The Paris Architect: A Novel

Bette disappeared into the crowd, and Lucien walked over to Adele, who was still surrounded by admirers.

“Now, my brilliant architect, which of my designs did you like best?”

“Definitely was the navy blue skirt with the matching jacket and that wonderful braided paper hat.”





17





“Who is it?”

“It’s Aubier. I’ve got your food.”

Cambon, whose stomach had been growling from hunger for the last two days, was about to unlock the door when he realized it was Thursday. Aubier always came on Fridays. Every Friday evening at 8:00 p.m. for the last six months, the entire time Cambon had been hiding in the apartment on the rue Blomet.

“It’s not Friday; what the hell are you doing here?”

“I can’t make it on Friday. Open up,” whispered Aubier through the thick wood-paneled door. “Do you want your food or not?”

Cambon didn’t move. He was thinking how unusual it was for Aubier to change his schedule. But his stomach persuaded him to open the door. Maybe Aubier would have a tin of sardines or a hunk of salami. Sitting alone in the apartment all these months, Cambon thought of little else but food. Once one of France’s biggest clothing manufacturers, with palatial houses in the city and country, he could have any kind of food he desired—steak from America, olives from Greece, even walrus from the Arctic Circle if he’d wanted. Now, here he was starving to death, viewing a few morsels of moldy bread as a banquet.

“Hold on,” he whispered. He was already planning his meal for the evening while he quietly unlocked the door. A bottle of wine would be wonderful. He’d had his last one four months ago. He opened the door a crack to see the tan leathery face of Aubier, his former servant from his home on the rue Copernic. Aubier flashed him a big smile of yellowed teeth and pulled an apple from a paper bag. Cambon’s eyes lit up at that beautiful sight—it was easier to find gold on the streets of Paris than fruit. He opened the door just enough to let Aubier pass through. But the old servant came crashing into the foyer onto his face, pushed from behind by three plainclothes Gestapo officers in brown leather overcoats. Cambon shoved a console table in their path and ran into the rear bedroom, straight to an ornate four-poster bed. He pulled a revolver from beneath the mattress and then sat on the bed. As the first Gestapo man came through the bedroom door, Cambon calmly aimed and fired off a round, hitting the man in the left thigh. The officer dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. The officer directly behind him pulled back and ducked behind the wall next to the door. With his revolver in hand, he came out from behind the wall, blasting away, putting four bullets in Cambon, who was still sitting on the bed, making no effort to duck. He fell back, looking as if he’d just lain down for a nap.

***

A few minutes later, Captain Bruckner walked into the room with his hands clasped behind his back and silently surveyed the situation.

“Fuckin’ Jew bastard!” screamed the officer writhing in pain on the floor. “Did you see what he did to me? Did you kill the sonovabitch?”

Bruckner walked over to the bed and felt the pulse in Cambon’s neck. “One dead Jew. How do you like that? He didn’t want to be taken alive.”

“I don’t blame him after hearing what happens to these kikes once they go east,” said the third officer, who was bending over his wounded comrade. “You know, that’s the first time one of these kikes put up a fight. He went down fighting. I respect this Jew bastard.”

“I sure as hell don’t,” yelled the wounded man, and the other two laughed at him. They helped him to his feet and dragged him to the door where Aubier was standing.

The wounded man glared at the Frenchman, who looked down at the floor.