Bombless night, instead of auf Weidersehen.
‘Even apple cider, our favourite non-alcoholic drink, is no longer available. Rhubarb juice has been substituted! And now … now those little Witze, those political jokes my fellow Berliners love to circulate, include several about the Bolsheviks. When Obergruppenführer Sepp Dietrich announces on Radio Berlin that Bolshevism is dead, people are heard to whisper, “Long live Bolshevism”!’
As cruel and ruthless as they come, Sepp Dietrich had commanded the Führer’s SS bodyguard during the days of the Blood Purge, and since then had blossomed into a Colonel General in the Waffen SS.
Everyone’s friend and one to be admired, snorted Kohler silently.
When still no answer had come from him, Schlacht continued. ‘We’re realists, you and I, Kohler. The American landings in North Africa are only the beginning. We both know time is on the enemy’s side and that the Reich has fewer than thirty thousand men here in France to keep order. Not more than two thousand five hundred of them, yourself included, are Gestapo.’*
Paris’s police force had damned near half as many flics as that 30,000, to say nothing of the Milice, the Cagoule and all the others but this was heresy coming from someone like Schlacht. ‘And Endsieg seems a far-off dream, is that it?’
Final victory … ‘The Führer is not always right, so let us agree it’s wisest to take precautions.’
With the help of Swiss banks! ‘Are you making me an offer?’
‘I’m asking you to keep out of my life. Forget about this business of the wax and honey, forget about my candles. Concentrate instead on Madrid or Lisbon and travel papers for the Van der Lynn woman that won’t be questioned.’
Such a tidy offer could only have been suggested by the SS of the avenue Foch. ‘And?’
Schlacht didn’t let his gaze waver. ‘Five million francs; two hundred and fifty thousand marks, Kohler, and not the Occupation ones. Gold wafers if you prefer.’
‘Ten million, but let me have it in gold.’
‘Don’t push. It isn’t wise of you. I really will forget about Mariette Durand, and I’ll get you the papers quietly.’
‘And in return?’
‘I’m sure the one you’re looking for is a member of the Society Central. A jealous beekeeper, nothing more.’
‘And he poisoned de Bonnevies?’
‘He would have known exactly how to do it.’
‘But … but it might still have been an accident. We’re not sure yet.’
‘Then let it be one. That’s even better.’
‘And Madame de Bonnevies had nothing to do with it?’
Always the loose cannon, Kohler would know perfectly well the embarrassment he could cause if he went straight to the Kommandant von Schaumburg with what he already knew. ‘Juliette was merely an amusement my Uma and I have agreed must end.’
‘And the Hôtel Titania?’
‘I own and whose front desk Juliette helped to manage, so you see, Kohler, where my wife’s misunderstanding lay. Of course …’ Cigar ash was examined. ‘Of course I’ll have to find a replacement, and for this …’ He sighed heavily and looked up again. ‘I’m willing to make a trade.’
‘Giselle?’
‘Think about it. She’d be perfect.’
Kohler was sickened by the thought and at a loss for words. ‘A former prostitute, mein Lieber. Young, very beautiful — wise in such ways and everything a businessman such as myself could hope for in a prospective employee. The Durand girl will be left alone and your Oona sent to freedom with the gold. Take it or leave it and don’t, please don’t, ever mess with me again.’
Giselle … Kohler saw her as she’d been that first time in the waiting room with all the others at Madame Chabot’s. Straight, jet-black hair, good shoulders and of a little more than medium height. He saw her turn to smile at him as her name was called, the négligée falling open, nothing on under it, the girl asking, ‘What, please, is it you desire, monsieur?’
‘Fate … it was fate,’ he muttered sadly. Schlacht had left him cold, had flung that cigar of his aside, and was now gone from the Jardin du Luxembourg, the stab marks of his walking stick all too clear in the snow.
‘Jésus, merde alors, what the hell am I going to do?’ he demanded angrily. He couldn’t trust the Berliner and the SS to carry through with the papers. He mustn’t even think of it! ‘But I want to,’ he lamented. ‘Mein Gott, to see Oona safely in Spain would make it all worthwhile.’
But would it?
‘She’d only find out what I’d done and would never forgive me; Giselle neither, and certainly not Louis! Yet Oona could buy that little hotel on the Costa del Sol they’d all dreamed of, and not so little now either. She could set herself up really well and be ready and waiting for him and Giselle when …
The butt of Schlacht’s cigar had gone out. With difficulty, Kohler leaned over — tried to keep his right foot out of the snow — and plucked the thing away.
‘You bastard,’ he said as he scattered the tobacco in the wind, rather than tuck the butt into his mégot tin. ‘Two hundred and fifty thousand marks in gold. Ausweise and papers no one would fool with …’ And hadn’t Giselle helped him and Louis out before? Hadn’t she been plucked from the street and taken to the avenue Foch to Oberg who had made her stand before him as he’d stared up at her through his bottle-thick glasses? Hadn’t she been beaten up by the French Gestapo of the rue Lauriston?
‘I can’t ask her to help us,’ he said. ‘I mustn’t.’
Even so, temptation clawed. All the way back to the pond, he thought about it — tried to figure a way out. Let Schlacht get the papers for Oona. Agree to go along with him, and then … then …
Louis … where the hell was Louis when needed most and not in sight?
‘I can’t tell him a thing. If I do, Oona will be killed.’
Danielle de Bonnevies stood looking down at one of the Society’s hives, some twenty or so of which were wintering among espaliered fruit trees, and when the detective from the Sûreté caught sight of her, she felt herself automatically flinch, but worse than this, knew he had seen her do so.
The flock of sparrows that had been feeding on the crumbled vitaminic biscuits she had scattered in the snow at her feet fled, leaving the yellowish stain of the biscuits and the two of them starkly alone. He’d know all about where she’d got those biscuits — from the J-threes to whom they’d been distributed at school. He’d know she sold them to others, the very best pigeon bait there was. ‘Inspector …’ she heard herself bleat. ‘Why … why are you here?’
‘Me? I was just enjoying the few moments of peace the investigation seems to have allowed.’
A lie … What he’d said was an absolute lie! ‘I … I’ve come for the meeting but … but am a little early.’
And not at home in mourning. ‘The Society. Yes, of course. I’d forgotten.’
Another of his lies. He wouldn’t have missed a thing like that. Not when papa had been about to tell the world what was happening to Russia’s bees. Not when she’d told the Sûreté one of the Society could so easily have been the poisoner.
‘Cowards,’ she muttered under her breath but loudly enough. ‘Papa called them cowards because they were afraid of being arrested.’
‘Some of them didn’t want him to speak out, did they?’ she heard the Sûreté saying as he came closer, too close, and she could, though not daring to face him yet, see the white breath of his words as they fell on her.
‘No, they didn’t,’ she said defeatedly, but then, as if in anger, she turned and said accusingly, ‘I saw Herr Schlacht telling the tall one with the crutches something he did not want to hear.’