The Paris Architect: A Novel

Herzog smiled as he walked through the apartment. When he finally returned to where Schlegal was standing by the entry door, he removed his cap and began brushing off the dust.

“Let me guess. No Jew,” he said without looking at the Gestapo officer.

Herzog knew that Schlegal was already mad as hell at not finding his man, and his taunts were going to make him madder, which was the whole point.

“We’re still looking,” came a terse reply.

Herzog burst out laughing. “Christ, man, you’ve uncovered every millimeter of space in this flat; you know he’s not here. And who is it you’re looking for?”

“Mendel Janusky.”

Herzog stopped walking through the apartment and faced Schlegal.

“The art collector? How the hell do you know he’s here?”

“Because I saw him from across the street.”

Voss came to the doors where they were standing and saluted both officers.

“Colonel, what should I do with the residents down in the lobby?”

Lucien already knew the answer to that question. In the span of an hour, Schlegal had gone from ecstasy to despair and now, worst of all, embarrassment. Those people were doomed.

“Is there a rear entry? He could’ve slipped out that way,” said Herzog.

“We had it covered. He couldn’t have gotten out the back,” replied Schlegal, annoyed that Herzog would ask such a question.

Schlegal turned his attention to Voss. “Ask them just one more time where Janusky’s hiding.” Voss nodded and ran down the stairs.

Herzog slowly walked in a circle in the salon, viewing the destruction. Every square centimeter had been ripped apart.

Herzog shook his head. “You’ve lost him.”

All of a sudden, the sound of several bursts of machine gun fire rose up from the stairwell.

“I guess they didn’t know where Janusky was,” said Schlegal, shrugging his shoulders.

A sergeant, a slightly overweight man of about thirty-five, hesitantly came up to Schlegal. He saw what was going on and wisely didn’t want to be caught in the crossfire.

“Sir, we’ve ripped everything apart. Except those paintings up there.”

Herzog saw Lucien look up at the paintings then quickly avert his gaze.

Schlegal backed away from Herzog and looked up above the cornice to see some very large paintings that covered one of the walls.

“In all the commotion, I forgot about them,” said Schlegal with a laugh.

Herzog slowly walked over to the paintings and gazed up at them, examining them closely. They were a series of lush pastoral scenes of shepherds and voluptuous nymphs with lutes and pitchers of water done in a rich array of greens and earth tones. “Wait,” Herzog shouted. He suddenly stepped between Schlegal and the sergeant.

“You ignorant bastard, can’t you see those paintings are valuable? They’re by Giorgione da Castelfranco, the sixteenth-century Venetian painter. He was taught by Bellini, and Giorgione was Titian’s master.”

“So, who the hell cares?”

“They’re incredibly expensive, you ignorant fool. As negotiable as gold for the Reich. You can’t rip them down. The Reich wants treasures like that.”

Schlegal stared up at the paintings. “I don’t see what’s so great about them.”

“Schlegal, they’re as valuable as diamonds!” Herzog said excitedly. “Don’t touch them. If you do, I’ll have Reich Minister Speer on the line to talk to you in two minutes. He knows who Giorgione is, and you’ll be explaining why you destroyed millions of Reich marks of property.”

“It doesn’t matter. They’re coming down anyway. And we won’t have to get up on ladders.”

“What the hell do you mean?” asked Herzog with a puzzled look on his face.

“Look out the window.”