The Paris Architect: A Novel (33 page)

About two meters above the floor in the salon was a deep ledge, which protruded almost thirty centimeters from the wall, stretching around the perimeter of the room. On one wall above the ledge, there were large paintings set into the white plaster wall and surrounded by gilt moldings, each separated by floor-to-ceiling pilasters. After walking through the entire apartment, Lucien made a second trip, scribbling down notes and little thumbnail sketches on a scrap of paper. Occasionally, he took some measurements—the width of the pilasters, the depth of a hearth, the width of some doors, and the thickness of a wall. Lucien sat on the sofa in the salon and scribbled some more notes, then pondered for a bit.

“Would you say your guest is fat or lean?”

“Just as lean as you, maybe more so,” replied Manet.

“And how tall would you say?”

“About two or three centimeters shorter than you.”

“Is he fit and of normal strength?”

“Yes, I’d say so.”

“Good, then we’re finished here for now. I’ll be back tomorrow to verify a few things and have the drawing for you in the evening.”

Manet looked over in the direction of Gestapo headquarters. “We do have a problem of sorts. My best man who’s been doing this work is, as we speak, being entertained by the Gestapo across the street.”

Lucien walked over to a window and peeked through the curtains as if he thought he could see a man being tortured across the street.

“How is he holding up?”

“He’s suffered some terrible injuries. He’ll never be able to work again.”

“But will he crack?”

“No.”

“Does he know about this apartment?”

“Yes.”

***

It took six glasses of faux wine to steady Lucien’s nerves after he left the apartment. He sat at a table at an outdoor café and stared at a bird perched on a kiosk, wishing that he were that bird. He could just fly off and keep going until he got to Switzerland, leaving all his troubles behind. At this moment, a man who knew about the apartment was being tortured to death and could spill everything. The Gestapo could just watch and wait until Manet moved the Jew in, then pounce. Forget about internment; Lucien would be shot on the spot.

He signaled for another round. The waiter who served him seemed quite impressed that Lucien didn’t show the faintest signs of drunkenness, even after drinking the watered-down piss they called wine. Although this suicidal situation scared him shitless, he had no intention of backing out.

He wanted to do it.

54

“I thought you were my most reliable officer, Schlegal, but maybe I was mistaken.”

That comment made Schlegal’s blood boil. No one had ever questioned his ability. But he kept his mouth closed and stood at attention before his superior, Kurt Lischka, head of the Paris Gestapo.

To Schlegal, Lischka had the bearing of a clerk in an insurance office rather than a policeman. His balding head and wire-rimmed glasses made him seem weak and very un-Aryan. In reality, he was the perfect Gestapo man—devoid of any feeling of compassion, a born murderer. Many a Frenchman had died within the walls of 11 rue des Saussaies under his watch.

“Did you know that Heinrich Mueller has taken a personal interest in the Janusky matter?” asked Lischka in a quiet voice as he paced back and forth in front of Schlegal.

“No, sir,” said Schlegal, knowing that a lecture was on the way. When the head of the entire Gestapo of the Reich was breathing down the neck of a regional commandant, that meant trouble.

“To Mueller, Janusky isn’t just another Jew destroying the Fatherland, but a repository of wealth—an estimated one hundred million francs—that can help Germany finance the total victory that our Fuehrer desires. Like a gold filling in the mouth of the lowliest Jew, Janusky’s wealth belongs to the Reich, but we can’t find it. And that’s not the worst of it. Do you know how many Jews this bastard has helped escaped over the years? Probably thousands—and not just in France. He has a whole network of agents—even in Germany—working for him. He’s bribed dozens of officials in Spain, Portugal, and Turkey to provide forged papers for these people. This Jew has paid out thousands for passage on ships in a half-dozen ports to help them escape. Now, we’ve heard Janusky has bought his
own
ships to do the job. On top of that, Göring wants his art collection. Almost every goddamn day, he calls Mueller about it. So you, Schlegal,
must
find Janusky.”

“Every day, we search for him, sir. There is an entire network of Frenchmen who are helping this piece of scum to hide. Each day, we chip away at this conspiracy and we get a little closer.”

“I don’t want Mueller coming here and personally supervising the search. You don’t want that, do you?” Lischka sat down on a chair across the room and lit a cigarette. Schlegal noticed he didn’t offer him one, which was a bad sign.

“No, that won’t be necessary. In just a matter of days, we’ll find him,” lied Schlegal. He knew if Mueller came to Paris, Lischka would make his life a living hell.

“I hope so, for your sake, Colonel. Your career has been quite impressive. People in Berlin have taken notice. This is your chance to shine. Find this Jew and his money, and the world will be yours on a platter. We’re talking promotion to general.”

These words heartened Schlegal. His father and mother would be overjoyed—their son a general. It gave him a new resolve. Lischka picked up a bunch of black-and-white photographs off the desk and shuffled through them. He chose one and showed it to Schlegal, the formal portrait of Janusky with his hand resting on a book.

“Look at the ring on this Jewish pig’s hand. That emerald is the size of a golf ball. That one gold ring could pay for an entire Panzer tank. Don’t you think?” said Lischka.

“Probably two Panzer tanks,” Schlegal blurted out, even though he had no idea what one tank would cost.

“You can stand at ease, Colonel,” ordered Lischka, who took a final drag on his cigarette and stood up. “Now tell me about this poor devil here.”

Lischka walked casually over to a man lying in the corner of the room and kicked him in the head. “Wake up, monsieur,” he said in the cheerful tone a mother would use waking up her six-year-old.

“Aubert is a master carpenter who does the best cabinet work in Paris,” Schlegal said. “Everyone we’ve talked to agrees he’s the very best.”

“And what does this have to do with the problem at hand?”

“I believe that some Jews are being hidden in ingeniously conceived hiding places throughout the city. To do this, master craftsmen like Aubert are needed to disguise these hiding places so we can’t find them.”

“That’s a fascinating theory, Schlegal. Have you uncovered such a secret place?”

“Two.”

“Has Aubert shed any light on this problem for us?”

“He’s been most uncooperative, but I’m confident that he’ll change his attitude,” said Schlegal. He motioned to Voss, who had been standing in the other corner of the room. The lieutenant took out a pair of wire cutters one would use to cut electrical cable from his tunic pocket and knelt beside Aubert.

“Wake up,” roared Voss into Aubert’s ear. The old man stirred and tried to raise his head, but it dropped back down on the wooden floor.

“Monsieur Aubert, I bet your hands are probably your most valued possessions,” Schlegal said. “They do the beautiful woodwork everyone so admires, mm?”

Aubert, whose face was a bloody pulp, only moaned a bit.

“What would happen if you didn’t have your index fingers? Make it hard to cut wood, maybe?”

Voss snipped off Aubert’s entire right index finger as if it were the stem of a flower. It popped up in the air and landed on the floor. Blood gushed from his hand onto the floor as if it came from a garden hose. Aubert’s screams produced a nerve-rattling reverberation off the gray plaster walls.

Lischka grimaced. “We should pad these walls in here, to soak up the noise, don’t you think?”

Without any instruction, Voss snipped off the right middle finger, causing even greater screams of agony.

“Monsieur Aubert will probably want some souvenirs of his visit here,” Schlegal said.

“Of course, Colonel,” replied Voss as he picked up the severed digits from the floor. He scratched his head with one of them, producing torrents of laughter from everyone in the room, including Lischka. He then put both fingers in the side pocket of Aubert’s suit jacket and walked over to Schlegal.

“Let’s give Monsieur Aubert time to rest and think things over. We’ll meet again. After all, he has eight fingers left,” said Schlegal. He motioned to his officers. “Give him something to stop the bleeding. I don’t want him to die on us—and get all this blood cleaned off the floor.”

Lischka stood. “That was most impressive, Colonel,” he said, walking out of the room. “Carry on.”

Voss summoned two soldiers from the hallway, then yelled out, “Marie, you old bitch, get your mop and pail and get in here.”

The soldiers took Aubert by his arms and dragged him away like a sack of potatoes. A minute later, a haggard old woman in a wrinkled maroon dress shuffled in with a pail and knelt down to wipe up the blood with a rag. The officers watched in amusement.

“I’m truly sorry we made such a mess, Marie. It won’t happen again, I promise,” said Schlegal.

“You’re always saying that, Colonel, and always there’s a mess,” grumbled Marie.

“Marie, I didn’t realize you still had such a nice ass,” Voss said. “You must have been a hot number during the Franco-Prussian War.” The soldiers howled with laughter. Voss bent over and gave Marie a hard slap on her rear, but the old woman just squeezed out the blood from the wet rag in the pail and kept cleaning.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I was quite a beauty in the old days. One day, I’ll tell you about the time I fucked Kaiser Wilhelm I. He gave me the Iron Cross First Class.”

“Marie, my love, if only you were twenty-five years younger, I’d take you right here, right now on the floor,” said Schlegal, tossing some franc pieces in the pail of bloody water.

After the room emptied out, Marie slowly got up off her arthritic knees and went over to a desk in the corner of the room and shuffled through some papers. She read one sheet very closely, then picked up her pail and walked out of the interrogation room.

55

As he was going over a detail on the blueprints with Labrune, Lucien realized something was wrong.

All the usual cacophony of the building site in Tremblay had vanished. Dead silence. No hammering, no sawing, no cranes moving or men shouting. Labrune also took notice and had a puzzled look on his face. Lucien turned around and saw every single man staring in the same exact direction off to the east. He immediately thought they saw approaching bombers. There was no antiaircraft protection or bomb shelters at the site. No one in the German High Command in Paris thought it necessary yet. Where would everyone hide?

Lucien followed the eyes of a laborer who’d stopped nearby with his wheelbarrow and discovered to his amazement what had captured everyone’s attention. About thirty meters away, in a navy blue dress and a dark gray scarf, came Bette. She smiled and waved as she drew near. Lucien looked around him and was quite amused. Every man had stopped dead in his tracks to gaze at Bette. It must have been quite odd for them to see such an incongruous sight, as if Martians had landed in a flying saucer.

“Hello,” said Bette, as she walked up to him. “I bet you’re surprised to see me.”

“Yes, I am, and so are two hundred other men,” replied Lucien, tilting his head to the construction gang behind him.

Bette seemed puzzled. “What, they’ve never seen a woman on a building site?”

“Not someone like you, I can assure you, mademoiselle,” answered Labrune, who turned to Lucien, expecting an introduction.

“Mademoiselle Tullard, this is Monsieur Labrune, our general contractor.”

“A great pleasure,” said the old man, who kissed her hand.

“So pleased to meet you. Lucien told me that without you, nothing would get built.” Labrune’s grizzled old face lit up with delight.

“I thought I’d surprise you. Karin from the office has an old Renault and a petrol ration so she dropped me off,” Bette said, turning to Lucien. “I first stopped off at your office but that kid from your office, Alain, told me you were out here. I was hoping you’d be free for lunch.”

“Well…you see I’m really busy…”

“Don’t be so damn rude to such an incredible-looking woman, Bernard. You must take her out for a fine lunch,” protested Labrune, smiling from ear to ear at Bette. “You must go immediately. Don’t keep mademoiselle waiting a second longer.” Labrune grabbed the drawings out of Lucien’s hands, placed his hand in the middle of Lucien’s back, and started shoving him forward rather roughly. “We’ll be fine without you.”

“All right, let’s go. My car’s over there.” Bette said good-bye to Labrune and walked off with Lucien.

“Now remember, don’t hurry back on my account. Take the whole afternoon. You young people should enjoy yourselves,” Labrune shouted after them.

“What a sweet old man, Lucien. And you said he was a son-of-a-bitch.”

Labrune looked about him and screamed. “Let’s go, you lazy bastards, get back to work. Haven’t you ever seen a woman before?” Some men began working, but most kept staring after Bette.

As they walked, Bette’s right high-heeled shoe stepped in a mud hole. “Shit, my best shoes.”

Lucien burst out laughing. “Next time, wear work boots.”

“I don’t have any that match this dress, dummy.” She took off the shoe and hopped the rest of the way to the car.

Once in the car, she wrapped her arms around Lucien and gave him a long, passionate kiss. He didn’t care if anyone could see them. In fact, he was secretly proud that the men saw what a gorgeous girl he had.

On the way back to Paris, she rested her head on his shoulder. Bette had had many lovers come and go in her relatively short life, reminding her of a single file of men marching endlessly through a revolving door. Handsome men, old men, single men, married men, and many rich men. So she considered herself an expert in this field and had come to the conclusion that men in general were a disappointment. Lafont, an aristocrat who once wooed her, introduced her to horseback riding, which became a passion. She learned quickly that a horse was far more reliable and loyal than any man.