The Paris Architect: A Novel (37 page)

“Which way?” hissed Remy, irritated at Lucien’s hesitation.

“Hold on, hold on,” Lucien said as his eyes got used to the dark. “Follow me.”

The two men followed him to the last column at the far edge of the plant.

“Right here,” said Lucien, pointing to the base of the column. Remy expertly placed the charge and set the wire from the spool into the blob of explosive. Lucien was greatly impressed with his speed and dexterity.

“Hey, you’re very good at this,” said Lucien.

Remy scowled at him. “What are you? My mother? I don’t need your goddamn seal of approval.”

“Which one next?” demanded Albert.

“We’ll do this in a zigzag pattern,” whispered Lucien. “Two rows over at the opposite end.”

“You’re positive this will bring it down?” asked Remy.

Lucien was insulted by such a question. “I was first in my class in structural engineering. Of course I’m sure.”

They ran the wire across the floor to the next column and set the charge, then went two rows over to the next column and then the next until all four were wired.

Albert kept looking at his watch. “Just five minutes left before he comes back, so move it, goddamn it.”

Lucien was a little surprised that Albert seemed to be losing his nerve. With Remy running the wire off the spool, they made it through the door and out past the pallets just as the wire ran out. Lucien was out of breath, and his left side began to cramp up.

“We’re too close to the building,” Albert said in a panic-stricken voice. That thought had occurred to Lucien as well.

“We’ve got no choice,” said Remy. “When it starts to blow, we run like hell toward the woods.” He quickly fastened the wire to the detonator and cranked the plunger clockwise until it could go no more.

“Here goes,” said Remy as he was about to push the plunger down.

“Wait, this is my building. Let me do it.” Lucien spoke with such authority that Remy, without the slightest bit of protest, handed him the plunger. Lucien figured that since he’d conceived the building, he alone had the right to kill it.

When Lucien pushed the plunger down, he expected an immediate bang, but it took a few seconds for the first explosion to come, then in short intervals came the other three. The columns seemed to rise up and twist in pain. Then they began to crumble, bringing down all the beautiful soaring arches Lucien had so lovingly designed. The reinforced concrete structure in turn pulled down all the brick exterior walls, sending shards of glass to the floor. Instead of running for his life, Lucien stood there mesmerized by the sight of the destruction of his creation. His heart ached at the sight of the huge pile of rubble. It was like sacrificing your own child.

“Come on, you bloody fool,” Remy screamed at Lucien from the woods. He ran back to get Lucien, yanking on his arm and snapping him out of his trance. “That’s all we need is for you to get pinched. You’d squeal your guts out.”

Lucien ran so fast that he passed both Remy and Albert on the way to the woods. When they reached the tree line, all three fell flat on their stomachs and looked back at the pile of rubble.

“You know your engineering, Bernard,” said Albert, thumping Lucien on his back.

“God, what a beautiful sight,” exclaimed Remy. “You know, Monsieur Architect, I’m so pleased with our work, I’ve decided not to kill you.”

62

“I’m sorry, Colonel. I didn’t mean to do that.”

Schlegal and Major Hermann Holweig stood over the lifeless body of Aubert, the cabinetmaker. Holweig prodded him with his boot in the hopes that he had just passed out, but the man was stone dead.

“Hermann, I told you to let up on him,” Schlegal said. “He was about to crack. But you kept on beating the hell out of him with that goddamn club of yours.”

“I’m sorry; you did tell me to stop using the club. I should’ve listened,” replied Holweig, dropping his head down in embarrassment.

“Christ, you’ve killed two people with that thing. That’s why I have Voss handle these matters. He never goes overboard like you do. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“It’s just all the bad things that have been happening to me. Losing Helena, then Alain’s murder. I just took it out on the old man,” Holweig said.

In an uncharacteristically compassionate gesture, Schlegal put his hand on Holweig’s shoulder.

“Yes, I’m sorry about your nephew. He was killed and robbed just down the block, in a call box, right?”

“Some French bastard murdered him, just for a few francs in his pocket. If I ever catch that frog, I’ll make him pay a thousand times over for what he did.”

Schlegal lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the desk.

“Your nephew—Alain—didn’t he work for Bernard, the architect?”

Holweig sat down in the chair in the far corner of the room and put his head in his hands.

“He was his right-hand man. A talented boy, right out of college. What a future that kid had before him.”

“So who found him in the call box?”

“He was found the next morning by someone wanting to make a call.”

“So he was killed at night?”

“That’s what the coroner said.”

“So what was he doing around here so late at night? Coming to see you, you think?”

“I’ve no idea. I got a strange telephone call that night. When I answered, nobody was on the other end.”

This last bit of information piqued Schlegal’s interest. He stamped out his cigarette next to Aubert’s body and walked over to Holweig.

“No one was on the other end, you say? And you got the call the same night Alain was killed?”

“Yes, the same night.”

“Do you think it was Alain?”

“I told you there was silence on the other end.”

“Go on home and rest, Hermann; no nightclubs for you tonight. I want you to relax. And don’t worry about Aubert.”

“He was a tough old bird. Imagine snipping off all ten fingers and still not talking,” said Holweig as he stepped over to the body. “You know damn well he was involved in hiding those kikes. To suffer that much pain just for a bunch of filthy Jews. I can’t understand it. I just can’t understand it, Colonel.”

The major walked dejectedly out of the room, leaving Schlegal all alone with the dead body, but he acted as though it wasn’t there. Aubert could have been a rug on the floor. He lit another cigarette and walked over to the window and opened it. It was a cool crisp December afternoon, and the sun was beaming down on the rue des Saussaies, covering the buildings across the street with a warm golden glow of light. Schlegal returned to his desk and mulled over his predicament. He had really expected Aubert to finally talk, to give him some lead to follow up. Now, he was back to square one with Lischka breathing down his neck. He had no choice but to round up more suspects from the building trades and interrogate them. The way this was heading, there sure as hell would be no generalship for him. The whole prospect greatly depressed him, and he stared out the open window in front of him.

A bright glint of light from across the street caught his attention. The afternoon sun had struck something very shiny on the balcony railing almost directly in front of him. Schlegal stood up slowly from his chair. He could plainly see that the double windows, which had their curtains drawn, were slightly apart, and there was a hand resting on the wrought-iron balcony railing. On the hand was an enormous ring that was catching the light. He could just make out a wisp of smoke coming from between the windows. Schlegal’s back stiffened and all of a sudden there was a tightness in his stomach. His eyes widened in disbelief as he saw the hand pull back and the windows close tight. He sat back down and tried to gather his thoughts. His adrenaline started pumping, and a great feeling of elation rose within him. He began to laugh, slapping his sides in glee. Schlegal ran to the doorway and starting shouting orders to whoever was nearby. Officers came racing down the hall to him. Marie, who was mopping the floor, was almost knocked down. They all gathered around Schlegal, who was now waiting in the hallway.

“Voss, I want you to send a detachment of plainclothes men to the streets behind and to the side of number 12 rue des Saussaies. Hold anyone who exits from the front or the rear of the building. Send some men to watch the roof, but keep them out of sight. Ryckel, get me at least a dozen men and have them wait for me downstairs in the foyer, not outside. They’ll need sledgehammers, axes, pry bars, and hand saws. Now, move!” Schlegal still couldn’t stop laughing. Voss and Ryckel looked at each in astonishment and ran down the hall. Marie was now flat up against the wall to stay out of their way.

“And, Voss, send a man to pick up the architect, Lucien Bernard. If he’s not in his office, then he’s over in Colonel Herzog’s office at the Wehrmacht armaments section. Whatever you do, find him and bring him to me.”

As Schlegal watched Voss tear off, he noticed Marie.

“Marie, you old wench. I’m going to buy you the finest Parisian dress to stuff that beautiful ass of yours in,” said Schlegal as he trotted past her.

“A size twelve will do just fine, Colonel. In cornflower blue, that’s always been my color,” she called out after him. “It goes well with my eyes.”

“You got it,” he yelled over his shoulder.

Marie watched him disappear down the hall, then, with no one in sight, she slipped into the office. Without raising an eyebrow at the sight of Aubert’s dead body, she calmly picked up the telephone receiver and dialed a number, letting the phone ring four times before hanging up. She walked over to the window and stared out at number 12 rue des Saussaies.

63

Schlegal felt an incredible sense of exhilaration as he dashed up the stairs of 12 rue des Saussaies, like he was leading a cavalry charge in those American westerns he’d enjoyed so much before the Fuehrer declared war on the United States and banned their movies. He especially missed the ones with John Wayne.

“Voss, bring up the concierge, then round up all the residents in the lobby,” he yelled down into the stairwell.

A dozen soldiers with submachine guns slung from their shoulders carried an assortment of tools and were right behind Schlegal. They knew what to do. The lock was smashed to bits, then they all rushed in. One man fired a few bursts from his weapon into the walls of the salon. Schlegal walked in behind them, carefully looking around for any sign of his prey.

“Janusky’s here,” said Schlegal, holding up a half empty glass of wine. There was an ashtray full of cigarette butts on an end table next to the sofa. He closely examined each one to see if any were still warm, a sure sign that the Jew was still inside the apartment. But to his disappointment, none were. Still, with the rear and the roof of the building covered, there was no way he could’ve escaped. When he went into the kitchen, he found some bread and cheese in the larder.

Schlegal heard an old woman yelling at the top of her lungs on the landing outside the door. She was cursing at Voss, who had dragged her up three flights of stairs by her scrawny neck.

“You German son of a bitch, you can’t make me walk up all those steps. I’ve got terrible rheumatism. We should’ve taken the lift.”

“The exercise will do you good.” Voss laughed in her face and threw her down on the floor in front of Schlegal, who gently prodded her with his shiny black boot.

“Grandmother, who’s been using this apartment? Give me some names.”

“This apartment’s been vacant for years. Monsieur Lamont left the country before the surrender.”

“Then who’s been drinking out of this glass? And who’s been smoking these cigarettes? A ghost?”

“No one was supposed to be in here.”

“Someone’s been bringing food to this apartment. You must have seen them.”

“I swear, I haven’t a clue. I saw no one. I never come up here. My rheumatism is so bad,” whined the concierge, who now was clutching at Schlegal’s boots.

“I have just the cure for your rheumatism. I swear, you’ll never be bothered by it again.” Schlegal backed away from the old woman and nodded to Voss, who grabbed her by the collar of her brown and yellow housecoat. He dragged her to the railing of the landing and, as if tossing a sack of laundry, threw her over. She made it straight down to the ground floor without hitting the lift that was to one side of the stairwell.

***

As Lucien was being led up the stairs, he heard a scream and saw a brown and yellow blur go by, followed by the sound of a loud thump. He looked over the rail and saw a frail old woman lying on the floor, her head twisted at an odd angle and her left arm bent in two. His hands tightened around the wooden railing to control his panic.

When the plainclothes Gestapo man had showed up at his door, Lucien had assumed it was about Alain’s murder. He had found out that the boy’s uncle was in the Gestapo and was enraged about what had happened. There would be lots of questions. That the murder happened on the rue du Faubourg just around the corner from the hideout made Lucien nervous. That was one hell of a coincidence. Lucien had been shocked to hear about the killing. He wasn’t about to pretend that he had ever liked the kid, but he did lose a valuable employee, one whose shoes would be hard to fill. He also doubted that this was about the bombing of the factory. The Germans chalked that one up to sabotage and had simply executed a hundred people the next day, far fewer than he’d expected. He’d heard that Hitler himself wanted five hundred to die. It was not until they’d pulled up in front of 11 rue des Saussaies and walked across the street to number 12 that Lucien knew he was in big trouble. He was amazed that he didn’t start running; instead, he remained surprisingly calm.

After witnessing the brutal murder of the old woman, who he knew was the concierge, Lucien took a deep breath and continued to calmly climb the steps with the Gestapo officer. He knew he was going to be arrested in the next few minutes, but he decided then and there he wasn’t going to be taken alive. He would soon be joining the old crone on the ground floor. Lucien didn’t worry about would happen to Pierre if he should be killed. He had worked that all out with Bette, and it was a great relief that there was someone to look after him. Lucien wasn’t scared. He realized he was quite at peace with himself because he’d finally become something he’d always wanted to be—a father—and best of all, he’d been good at it.