J. Janes - Beekeeper

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.

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.