The Paris Architect: A Novel

“Wait a minute,” interjected Paulus, “have him fire some bursts in the walls here, just for special effect. That’ll impress the hell out of Schlegal.”


“Damn good idea, my boy. Krueger, spray the walls in here.”

Krueger unslung his MP-40 submachine gun from his shoulder and, walking around the perimeter of the great salon, blasted away at close range at all four walls, splintering the wide wood pilasters, puncturing the molded plaster panels with holes, and shattering the large gold-framed mirrors.

“All right, that’s enough. Just go through the rest of the rooms and tear them up, and no shooting, do you understand, Krueger?” said Bruckner.

“Yes, sir.”

Paulus and Bruckner waited in the hall until Krueger and his men were finished. They passed the time chatting about visiting the Louvre, the cognac they’d had at dinner last night, and how much more buxom German women were than French girls. Krueger finally came out, and together, they all descended the stair.

“Come on, let’s find us a Jew,” said Bruckner.

***

After an hour passed, the base of the pilaster in the center of the wall began to slowly lift up. With great difficulty, Mendel Janusky pushed it upward with both his arms. The top of the pilaster was hinged at the bottom of the deep wood molding that ran along the ceiling. Slowly, Janusky lifted it far enough so he could just slip out from under it. With enormous force, the heavy pilaster slammed back into place behind him. He collapsed onto the floor. He gazed down at his left leg and discovered a trickle of blood oozing through his light brown trousers where a bullet had grazed him. Exhausted and soaked in sweat, Janusky rested his back against the wall. Pulling out a soiled handkerchief, he mopped his face, then dabbed at the blood on his leg.





52





The splash of water from the speeding Mercedes hit Lucien right in the midsection, soaking his trousers and coat from the waist to the knees.

“Kraut son of a bitch,” he yelled after the car, then immediately regretted it, hoping the car wouldn’t stop.

Because he was wearing his favorite light gray suit, the dirty, oily water made a very dark, very noticeable stain below his belt. He knew he couldn’t go to his meeting in this state. During his presentation, the Germans would all be staring at his crotch. Lucien had to try to clean himself up. He realized that he was only two blocks from Bette’s building. Twice he had let her off in front of it, never having been asked to come up. They never made love in each other’s homes. For Bette it was always the excuse about the out-of-town relatives still being there. For Lucien, it was also some feeble excuse, on account of Pierre.

He decided to take the chance on finding her at home. Bette knew fashion and clothes, so he figured she would know how to get rid of stains. Lucien trotted down the street. When he reached the foyer of the building, he realized he didn’t know which flat she was in, so he had to ring for the concierge. An ancient man with a cigarette hanging from his lips stuck his head from behind the door and asked him what the hell he wanted. After he got Bette’s number, Lucien asked the concierge if Bette’s relatives were still staying with her. The old man gave Lucien a puzzled look and then dismissed him with a wave.

Lucien was about to rap on Bette’s door when he heard the faint sound of music coming from the apartment. It was a children’s tune of some kind. Maybe her relatives were still hanging around. In a way he didn’t blame them for coming to Paris. They knew that Bette, with her connections, could put food on the table. In France, everyone was always hungry so you did what you had to do to survive, which meant sponging off relatives to eat. He rapped loudly and waited.

After a minute, she hadn’t answered, so he knocked again. Finally Bette came up to the door.

“Who is it?” she shouted from behind the thick oak door. “What do you want?”

Lucien was taken aback by her rudeness. “Is this how you greet all your lovers?”