J. Janes - Beekeeper

Merde , where was the place? The smell of burning charcoal was in the air, soda, too, and bone ash.

As he neared the bend, the soft roar of pot-furnaces came to him. A little farther on, he came to a window and, reaching between the bars, cleaned off a bit of the glass to peer inside.

Flames danced, coals glowed. Crucibles were held by two-metre-long iron tongs. Everyone wore goggles, most asbestos suits, gauntlets and toe-capped boots …

The smell of nitric acid reached him and of hydrochloric, too. Aqua regia , Louis would have said. A mixture of the two, Hermann. One part nitric acid, three to four of hydrochloric; the name from the Latin for Royal Water. Gold can be dissolved by it and then later extracted.

End of lecture. Louis was always coming up with things like that, but Louis wasn’t here. And why did he feel he needed backup? Why the constant tingling in his spine?

Among the half-dozen or so grey-clad zombies with their hoods and goggles that made them look like naval gunners in the heat of battle, Herr Schlacht watched a pour. White-hot, the gold was being cast into wafers the size of calling cards. An assistant, to one side, was polishing those that had already cooled.

Schlacht, though hidden behind goggles and under a wide-brimmed felt trilby and tweed overcoat, had the stance, the look of a Berliner. Solid — maybe weighing as much as no kilos. A real Bürgermeister type. The face was round, fleshy and double-chinned, the forehead wide and blunt, the nose not unlike Louis’s but no boxer, no such refinements — simply a pugilist come up from the streets. The lips were a little thin, but maybe that was because the stub of a cigar was clamped fiercely between his teeth.

Two Alsatians, guardians of the smelter, slept on the cooling firebricks of a nearby hearth.

The pour came to an end, the goggles were pushed up until they covered the forehead. Ja, das ist gut — Kohler could almost hear Schlacht saying it. Gold and candles … What the hell else was this little entrepreneur into?

Again the tingling in his spine came to him, again he thought to step back from the window and did so this time.

Frozen in its little cage beside the door opposite to the smelter, a dead canary watched him through hollow-eyed sockets. The hanging wire cage had been dented several times and often straightened to no effect. Mein Gott , why had someone left the poor creature out here to sing its heart away until no more?

There was a notice on the door. Avertissement: Peine de mort contre les saboteurs. Sentence of death against saboteurs.

For the acts of terrorism on 15 November, 3. and 16 December 1942 …

Father, brother, mother, sister, cousins, too — all had been taken, since that was the rule these days. But whereas the résistant would have been shot right away, the other men would be held as hostages, as Sühnepersonen — atoners — until needed in retribution for some other act by some other poor idiot whom they wouldn’t even know. And goodbye to the rest of the family. They’d all have been deported.

Oberg had added these little twists to the ordinance. The Brigadeführer und Generalmajor Karl Albrecht Oberg, Höherer SS und Polizeiführer.

Judging by the custom-made wafers, Herr Schlacht could well have friends in. high places and that could well be von Schaumburg’s greatest worry.

Stepping into the canary’s abandoned building, Kohler prepared to wait and find out what he could. Louis would preach caution. Oberg was simply not a nice fellow and they’d already had too many run-ins with him.

Behind closed doors, through slightly parted curtains, the neighbours watched and held their collective breath, thought St-Cyr. Once on the Impasse de champ de parc de Charonne, the feeling was only more intense. Father Michel had orchestrated the whole interview, but why, really, had he seen fit to take him back to 1912 and the sister?

A parted curtain fell into place, another and another. Were the women of these houses afraid of what Hermann and he might discover and what their parish priest could well have initiated? Certainly a field for vegetables was one thing, the smashing of the hives and theft of the honey directly related to it, but did their guilt run deeper? And why, really, had Josiane always, it seemed, to play the part of a witness?

All of these former villages, once suburbs, had had their gangs of toughs. As a boy, he had had to defy that natural fear of all such boys when venturing into the territory of others. And in the summer of 1912, as today, de Bonnevies, no matter his penchant for taking a drink in the neighbourhood café or visiting the local house, would still have been classed as an original. Had the sister been picked on because of it? Had she not been alone in the Père Lachaise at all but with a friend — a witness who had hidden in terror, only to later confess to her mother the names of those who had raped the girl?

Father Michel might always have suspected this and now could not fail to see a connection between the murder and the rape, or had he deliberately begun by almost accusing Juliette de Bonnevies and then used the past to distract the investigation so as to hide something else?

‘I don’t quite trust him,’ said St-Cyr to himself. ‘I can’t afford to, not yet.’

Knowing that he had best talk to Josiane and her sister before the priest got to them again, he retraced his steps. Father Michel had made no mention of the Caucasian bees de Bonnevies had been examining, none whatsoever of the address to which the beekeeper had been making last-minute revisions. Either he hadn’t known of these, or had simply chosen not to discuss them.

At the rue de Bagnolet, St-Cyr crossed over and, once beyond the parish church and heading down the rue Saint-Blaise past the café to a side street, was right back in his days on the patrol.

Like all such houses, Le Chat qui crie had no need to announce its presence to the rue Florian or to this Sûreté. But like them all, there was intermittent traffic, the steps either hesitant or dogged, and then, of course, the absolute ease of entry. Swift and secure, and no one the wiser, perhaps.

The Charonne métro station was just behind the house and perfect for those who liked to travel from another quartier for their little moments, but had it been closed to save on the electricity? Rapidly he counted off every second station, concluding that it must still be open.

Between the glass and the lace curtain of the door to the house, a small card stated simply: Entrer.

‘Monsieur, what can the house do for you?’

Sûreté had registered in the sixty-year-old madam’s eyes. Instant suspicion, total defiance. Outrage, even. So bon! Oui, oui ! He’d heard it all before, and many times. ‘Josiane and Georgette, madame, and hurry.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘A few small questions, nothing difficult unless, of course, you feel I had best call in a little help.’

Bâtard ! she silently cursed, tossing her head in a huff and saying tartly, ‘You may sit with the girls or wait here.’

‘Here will suit perfectly.’

He was already thumbing through her accounts ledger. There were no names of the clients there for him to peruse, only those of the girls, but once her back was turned, he would put the lock on the door and then what? she demanded.

St-Cyr … wasn’t it St-Cyr those two had said?

She let a breath escape and murmured to herself. ‘The ave’ Ménilmontant. The house at number six.’ And now? she wondered. Why now it must be more than thirty years since that house had been raided. Would he have remembered her from among those who’d been swept into the panier à salade — the salad basket — the Black Maria?