The Paris Architect: A Novel

“Yes, since my last visit, I’ve come up with one or two possibilities.” Lucien began his now familiar walk through the apartment. His eyes surveyed every square meter of wall and floor area again. It was a very ornate apartment, like all the others Manet had provided. He thought how difficult it would be to design a hiding place in a plain low-rent flat. Gilt and white paneling lined the walls, and each room had a huge marble fireplace with a deep stone hearth extending a meter in front of it.

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.