The Paris Architect: A Novel

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.

***