The Paris Architect: A Novel

As Manet strolled toward the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, he passed a decrepit old truck parked at the curb and raised his walking stick to his shoulder. Two heavyset men in their thirties got out of the truck and walked to the back. They pulled out an enormous steamer trunk, and with one man at each end, they carried their heavy load up the street. Alain laughed aloud; he knew what was packed in the trunk. The Jew must have been a real big one, as the two men labored to get him through the doors of number 12. Elated, Alain could now make the call to his uncle. It would have been senseless to send in the Gestapo if he didn’t know that the Jew was actually in there. They would be on a wild goose chase, searching an empty apartment, embarrassing his uncle in front of his superiors. But now when the Gestapo came to call, they would have their Jew. Alain was itching to get to the telephone box on the rue du Faubourg, but he waited. He wanted to give the men time to unload the Jew. Thirty minutes later, the two men and a much lighter-looking trunk came back out into the street.

Alain felt like sprinting down the street, but he fought the urge and walked slowly. He was giddy with joy at the image of the Gestapo beating down Lucien’s door in the middle of the night and arresting him. It was almost eight o’clock and people had cleared off the streets, so the rue du Faubourg was deserted when he got to the telephone booth. Because it was getting late, he knew his uncle was no longer in his office at 11 rue des Saussaies, so Alain would try him at home before he went out for his usual night of socializing. He deposited the coins and was so excited he could barely dial the number. To his great relief, his uncle answered the phone.

“Hello, this is—”

Alain stopped in mid-sentence. Less than a meter away from him stood Pierre. He stared up into Alain’s eyes with such intense hatred that Alain dropped the receiver and stepped back into the box. Pierre then smiled at Alain but said nothing. Alain looked at him in disbelief, as if he was seeing an apparition. Alain regained his composure, and a wave of anger engulfed him.

“What are you doing here, you little shit?” He felt insulted that this useless orphan was interrupting a joyous occasion. The receiver was dangling in air and a voice kept coming from it, asking, “Who is it, who’s there?”

“What the hell do you want? Answer me, asshole,” Alain demanded as he grabbed the receiver and brought it up to his ear.

Still looking straight into Alain’s eyes, Pierre lunged forward. Alain felt a strange burning sensation in his chest. He looked down at his chest and saw a kitchen knife embedded to the hilt. He gasped and dropped the receiver, grabbing onto the call box for support. He tried to call out for help, but the words couldn’t make it out of his mouth. It was as if his throat had seized up. Blood rushed from the wound and soaked the front of his white shirt as he slowly dropped to the ground. Alain’s eyes bulged out in shock; he still couldn’t call out. Pierre watched in silence, not a shred of emotion on his face. Alain crumpled into a ball on the floor of the booth, dead. Pierre kicked the body with his foot to make sure he was gone, then hung up the receiver. He knelt down to pull Alain’s billfold from his jacket and slowly walked away.

As he walked home in the darkness, Pierre knew he had had no choice in the matter. Especially after finding out what Lucien was doing. If Lucien was saving his people, then he had to save Lucien. He was quite proud that he’d protected his protector this time—and he’d done it all on his own like a man should.





60





“Good evening, Monsieur Bernard; so good to see you again.”

From the floorboard in the rear of the moving car, Lucien looked up at his host, whom he recognized as the Resistance leader he’d met weeks ago. A few minutes earlier, while walking down a stretch of alley, Lucien had noticed a dark green sedan pull alongside of him. He knew it wasn’t a Gestapo car and paid it no mind until two men jumped out and dragged him by his arms into the backseat. The move was perfectly choreographed, taking only two seconds to accomplish.

“Please, sit up here with me, so we can talk,” said the old man, patting the seat.

Lucien pulled himself up and onto the seat. He smoothed out his suit and adjusted his tie. He was brimming with indignation but kept his temper in check. It was a bad sign that the Resistance had contacted him again and in so dramatic a fashion.

“Monsieur Bernard, we have a matter that only you can help us with.”

“I’ll help you in any way I can,” muttered Lucien, vividly remembering that the last time they met he’d been accused of being a collaborator.

“We have instructions from London to intensify our efforts in sabotage.”

“That’s great. So go cut some telephone lines. I wish you the best of luck. Now let me out at the next corner if you please.”