He paused to let his gaze sift over the assembled. ‘Of course, messieurs, we apologize for there not being any sour cream or caviar, but such things are difficult these days, as is the vodka, although God makes allowances.’
Clothing that was Oona’s was dangled over the furnace and allowed to catch fire before being dropped.
Herr Kohler was hoisted up so that his toes no longer touched the floor.
‘Forgive me,’ said Godonov softly. ‘There is, alas, nothing I can do.’
Tendrils of tobacco smoke rose into the beam of the cinema’s projector. On the screen, an ancient rerun, approved by those idiots in the Propaganda Staffel, was telling the French how decadent they were.
An abortionist was about to attend to a young girl of misfortune who was afraid and hesitantly undressing. Flames rose from the skirt and sweater she removed. Flames caught at the woollen knee socks, cotton blouse, half-slip and brassiere. Oona … was it Oona?
Giselle was sitting all alone beneath the projector beam. Tears streaked her face; she tore her hair. Blood ran from her beautiful lips. Pregnant … was Giselle pregnant?
Oona, idiot. She’s worried about ‘OONA!’
With a shriek, Herr Kohler awoke from his little nightmare as the ice-cold water hit him. Shaking his head to clear it, he realized at once where he was still hanging.
‘Were they raping them both,’ asked Godonov softly with deep concern, ‘or just the one they have taken?’
‘What time is it?’
Worried about repercussions, Godonov hesitated. ‘Three or four a.m. I have not asked.’
The Russian lowered the bucket and, at a word from behind, deferentially stood aside and returned to the staircase to join the others of his little flock.
Goggles stood beside the furnace, with a gauntleted hand on the pour-lever which would rock the cradle and tip the melt out. Gradually the other miliciens came into view. Fists were doubled, arms folded tightly across their chests. Bastards … bastards …
‘So, Herr Kohler, a few small questions,’ said the one that was fifty and fast greying but tough, too tough. A butcher, probably, in his previous life. ‘Nothing difficult, you understand.’
‘DID THEY TELL YOU LOUIS AND I SAID STUFF LIKE THAT IN AVIGNON, EH?’
Sweat ran down Herr Kohler’s flanks causing the scars from that other war to glisten, as did those of the whip marks. ‘Please, make it easy for yourself,’ continued Vincent Soulages, Chef de Milice du quartier du Mail et de Bonne-Nouvelle. ‘We’re not monsters and must go home to our families as loving fathers or sons, so as to sleep peacefully.’
‘Piss off.’
Stung, Soulages lashed out with his truncheon, hitting the buttocks. Gritting his teeth, Kohler refused to cry out. The chain creaked as it swung back and forth, finally coming to rest.
‘I will ask you only once!’ shrieked Soulages. ‘Where did you take the wax and hives?’
‘I don’t know. Hey, it’s not that I won’t remember. It’s simply that I didn’t ask the boys who were with me!’
‘WE’RE WASTING TIME, VINCENT!’ yelled Goggles.
‘A moment, Felix. He has not quite understood.’ Savagely the truncheon was swung back, the blocky shoulders moving with it.
‘Okay, okay,’ shrilled Kohler. ‘Hey, I was only kidding but if you hit me again, my lips will be sealed.’
‘Then we await your reply.’
‘And then you’ll pour the melt — is that it, eh? Ach Du lieber Gott, meine Idioten, you’ve forgotten with whom you’re dealing. Old Shatter Hand, Dummköpfe! He gave us orders to pluck that crap away from your little Bonze and destroy it!’
The furnace, mounted on rollers, was moved a little closer. A trough of firebrick was put in place and sloped to Herr Kohler as he was lowered until his feet once again touched the floor.
‘Look, I’m telling you we had orders from the Kommandant von Gross-Paris.’
‘And we are telling you ours come from the Général Oberg, Höherer SS und Polizei Führer of France!’
Giving them the location might buy a little time. ‘Le Halle aux Vins.’ The central wine store for the city. ‘A cave … The rue de Languedoc, I think, or was it off the Grand Préau? There are, so many caves … One hundred and eighty of them — one hundred and sixteen cellars, two huge magazines …’
Kohler was just fucking about! ‘POUR IT, FÉLIX!’ shrieked Soulages.
‘NO, WAIT! I … I think I’ve remembered. The rue de Bordeaux, the cellars of J.P. Malouel.’
‘We will check it out later. For now, a few other small questions,’ said Soulages. ‘The dipper, if you please, Félix.’
‘The dipper …?’ blurted Kohler. Mein Gott, they were serious!
A scum began to quickly form over the dollop of melt in the dipper. Kohler felt his toes curling up. ‘Don’t,’ he softly begged. ‘Please don’t. I’ll tell you.’
‘Make certain of it, Félix.’
A droplet … just one was allowed to fall and splash on the floor, but the shriek when it came, as surely it had to, filled the smelter, terrifying the others on the staircase, thought Godonov, and causing the guinea pigs to cease their foraging and to watch.
The dogs urinated at the ends of their tightly stretched chains … The pain Herr Kohler experienced was, Godonov knew, excruciating. In and out of the blackness, the detective drifted — he wouldn’t know, couldn’t tell if he’d ever walk again and what the hell good was a detective who couldn’t run?
Weeping, Herr Kohler hung his head, was still too afraid to look down at his feet. ‘Maudit salauds,’ he breathed. ‘Louis will get you for this. Louis …’
‘You questioned Frau Schlacht,’ said Soulages. ‘You were interested in a bottle of Amaretto.’
‘She … she bought it on the marché noir, I think.’
Kohler probably knew more of the source, but that was not important. ‘How much poison was in it?’ shrieked Soulages.
The detective’s eyes leapt as he shrilled, ‘I don’t know! I haven’t had a chance to talk to my partner. Maybe it hasn’t even been analysed!’
Analysed … Analysed …
‘How much did the beekeeper take?’
‘I don’t know! I haven’t seen the autopsy!’
Autopsy … Autopsy …
‘But you are certain Frau Schlacht bought this bottle?’
Bottle … Bottle … Why the hell bother about it? ‘Yes, on Tuesday. She … Look, I’m almost certain she took it to the visitor’s concourse at the Salpêtrière on Thursday afternoon and … and must have left it with his sister.’
‘The crazy one.’
‘Yes.’
‘But why would Frau Schlacht not simply have given it to Monsieur de Bonnevies?’
‘I … I don’t know yet. Honest, I don’t.’
‘Water … You must give him a little,’ hazarded Godonov from the stairs. ‘It’s the sulphur in the air, messieurs. It makes one very thirsty.’
‘THEN BRING IT, IDIOT!’
‘Yes, yes, of course, and right away as you wish.’
The Russian hurried forward with a tumbler in hand, but when he held it to Herr Kohler’s lips, the milicien held it, too.
‘Water … It is only water, monsieur. All of our vodka has been drunk by yourself and your men, n’est-ce pas’? A privilege of ours, of mine, I assure you.’
Soulages backed off. The prisoner tried to take a sip. Some of the water dribbled down his chin. ‘Easy,’ cautioned Godonov. ‘Take just a little at first.’