was urgently plucked at.

‘Was he really murdered?' asked the gardener, his expression now one of deep concern.

They were still some distance from the assembled. Danielle de Bonnevies had hurried on well ahead of them. ‘St-Cyr, Sûreté, Monsieur …?'

‘Lalonde. Paul-André,
sous-jardinier.
'

Assistant gardener. ‘What do you think?'

Short, wiry and dressed in unbelievably faded coveralls, and wearing an old grey fedora, Lalonde was over seventy, the face thin and with a high forehead and bony hands that had been wrinkled and blotched by a life spent largely outdoors.

No glasses, though, and an enviable clearness to deep blue eyes that now gave the frankest of gazes.

‘What you mean to ask, Inspector …'

‘It's Chief Inspector, but yes, I want to know which ones.'

‘Any of several.'

‘Please save me time I can't spare.'

‘Then any of the most vocal three. Monsieur le président de Bonnevies was not an easy man. Oh
bien sûr
, one could always ask his advice but he was far too unyielding a scientist for them, too much the perfectionist. It was his idea to release a few bees here, so as to bring more meaning to the winter's lectures he will now no longer be able to give. Monsieur Baucour, my superior, tried many times to get him to remove the bees, but Alexandre refused to hear of it. Once his mind was made up, it stayed that way, but …'

Lalonde gave a sheepish grin and sucked in on his grizzled cheeks. ‘But I, myself, have become quite accustomed to them and find them most restful.'

A man after my own heart! thought St-Cyr.

Lettuces, radishes, shallots and green onions were being grown in among the flowers and as they walked along the aisle, the assistant gardener kept an eye on everything.

‘Alexandre was a very worried man, Chief Inspector. He and the three you will hear most, fought constantly. They didn't want him to …'

Danielle had stepped up on to the rostrum. Suddenly her voice sang out with, ‘
Mesdames, Mesdemoiselles et Messieurs, attendezvous.
My father is gone and I must take his place.'

‘STOP HER, PLEASE!'

Father Michel and Hermann had just entered the greenhouse and were at the other end, the priest with an arm raised.

‘NO, FATHER, THEY MUSTN'T!' shouted Danielle.

‘INSPECTOR, I BEG YOU!' cried the priest as he hurried along an aisle, with Hermann trying desperately to catch up.

‘Mademoiselle de Bonnevies, you are out of order!' shouted one of the men at the front.

‘ORDER!' shouted another.

‘Please let her speak,' said an older woman tartly. ‘She has every right and more than enough experience.'

‘Madame Roulleau, you mind your tongue!' seethed the one who had cried for order.

‘My father …' began Danielle again. ‘Many of you know he planned to give an important address today but … but was prevented from doing so –
was poisoned, do you understand?
' she shrilled, her voice echoing under the glass.

No one moved in their seats or said a thing. Were they too afraid of or embarrassed by what was to come? wondered St-Cyr. The speech de Bonnevies had been working on was still tucked in his jacket pocket –
merde
, there'd been so little time and he'd put off reading it! But now the girl, having denied any knowledge of its substance, was freely admitting she had lied.

As Father Michel, and finally Hermann, caught up with him, he indicated the offending document. The three of them stood side by side in the centre aisle at the back of the gathering, the girl up front on a makeshift dais that gave her the advantage of but a half-metre of height over those who were seated. There were several of the Occupier – two SS from the SIPO, the Sicherheitspolizei, their security police who specialized in investigating enemies of the State –
Jésus, merde alors
, why had they come?

The German overseer was here, too. Every segment of French agriculture and industry, even apiculture, had one, usually a specialist in his field.

‘Frau Käthe Hillebrand,' breathed Hermann, nodding towards a smartly dressed blonde in a light beige, camelhair overcoat, soft lemon-coloured cashmere scarf, brown leather gloves and a wide-brimmed tan fedora that all but hid the right half of her brow and was, yes, very provocative.

‘That is our
Bonze's
secretary, Louis, but what the hell is she doing here?'

‘Listening, perhaps.'

Madame Roulleau was knitting a pullover from scavenged unravelled wool, but held the needles poised for more dialogue, the fingers pudgy, the face lined with worry and with deep pouches under soft brown eyes.

De Bonnevies was to have paid her a visit on Friday. Beside her sat an elderly gentleman who wore the yellow and green ribbon of the
Médaille Militaire.
‘Captain Henri-Alphonse Vallée, of 2 place des Vosges, Hermann,' said St-Cyr quietly. ‘
Confident
in all difficult matters.'

‘
Mesdames et Messieurs
…'

‘SIT DOWN! YOU'VE NO RIGHT!'

This had come from one of the three men at the front: a grey business suit, and with immaculately groomed grey hair.

‘I have every right, Monsieur le vice-président Jourdan, but let us put it to a vote,' countered Danielle, clearly flustered and upset, yet determined to carry through. ‘All those in favour of allowing me a few moments of their time; and then, those not in favour. Monsieur I'Inspecteur Kohler of the Gestapo has just arrived with Père Michel, our parish priest and an old friend of my father's. Perhaps these two could count the votes.'

‘THIS IS INSANE! SIT DOWN!'

‘TAKE YOUR PLACE, MADEMOISELLE!'

‘AT THE BACK, WHERE I WILL NEVER BE HEARD, MONSIEUR DE SAUSSINE? You who have fought so hard to stop my father from speaking out, should at least have the courage to allow his daughter to do so, if for no other reason than to honour the man who taught you virtually everything you know!'

‘Let us listen to her,' grumbled Mme Roulleau, stuffing her knitting away in its bag. ‘Oh come now,
mes vieux amis
, what can a mere girl say that offends so much?'

You wise old owl, thought St-Cyr. You know exactly what that girl plans to tell them.

‘Those for letting her continue,' sang out Kohler.

Hands were raised, some hesitantly and only after others had been lifted.

‘And now the nays!' he cried.

The SS played no part in the voting, and neither did any of the others of the Occupier, including two Obergrenadiers on leave, a Hauptmann, a Major and another
Blitzmädel.

‘Praise be to God,' sighed Father Michel. ‘The nays have it in abundance!'

‘Oh no they don't, Father,' swore Kohler softly and then, much louder, ‘Thirty-five to eight say she speaks!'

‘
Merci
,' managed Danielle and tried to smile.

Father Michel crossed his chest and said softly but acidly, ‘May God forgive you, my son.'

‘Mesdames, Mesdemoiselles et Messieurs, will no one speak for the bees of Russia? Reliable estimates tell us that over one-half of all Russian honeybees have already perished – one-half! This tragic loss is not just due to the fierce shelling of tiny villages and hamlets, you understand, nor to other acts of war which leave the farms in ruins and the hives untended. It is also due to disease and its rapid spread. Since few are left to trap the swarms when each colony divides, these establish themselves in the wild and there, too, the diseases spread to decimate those few colonies that are still being carefully tended.

‘But … but it's not simply of these matters that my father wished to speak. There is theft on a massive scale. In most rural areas of the Ukraine and in Poland and elsewhere in the east, the peasants are still using the woven wicker or straw skeps, and now … now especially in winter, these hives are being gathered by German soldiers. Skeps are piled one on top of another without regard to their brood clusters or to disease, and these … these are being shipped by rail to Paris.'