Fiery, the vodka stung the throat and the prisoner tightened his before gasping, ‘Merci.’
Whetted, the throat eagerly opened to receive the rest. Yanked away, the Russian let the glass fly from his hand to hit the floor and shatter.
‘Amaretto,’ hissed the Chef des miliciens. ‘Who did Frau Schlacht wish to poison?’
Poison … Poison … Gott im Himmel, why did they have to know what she was up to? wondered Kohler, sucking in another breath to clear his head. ‘Madame de Bonnevies, I think. Frau Schlacht is a very jealous woman and, crazy as it must seem, believes Madame de Bonnevies is having an affair with her husband.’
‘So she poisoned the beekeeper instead? Really, Herr Kohler …’
‘Look, I don’t even know yet if there was poison in that bottle when she left it at the Salpêtrière, but it’s interesting you should suggest it.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Then who did, eh? Schlacht … Was it Schlacht who asked you to find out from me if that wife of his was intent on poisoning him? Him! Merde, I should have guessed!’
At 6:17 a.m. Berlin Time there were no other cars parked along the rue Montmartre near the café À La Chope du Croissant. Pedestrians, bundled against the ten degrees of frost, hurried silently to their places of work. Cigarettes occasionally glowed in the pitch darkness. Vélo-taxi bells sounded warnings, their blue-blinkered lights all but lost in the ice fog that had crept up from the Seine to engulf the city.
Alone and cursing the weather, St-Cyr found the courtyard more by feel than memory. Pushing open the heavy door, he started out. Gabrielle had reminded him that the smelter was down at the far end. Russians … she knew some of them. Godonov, he said to himself. The boss man has an admirable handlebar moustache that is grey and bushy like his eyebrows. ‘The eyes are very blue, and he plays the balalaika beautifully,’ she had said.
As if such titbits of information could be of any use! He didn’t know what he’d find, thought only the worst. Now all but convinced the beekeeper’s murder was a ‘village’ affair, if not a ‘family’ one, he didn’t know what Hermann had been up to or why the Milice had suddenly decided to jump him.
But it has to have been something to do with Frau Schlacht, he said silently to himself and, pausing by an iron-grilled window, listened hard for nearby sounds.
There was soot in the air. Soot and the acrid smell of sulphur. The taint of nitric acid, too, and above these, as if the top note of a perfume, that of roasting flesh. Sweet and slightly gamey. A puzzle and a worry.
Moving through the darkness, picking his way over and around the rubbish, he cocked the Lebel and looked through the grimy window to where the soft glow from a furnace gave an all but ethereal light to the dingy interior. Figures, dressed in grey nightshirts and nightgowns, ministered to the prisoner who lay with legs sprawled on the stone floor and his back propped against a heap of broken slag.
‘Er ist vom Tode gezeichnet,’ muttered St-Cyr softly to himself. The mark of death is upon him.
Pale and streaked by sweat and soot, Hermann neither stirred nor was aware of the constant ministrations. A woman bathed him with great tenderness. A man … the boss … fed tea to him, a tiny silver spoonful at a time.
‘He’ll sleep for hours,’ sighed the Sûreté, on silently joining them. ‘No, please do not be alarmed, mes amis. It’s only his partner.’
‘We’ll take the day off, then,’ said the one with the moustache. ‘Sit with him, for he cries out and is anxious for you and about the love of his life, his Oona, and needs great comforting. In a little, we will eat and you must join us. Some soup and stew.’
‘You’re very kind.’
Was it so surprising in this world they shared? wondered Godonov. ‘Kindness is like moonlight, is it not? It comes and goes, and one takes strength and joy from it when one can.’
‘Hermann won’t forget this, and neither will I.’
‘Good. That is good.’
A blanket was brought and the patient covered, though Hermann was obviously warm enough. A scarred and broken armchair, was placed nearby and with it, the last two fingers of a clear-glass bottle of vodka. ‘We make it ourselves from potato peelings the Occupier has little need of,’ confided Godonov, touching the side of his nose with a forefinger to indicate silence in the matter. ‘Za vashe zdorov’e, Inspector. Salut.’ Good health.
‘À votre santé aussi, monsieur. Merci. Ah! a moment, please. This Oona of whom he speaks?’
One could not avoid it and had best get it over with quickly. ‘Is being held by the Milice as insurance, but for what, I do not know, of course.’
‘Oona …?’ muttered Hermann, tossing his head in despair. ‘Oona … Must get her better papers. Must take her to Spain or Portugal before … Too late. It’s too late for that! Ah …’
The faded blue eyes widened then slipped deeply back into slumber beneath their sagging pouches. ‘It’s the Benzedrine,’ sighed St-Cyr. ‘His system has finally run out of it.’
Giving a yawn, the Sûreté settled back and, yes, thought Godonov, was, though favouring a left arm, soon fast asleep himself. Two babes in the woods of the Occupier, the moon above.
The burns were small but deep among the toes of the right foot, and surely Occupied France owed much to the refuse that had been left on the beaches of Dunkirk.
Wrapped in British Army tulle gras — a sterilized gauze that had been treated with balsam of Peru and vaseline — and then in khaki that had been cut from trouser cloth, there was, of course, no room for a shoe. Hermann couldn’t have worn one in any case.
‘Penicillin or sulphanimide powder should be used, if possible,’ said Godonov’s eldest daughter, her black braids tied out of the way. ‘We apologize, but have none to spare, since such wounds are frequent here, you understand. We can, however, let you have a little extra of the tulle gras, as the dressing must be changed frequently. Have you someone who can do this for you?’
‘My partner, if he isn’t too busy,’ retorted the wounded giant, feeling angry with himself for having let it happen and worried … so worried, one had to ignore the taunt and a stitched-up left arm to reach out to him in comfort and urge caution. ‘We’ll get Oona back, Hermann.’
‘And what will we find when we do?’
The Milice had taken her clothing, had burned it here and in front of Hermann. ‘I don’t know. Merde I wish I did, but … but this has to have been a warning.’
‘A squeeze! Jésus, merde alors, can’t you see that they wanted information? Schlacht had to find out if that wife of his intended to poison him.’
‘Him …?’
‘Yes, idiot! Our beekeeper was nervous about his visitor, right? Gott im Himmel, why wouldn’t he have been? A member of the Occupier. A murder. Schlacht was to have been the victim, Louis. Schlact!’
Must God do this to them? ‘We’re to meet him in the Jardin du Luxembourg in an hour. He sent a note earlier but … but I didn’t want to wake you until necessary.’
‘I’ll kill him, Louis.’
‘I’m sure you mean it, and for just this reason and just this once, I’ll be the keeper of our guns. Also, since that right foot of yours would only scream if the brake was applied — which it would have to be — I will, once again, drive my beautiful Citroën, if only for a final moment.’
‘You’re enjoying this.’
‘Not after what you’ve just told me!’
Using a samovar, the girl had made tea and had left a small pot of buckwheat honey to sweeten it. Louis did just that, using a wooden dipper he took from a pocket.