The Paris Architect: A Novel

“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.”