The Paris Architect: A Novel

“It is…quite clever, but I can’t imagine who built it. Maybe it’s been here since the house was built. Or maybe it was put here during the Revolution.”


“I don’t think so. The hinges and bolt are quite modern, see for yourself.”

“And how did you happen to discover this thing?” Lucien asked.

“A servant was cleaning the carpet and found it.”

“I see,” said Lucien, then walked over to the bed and sat down.

“And how did you come to possess this modest little cottage? It seems a bit out of your price range.”

Adele unbuttoned the side of her black skirt, let it drop to the floor, and pulled off her beige sweater.

“Silly man. One of my clients acquired it and is letting me use it for the rest of the year—completely rent-free. Wasn’t that gracious of him?”

“Must be a very special client to be so generous. Do I know him?”

“Oh goodness, no. Just one of those old fools in the clothing business.”

Knowing the brief history of this house, Lucien had a suspicion that her client wore a gray-green uniform. He knew he probably wasn’t Adele’s only lover. She was greedy and opportunistic, willing to use anyone to get ahead. He was intrigued by that mercenary side of her. But if she was literally in the enemy’s bed, she was not only a traitor, but also a direct danger to him.

She took off her brassiere, then pushed Lucien down on the bed. Lucien couldn’t help looking at the stair the whole time they were making love. But in an odd way, he thought, maybe this was a good thing. This cruel coincidence actually took his mind off the Serraults. It was a case of one horrible thing replacing another. At least he wouldn’t think of them every waking hour of the day. Now he’d be forced to face his worst nightmare: could the secret stair be traced back to him? Who else knew about it?





30





“A beautiful building. You should be very proud.”

Lucien was proud. So proud that he was daydreaming at that very moment of winning the French Academy of Architecture’s highest award for his just-completed engine factory in Chaville. Standing alongside Major Herzog, he relished every detail—the strong horizontal lines of his ribbon-glass windows, the vertical emphasis of the brick entryway, the beautiful curve of the arched concrete roof, which was strong enough to withstand an Allied air attack. Lucien and Celeste had no children, but he’d always imagined that the completion of a great design would be like the birth of one’s child.

“I knew I could do a good building if I had the chance,” said Lucien, talking to no one in particular.

“It will be the first of many,” said Herzog, slapping him on the back with his elegantly gloved hand. “Your design for the Tremblay factory is even better than this.”

Lucien beamed at Herzog. After three months, he had come to regard the German as his friend, a kindred spirit. His unease over being friendly with the enemy had evaporated. Lucien was still annoyed that Celeste thought of him as a collaborator. He was merely an architect who wanted work. And the opportunities to do this happened to be coming from the Germans. Herzog needed factories, and Lucien designed them for him. Technically, he was working for Manet, who cooperated in order not to have his business appropriated by the Germans. It was the smart thing to do. He wasn’t some evil profiteer who was raking in millions. And Lucien was in no way getting rich off all this war work for the Reich.

“You really think the Tremblay factory will be better?” asked Lucien, finding himself anxious for Herzog’s approval.

“Much better. The concrete structure is even more dynamic than this. A beautiful expression of functionalism.”