The Paris Architect: A Novel

“And put it in your pocket and take it home,” said Sophie with a quiet laugh.

It was just the faintest of scents, as the smoke seeped through the edges of the false wall, but Serrault recognized it as ash, a wood he had used for his fires at home. After a few minutes, the blackness of the space became dusty with smoke as if someone had beaten out a dirty rug.

“Yes, of all the places we’ve visited, Morocco may have been the most beautiful,” said Serrault, feeling that Sophie was beginning to wheeze. Her breathing became labored, and her chest heaved in and out. Serrault’s throat seized up as if he had swallowed cotton.

“I loved walking through…the bazaars, all the wonderful sights and…sounds, right out of the…Arabian nights,” replied Sophie with great difficulty. Her speech had become a series of gasps.

“I still carry that Moroccan leather wallet around, can you believe that?”

“Of course, it’s so…beautiful with the red leather…and gold inlay.”

The air was almost gone now, and thick smoke filled the chamber. Their eyes began to burn and water. Sophie started gagging and coughing, but no matter how hard she tried to stifle her cough with her hand, it came spilling out. Serrault’s coughing began and wouldn’t let up. He felt for her face and leaned down to give her a long kiss.

“I couldn’t have asked for a better a wife.”

“And God couldn’t have given me a better husband.”

Serrault took out the handkerchief from Sophie’s dressing gown and placed it in her mouth while she kept her head against his chest. He placed his own handkerchief in his mouth.

***

As the blaze died down, the wood glowed a reddish orange and smoldered away. Meanwhile, the party dragged on for another fifteen minutes, until Lieber vomited all over the beautiful scarlet and tan Persian rug and finally passed out. Immediately, Herzog called his office for a staff car. Then, with Manet’s and Lucien’s help, he dragged Lieber into the lift, shoving the three tarts in behind. Lucien declined the major’s offer of a ride and waited for the lift to descend. Manet had rushed into the kitchen to fetch a pot of water and doused the fire, then, with Lucien’s help, dragged out the false wall.

“They’ll be all right, monsieur. Don’t worry, they’ll be fine,” Lucien said in a confident tone as they pulled away the wall.

In the opening, they saw two bodies in slippers and nightclothes buckled at the knees.

“Monsieur, madame, we’re here,” Manet shouted.

“Please hold on; we’ll have you out in just a second,” said Lucien.

With great difficulty, Lucien and Manet pulled out the two limp bodies by their legs—a very tiny woman in her seventies and an old man Lucien recognized as the Jew he had met in the apartment. Both were dead. To his horror, Lucien saw that both had handkerchiefs stuffed in their mouths. Manet stood motionless above the bodies, but Lucien was dumbstruck at the terrible sight.

“Christ, this can’t be,” Lucien insisted. “Look, this pipe at the bottom here sucked out any smoke directly to the outside.”

Imbedded in the lower half of the back wall of the hiding place was a sheet metal sleeve six centimeters in diameter.

“I’m telling you, the natural draft sucked out the smoke. Hot air will always travel in the direction of cold air. Look.” Lucien stuck his arm into the sleeve but ran into something hard and rough.

“What the hell?” Lucien kept hitting the mass with his fist. Manet pulled Lucien’s arm out, took out his cigarette lighter, and peered inside.

“It’s a bird’s nest. It’s completely blocking the opening,” Manet said.

Lucien looked and, to his astonishment, saw a tight ball of twigs and shreds of cloth mixed with mud clogging the far end of the sleeve. It reminded him of gray papier-maché.