The son of another man, a former lover of Madame de Bonnevies who was still alive? wondered St-Cyr. They’d have to find out and get the man’s name.
‘Did you tell anyone about what the taste of honey would do to that sister of yours?’ he asked. ‘Someone knew only too well what would happen and made certain it did. They wanted the doctors to see her true state and to stop all this nonsense of your having her home.’
Then that person must have been my wife, Inspector, the corpse seemed to answer, and continued: There was a crowd of at least two thousand visitors, people coming and going all the time. Juliette would have known the approximate time of my visit and could have been there earlier.
A small jar of honey, a wooden dipper, a gift and gone. Damage done and message certain.
‘But … but your sister said it was a man who had given her the honey, monsieur,’ said St-Cyr, ‘and I have to ask could the same person have left the Amaretto?’
He seemed to smile, this victim of theirs, to take academic delight in the dilemma, and say, Inspector, pardonnez-moi, but have you forgotten the list you took from my pocket?
‘Ah bon! Merci. But at the time I found it, I asked myself why should anyone you were to visit on the following day have felt a need to poison you, and I ask it again?’
There was no answer.
Searching his pockets, the Chief Inspector at last found what he was looking for. Unfolding a scrap of paper, he stood a moment in silence as he studied it beside the corpse. Then he said quietly, and without turning or looking up, ‘We’ve a visitor again. Merde, the nerve! I knew his father well. M. Victor Deschamps, but so often a son fails to please or live up to the aspirations of a parent. Piss off, mon ami, before I personally wipe the floor with you!’
Had he eyes in the back of his head? wondered Deschamps.
‘I have!’ shouted the Sûreté.
There were four names on the list de Bonnevies had planned to visit on Friday. No further details were given but, laying the list on the shroud, he found the victim’s little ledger and soon had paired addresses with all of them.
After the General von Schaumburg, the beekeeper had intended to visit the long-standing keeper of one of his out-apiaries. Madame Roulleau was the concierge of the building at 14 rue d’Argenteuil, in the first arrondissement and not far from place Vendôme and the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré where Madame de Bonnevies’s father had once had a shop, and where the beekeeper’s father had been head clerk. A person, then, who quite possibly might have known the victim from years and years ago.
The third name on the list was that of a Captain Henri-Alphonse Vallée, the visit to deliver a small bottle of pollen and a little honey, ‘for the energy of an old and much-valued comrade in arms, and for wise counsel on all difficult matters.’
The address was 2 place des Vosges and not too far from the morgue, if time allowed. A vélo-taxi … would one be possible? he wondered.
The fourth name was that of a Jean-Claude Leroux. No reason was given for the visit, simply the address: 53 rue Froidevaux. It was in the Fourteenth and overlooking the Cimetiére du Montparnasse.
‘From one cemetery to another,’ he muttered. ‘Is this the one who visits Le chat qui crie on Sunday nights once a month and takes only Charlotte who is eighteen?’
The corpse did not reply but seemed to silently return his gaze.
Not waiting for Herr Kohler to open the gate for her in the convenient absence of the concierge, Uma did so herself and stepped into the lift at 28 quai d’Orléans. She’d fix this one from the Kripo; she’d deal with the girl and, afterwards, with that bitch who managed the building. She’d show the two of them that they couldn’t talk about an employer behind her back and think to get away with it. The girl would be on the train first thing tomorrow — straight to Dachau; the woman to one of the camps in the east.
Reluctantly Kohler followed her into the elevator. One had always to make these little sacrifices. But Gott im Himmel, what the hell was he to do? She’d accuse her maid of being one of the terrorists and it would be game over. Oona’s and Giselle’s names and the address of the flat he rented would come up — the kid would have to spit them out; that of the Club Mirage also, and Gabrielle. Water … would the boys down in the cellars of the rue des Saussaies use the torture of the bathtub on the kid? Of course they would. They’d strip her naked just for the fun of it.
He’s afraid, this Schweinebulle, snorted Uma inwardly. In a moment he will be on his knees begging me to forget all about his disturbing a quiet meal after first having questioned my maid and that other one.
‘Oskar is clean, mein Herr. I really can tell you nothing.’
The woman had reached the door to her flat. Unlocking it, she entered and shouted angrily, ‘Mariette …’
‘Oui, Madame,’ sang out the kid, from somewhere.
‘Komm’ hier!’
‘Oui, Madame.’
The kid still hadn’t appeared, but the woman went on in a rage, ‘Tell the Detektiv Kohler you were with me at the pool on Thursday afternoon. Stop him thinking otherwise, then repeat for me exactly what you said to him when he was here earlier.’
‘Oui, Madame, mats qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?’ But what’s happened? ‘I know of no detective, Madame,’ she said in German.
Sacré nom de nom! swore Kohler silently. The kid had icing sugar smeared on her chin and lips. Frau Schlacht had seen it …
‘Hure, how many this time?’ shrilled the woman. ‘Bitte, you little Schlampe!’
Brutally pushing the girl aside, she headed for the bedroom and when she had the box of Turkish delights in hand, raced her eyes over it. ‘Three!’ she shouted, stung by their absence.
‘Madame …’
Violently the box was thrown at Mariette, the kid slapped hard and hard again.
Bleeding from the lips, she fell backwards on to the rug, winced, cringed as a hard-toed shoe drove itself into her stomach.
‘Enough! Verdammt! They’re only candies, Frau Schlacht!’
‘And she has stolen three of them! Arrest her. Do it, or I will call in others who will!’
The woman was livid. One had best not grin. ‘Now look,’ he said, ‘I’ve accepted your word that she was with you all afternoon on Thursday and probably throughout the evening. Isn’t that right, mademoiselle?’ he asked in French.
Badly shaken, the girl hurriedly nodded then bowed her head and shut her eyes. Tears were squeezed.
‘There, you see, meine gute Frau,’ said Kohler. ‘The perfect alibi. Why not give her another chance?’ And grâce à Dieu for a kid who had the brains and guts to think ahead and take the rap herself to protect the concierge and hide the fact he’d been here earlier.
‘A week’s wages. No, two, and no half-days off for a month!’ snapped the woman.
‘Gut! That’s perfect. Now everyone’s happy.’
The girl was told to leave them and dutifully curtsied before doing so. Frau Schlacht led the way into the grand salon but didn’t suggest they sit.
‘Your questions, mein Herr?’
‘May I?’ he asked, pointing to one of the Louis XIV sofas.
‘As you wish. For myself, I will remain on my feet.’
Tough … by Christ, she was tough. ‘A drink would help — for the two of us, Frau Schlacht. You see, my partner and I have this theory, and evidence to back it up, that your beekeeper was murdered for one reason.’ This wasn’t exactly true, but what the hell …