J. Janes - Beekeeper

The two prostitutes were sisters, and it hadn’t taken a moment to see this, thought St-Cyr, surprised that Father Michel had still not mentioned it. Both had implored this Sûreté to guarantee the sous-préfet and préfet wouldn’t have them hauled in for questioning or worse, a licence suspension. They were really very worried and had kept coming back to the matter so much so, it was abundantly clear the priest had used the threat to get them to the table.

But why that of a licence suspension? he asked himself and sighed inwardly at the intricacies of life under the Occupation. ‘Danielle de Bonnevies trades in many items,’ he said, looking from one to the other of them. ‘Toothbrushes, compacts, razor blades and carpenter’s nails … Two bars of beautiful hand soap. With all of these she must have had help in acquiring them.’

‘Not us, Inspector,’ swore Josiane, the elder of the two, reaching for a sip of the red.

‘Inspector, what has this to do with the murder?’ demanded Father Michel, as if, in having set it all up, he could now claim innocence.

‘Only that the J-threes are very busy these days, Father.’

Everyone knew the teenagers were working the black market for all it was worth. Designated J-threes by their ration category, many were roaming around after classes flashing thick wads of fifty- and one-hundred-franc notes. Five-hundreds also.

‘Danielle deals with some of the local kids,’ admitted Josiane, her auburn hair permed and piled beneath its petite chapeau. ‘They buy and sell, and then she sells for them and splits the profit, I guess.’

‘Lipstick,’ murmured Georgette, not daring to look up from her playing cards, for Père Michel was sternly watching her. ‘Cigarette lighters. I … I have bought one from her. Was it a crime, Father?’ Was the Chief Inspector on to her and Josiane? she wondered.

‘You know that the Church has now advised everyone that it is perfectly within the will of God to deal on the black market,’ chided Father Michel. ‘It’s no longer to be considered a sin, Georgette.’

Like some? she wondered, sickened by the thought.

St-Cyr had been assigned to the pussy patrol in his early days as a policeman, recalled Father Michel, satisfied that the Chief Inspector had finally gauged the drift of things. ‘Neither Georgette nor Josiane would ever have anything to do with underage clients, Inspector. Now would you both?’ he asked, and saw another moment of panic rush through them.

‘No, Father,’ came Georgette’s hushed answer, she still concentrating on her game of solitaire.

‘Just one,’ confessed Josiane. ‘I swear I didn’t realize it, Father. Madame put him out of Le Chat before … before anyone else had noticed him.’

‘Then the matter is settled,’ said the priest, calling for another carafe of the red to soothe the sore throats of his two guests who had obviously, thought St-Cyr, been up to things with more than one of the local teenagers.

They settled down, each of the sisters no doubt silently cursing their parish priest for having exacted a promise from them by using a confrontation with a Sûreté over the unfortunate death of a former client!

Warming to the interview, for it was so much of Belleville and Charonne, St-Cyr took out his pipe and prepared to stay for as long as it took to get what he could from these two. Both were heavily made-up. Still in their fur-trimmed overcoats, thin scarves and hats, only their gloves had been removed. Both had the same broad faces, wide lips, double chins and carefully tweezed eyebrows. But whereas Josiane had dark brown, cataract-clouded eyes, Georgette’s were sea-green and clear, but with a pronounced cast in the left one. Hence the cards and the endless games of solitaire, though even here one of those nuances of character had caused her to taunt the good father and tempt him into distraction, just for the fun of it and to have something to recount to the other girls!

‘Now tell the Inspector a little about Alexandre and your dealings with him,’ grunted Father Michel. ‘Go on. You can speak freely. God knows everything and will understand.’

Trust a priest to say such a thing! thought Josiane. ‘God would have shut His eyes, Father. Besides, it’s a private matter. The rules of the house, isn’t that so?’

‘Private,’ echoed her sister.

One by one the greasy, well-thumbed playing cards, each with a full-length portrait of a naked girl in an awkward pose, were placed face up.

‘He liked to take you both, didn’t he?’ prompted Father Michel, helping himself to more pastis and another Gauloise Bleue from the packet of cigarettes they had brought.

‘Sometimes,’ said Josiane a little stiffly, ‘Alexandre would …’

‘Father, details of his sex life with these two really are of little interest. I want to question …’

‘Then they should be, my son. Please don’t be so impatient.’

‘Oh là, là , Josiane, will you look at that!’

The younger one had lost her game.

‘He … he liked to call us names,’ she confessed and began to gather the cards.

‘What sort of names?’ prodded the priest, exhaling cigarette smoke and fastidiously picking a shred of tobacco from his sleeve.

‘Father, you know very well what sort of names.’

‘Angele-Marie,’ whispered Georgette darkly, again concentrating on the game before her.

Merde alors , why had he had to ask? cursed Josiane. ‘And Suzette, and Élène or Michèle. Pouf ! Father, it meant nothing. Just a whim of the moment.’

Retreating behind his little cloud of cigarette smoke, the priest waited.

Finally the dark eyes of the older sister ducked away.

‘Angèle-Marie …?’ hazarded St-Cyr. The cards had stopped.

‘Alexandre’s sister, Inspector,’ sighed Father Michel. ‘I rather thought you might be interested, especially since he went to see her last Thursday. Teased as a child by an older brother who loved bees and knew all about virgin queens; raped repeatedly on a summer’s evening in 1912, and so violently at the age of fifteen, by some animal or animals in the Père Lachaise — we never did get the story of it in full; the custodians had forgotten about the poor child and had locked her in for the night — she has long since become a permanent resident of the Salpêtrière.’

Almost the size of a small town, the Paris asylum for women held more than six thousand inmates and had a staff of over a thousand.

‘Alexandre was very worried about her safety, Inspector,’ said Father Michel. ‘Given the willingness of our German friends to destroy all such signs of mental or physical weakness, he had, I should think, cause for alarm.’

‘It was only play,’ hazarded Josiane, picking at her handbag. ‘Georgette would take her name, I would watch and when … why, when his little moment was over, we would sit and talk for old times’ sake.’

Jésus, merde alors , these village quartiers and their priests! ‘And how old, please, was Georgette when Monsieur de Bonnevies first visited Le Chat ?’

‘Fifteen,’ grunted Father Michel. ‘Alexandre would have been … Now, let me see …’

‘Twenty-seven, Father,’ said the older sister.

‘And two years later he went off to war and we saw him only twice in all those years,’ confessed Georgette, moisture coming readily to her eyes. ‘These …’ She indicated the playing cards. ‘Are the deck I gave him. You can still smell the mustard gas — I swear you can.’

Gathering the cards, she held them out, the cut-glass rings on her pudgy fingers, with their red-lacquered nails, flashing in the thin light.

‘He loved them,’ she said. ‘He used to say they reminded him constantly of me.’