The Paris Architect: A Novel

“I just had a feeling,” said Manet, “that’s all.”


“Because I felt guilty about killing Monsieur and Madame Serrault?”

Manet frowned. “Lucien, be reasonable. It wasn’t your fault that they died. Who would’ve thought the Boche would wind up there that evening? And the bird’s nest? It was pure rotten luck. Lieber murdered them, not you.”

“I was responsible for planning every possible contingency, no matter how absurd. I placed them in danger when I chose to use the fireplace.”

“Nonsense.”

“I could have found another place for them to hide, but that would’ve been too easy. I had to be clever.”

“I asked you here to see if you would help me again, Lucien. Will you?”

Lucien looked down at the glass in his hands. The last few weeks had been a living hell for him. After the discovery of Adele’s stair three weeks ago, the guilt over the Serraults hadn’t gone away, as he’d hoped. Then Celeste abandoned him. It was literally tearing his insides out; the last few nights he’d pissed blood. If he wasn’t thinking about the Serraults, the stair problem consumed him, leaving him a nervous wreck.

“We have a problem,” said Lucien. “The stair in the hunting lodge in Le Chesnay has been discovered. A friend of mine who now has use of the place told me.”

“Adele Bonneau,” replied Manet.

At first Lucien was startled that Manet knew her name, then slowly nodded his head.

“The Germans must have given her the house.”

“The Gestapo,” said Manet.

Lucien was visibly shaken at Manet’s reply, then became revolted at the thought of her even touching such an animal. To be with a German was bad enough, but to lower oneself like that was unthinkable. How could any French woman do such a thing?

“She could link you to the stair.”

“I know.”

“It’s in our best interest that you avoid Mademoiselle Bonneau.”

Lucien had agreed to meet Manet expressly for the purpose of telling him that this was the end of it. He just couldn’t take it any longer. Now was the time to get out. Besides, he’d made out okay in this deal—a great deal of money, a car, plus two commissions. While he was driving, he’d rehearsed what he had to say to Manet, revising it and imagining what Manet’s response would be. Being a good Christian, the old man would probably make it easy for him and say that it was all right to call it quits, that Lucien already had done more than any man need do. But when Lucien looked up into Manet’s eyes and was about to begin his speech, the words stuck in his throat. He lost his nerve. There were a million reasons for walking away from this mess. But not one would come out of his mouth. It was like a dream in which he was on a speeding train that he couldn’t jump off. He knew the train was heading for a brick wall at the end of the track, so he had to get off, but he couldn’t.