Madrigal (48 page)

An
original
in itself.

Père Michel wasn't at home in the presbytery or in the church. He was downhill from them a short distance along the rue Saint-Blaise, sitting at a corner table in the Café au Rendezvous, waiting for the Sûreté to question him.

One saw it at a glance on entering. Word had somehow been telegraphed on ahead.
Mon Dieu
, there were so few telephones in such quartiers, one seldom considered their use.

No, this had been done whisper by whisper and as if through the walls, but how had they known madame would be certain to send him to the priest? Oh
bien sûr
, it was logical. A death in the parish, the murder of one of their own, but the Sûreté could have come at any time.

They'd seen it, right from the moment he had stepped from the front entrance. They'd known it in his walk.
Merde
, these villages, he said, letting a rush of affection pass through him, for he was of Belleville, had been born there, and knew it and Ménilmontant and Charonne like the palm of his hand, as would this priest.

In the faltering light of a single electric bulb, shadows seemed to fill Shed fourteen. The smell was overpoweringly of buckwheat, of ripening fields, of straw and wax and beebread, cordite, blood and burning barns. The image of peasant women and children on their knees was clear. Pistol muzzles pressed to the backs of their heads. Bang, bang and into the mud and shit. The men were being hanged.

Kohler sucked in a breath and heaved a defeated sigh at the stupidity of it all, only to notice that Obergruppenführer Denke was watching him closely. The smug little bastard would report his reactions …

‘
Mein Gott
,' he said and tried to flash a grin as he indicated the contents of the shed. ‘The Wehrmacht's boys sure did a job, didn't they?'

Denke probably wouldn't know a damned thing about bees. ‘They didn't just take the heaviest and lightest of the hives – those of the old, well-established colonies that might harbour disease, or the youngest that were too light to overwinter,' said Kohler. ‘They took everything.'

Inverted straw skeps, grey and golden, the thimble- to basket-shaped hives not used in ages in the Reich, nor in France for that matter – except for catching a swarm – had been piled one on top of another right to the roof. Russia … the Ukraine? he asked himself, and going in among the stacks, touched one and then another.

‘My grandmother used to make these,' he said, the sound of his voice flat in the freezing, pungent air. ‘Toothless and so old, the arthritis in her hands caused her constant pain she ignored. And forget that crap you hear about bee stings helping. They didn't.'

The iron skep needle had been like a skewer, twenty centimetres long and sharply pointed, but with a circular loop at its opposite end. ‘Peeled, split willow and blackberry shoots are used to bind the tightly coiled ropes of straw. My brother and I used to gather them for her.'

So why the trip down memory lane? wondered Denke uneasily. Some of the hives had been removed, and because of this there was a gap in the stacks. Kohler had wandered out of sight.

‘Okay, so who's bringing these in?' called out the
Detektiv.

‘We can go through the manifests, if you like. The Frenchies keep them in the main office.'

A shot rang out, puncturing the metal roof and killing a rat with a sweet tooth.

‘Herr Kohler, what is the meaning of this? What's going on?'

Nervous was he, at the sound of gunfire and yet wanting a different uniform? ‘Just tell me who it is. Whoever set this up had help – lots of it – and long lines of communication.'

Where … where the hell was Kohler now? ‘I … I simply don't know,
mein
Herr. How could I?'

‘And you an Obergruppenführer in the Bahnschutzpolizei who'd look better in a Leutnant's grey-green? Hey,
mein Kamerad
from Münsterberg, I know you're sharper than that. Cough up and I'll put in a good word for you like I said.'

Another rat fell from the roof timbers, and then another. The
miliciens
didn't try to enter. In his mind's eye, Denke could see them running back along the tracks towards the stationhouse. Had Kohler planned it this way? Of course he had!

‘He's … he's important,' faltered Denke only to hear Kohler quip, ‘He'd have to be.'

‘He's one of the
Bonzen.
'

The bigshots. That was better, but teasing the name from the sergeant would be like coaxing the rats to show themselves.

Verdammt
, the lousy
Schweinebulle
, thought Denke. The shed had dropped to silence.

‘Oskar Schlacht. He has an office in the Palais d'Eiffel but is seldom there, or so I've been told.'

A busy man, then. ‘So who does Herr Schlacht ring up in a Wehrmacht supply depot in Kodyma or Krivoy Rog, or maybe Lugansk?'

Kohler had worked his way right round the stacks and was not two metres from him! ‘I … I really couldn't tell you,
mein
Herr.'

‘It's
Detektiv Aufsichstbeamter
or Herr Hauptmann.'

‘Sorry.'

‘Look, relax, will you? Don't worry about it. A cousin – is that who Herr Schlacht rings up?'

‘He has relatives stationed in several places. In Russia, Czechoslovakia, Poland, too, and the South of France.'

A man with a big family. ‘Gut! So come and have a look, eh? You never know. Maybe what I'm about to show you could be the key to your future.'

They went among the hives. There was little else he could have done, thought Denke warily. Kohler still had the Walther P38 in hand, but held loosely.

With each stack, the lowest hives had all but been crushed. Others above them were distorted – squished this way and that – but all gave ribbed shadows where light struck the bound coils of straw.

Except in the uppermost hives, where near-dormant bees stirred and fanned their wings, everything was frozen. Dead bees littered the floor. Wax and honey were underfoot. ‘These are Caucasians,' confided Kohler, handing the pistol to him to hold. ‘You can tell that by their big size and grey hairs. Here, let me gather a few for you to take to the Kommandant von Schaumburg. You can tell him I'm still looking for others. He'll be at home today. I'll write the address down for you, no problem. Just hand him this matchbox and he'll understand.'

Von Schaumburg …

Kohler's expression was companionable. He found a pencil and a little black notebook, and tearing out a page, wrote the address and then: Herr Kommandant, this is a man the OKW could use. It's not right to let the past of a relative stigmatize what could be a promising and very successful career. Heil Hitler.

He had even signed the note.

‘Why,
danke
, Herr Hauptmann
Detektiv Aufsichtsbeamter.
For a moment there, I thought … Well, that young woman and those two. I found them in the office on their hands and knees, the younger one rutting at her like a wild beast while the older one pinned her wrists and head to the floor. I … I didn't quite know what to do, and then there you were to settle the matter.'

‘Your lucky day, just like I said. Oh, have you ever tried chewing this? It's propolis – bee glue, the bees get from trees. The sap. My boys used to love chewing it, like gum, only this is way better.'

Louis would be pleased. A call to Use Gross would suffice. One Obergruppenführer who should have known better, two
miliciens
the world could well do without, and a charge of rape. Flu or no flu, Old Shatter Hand would hit the roof, and as for Herr Oskar Schlacht, why, the fun had just begun.

3

The Café au Rendezvous was like so many St-Cyr had experienced as a boy. The stand-up bar, with its rows of cloudy, overturned glasses on their metal tray was just the same; the copper coffee machine still exactly like a boiler-works out of Jules Verne.

Several of the linoleum-topped tables were occupied, and the hands of the patrons still identified their owners: a clerk in a menswear shop, a glazier, piano teacher, plasterer, carpenter and stonemason …

Burn marks the size of bullet-holes marred the linoleum floor where countless cigarettes had fallen in the heat of argument.

‘Inspector …'

Father Michel Audet had chosen his position well. From the back of the café, and flanked by posters that cried out,
Vous Avez la Clef des Camps
– You Have the Key to the Camps – and,
The Good Times are Here Again, Daddy's Working in Germany
, the priest waited.

Overly large, black horn-rimmed glasses magnified the intensity of sharp, dark eyes. The brows were thick and had been defiantly dyed black, and they matched the beret which was clean but so obviously had the dust of age and obstinacy clinging to it.

‘Father, I am—'

‘Yes, yes, I know who you are. I've followed your career for years with much patience.'

Ah
merde
…

‘Sit down. Marcel,' he signalled to the
patron.
‘A pastis for the Chief Inspector. He looks like he could use it, and put that idiot signboard out of sight at least until our guest has refreshed himself.'

The chalked
pas d'alcools
board was quickly tucked behind the zinc, a Ricard bottle produced as if by magic and set on the table with two glasses and a small carafe of water.

‘You read my mind, Father,' said St-Cyr gratefully.

‘It's my job to do so, as it is your own.'

A cigarette was offered – it was extremely rare for one to do so these days, so the priest was not only telling him they had things of importance to go over, he was warning him to tread carefully. And, yes, he was also telling the assembled that here was a Sûreté they would have to recognize but that it would be wise to first funnel everything through himself.

‘This murder …' began Father Michel, adding a touch of water to the pastis in both of their glasses.

‘My partner and I are not absolutely certain yet that it really was murder, Father. Amaretto isn't common, even on the
marché noir
, but it could have come from there. Did our beekeeper buy such things?'

‘Not from around here. Alexandre didn't even care for the stuff, but what you really mean to ask is, could Madame de Bonnevies have added the poison to it.'

‘I'm waiting, Father.'

‘Then wait. God is still hearing dispositions on the matter. Madame de Bonnevies tried repeatedly to get me to intercede on her son's behalf. She begged me to find her three skilled workers who would willingly leave their jobs, their families and loved ones, to work in Germany, in return for which, her son would have been released.'

This was the
Relève
, the exchange programme whose poster, of a male Germanic fist holding an upraised key, was to the right of the priest. But now that scheme, having been introduced in mid-1942 and having failed utterly, had been replaced by the
Service du Travail Obligatoire
, the forced labour draft, so even posters like that of the radiant young mother telling her four children money was now on the table, were passé. Now all non-essential males born between 1 January 1912 and 31 December 1921 immediately faced being called up.

The priest cleared his throat, then wetted it.

‘I refused, of course, and advised patience. It was wrong of me.'

‘Why so?' asked the Sûreté.

‘Alexandre might still be alive. It's a question that haunts me. Madame de Bonnevies has suffered greatly and is a very distraught, very desperate woman who has had two and a half years of agonizing over that son of hers and has, I should surmise, tried everything possible to free him.'

The hands that fingered the glass so delicately were not big, but finely boned. Beneath the jacket, the priest wore a grey cardigan that had lost none of its original buttons yet had probably been purchased back in 1930.

‘The past is food for the present, Inspector, but at its table the future is nourished. If ever there was a woman wronged it was Juliette de Bonnevies. Oh for sure, Alexandre was not only one of my parishioners but also a very dear friend, and I am much saddened by his unfortunate and untimely death. And certainly I tried to intercede in that marriage. Love for his wife – a wife who had borne him the son of another man. Pah! He refused her this just as she refused it him. They tried, of course, at first, but very soon it became apparent both were prisoners of the other; she to dote on her son and ignore the daughter she and Alexandre shared; he to do exactly the reverse.'

‘He lived on her money.'

‘He married her because of it. He
knew
she was pregnant with the child of another. It had all been arranged. Her family, his family, the matter settled. You see, I married the couple, and when I leave here to walk back up the street, I will see my church's beautiful and ancient bell tower stained by the mistake I made.'

‘They hated each other.'

‘Of course they did.'

‘And Danielle?'

‘Has always felt she meant nothing to her mother, and everything to her father.'

It would be best to give St-Cyr a moment, and to replenish his pastis. ‘Inspector, that child has no other choice than to peddle merchandise. Alexandre had no head for filling the family larder, even in the good times, except for the produce of his bees. Since the Defeat, the mother has had little head for it either. Those two existed solely because the child they had produced chose to hold them together and feed them.'

It had to be asked. ‘Could Danielle have inadvertently picked up that bottle during one of her trading circuits?'

‘Then why did he choose to drink from it days or perhaps weeks afterwards?'

A good point, but was Father Michel still trying to suggest the mother was guilty?

They finished their second cigarettes in silence. None of the other patrons watched them now. All were huddled in close conversation. But two women had entered the café so quietly, thought St-Cyr, he was troubled by the fact he hadn't noticed them and the priest hadn't let on.