The Paris Architect: A Novel

“Why don’t we try the neck region this time, Lieutenant Voss?” Schlegal said.

Wolf raised the stair and Voss grabbed his legs. Triolet roared in pain. His head was now positioned at the foot of the stair, and Wolf was waiting for the word to let go.

“At the count of three,” said Schlegal in a detached tone of voice. “One…two…”

“All right,” groaned Triolet.

“So, the question was…who do you think could build such a stair? Come on, monsieur, you’ve been a building contractor for forty years in Paris. You know everyone in the building trades. Give me a name.”

Triolet muttered something that Schlegal couldn’t make out.

“I didn’t hear that, Monsieur Triolet.”

“There’s a cabinetmaker in the eleventh arrondissement…who could do something like this.”

“His name please, monsieur.”

There was a long pause. Schlegal was used to this phase of interrogation. The pause of conscience. His guest was now debating whether to give in to stop the horrible pain or take the high-minded road and say nothing. When the threat of horrible physical pain confronted one’s moral conscience, it was Schlegal’s experience that pain always won out. With some, the pause was longer, but in the end, most talked if they knew something. Monsieur Triolet was ready to talk.

“His name is Louis Ledoyen.”

“Thank you. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” said Schlegal. “You have the honor of helping the Reich. No shame in that.”

Triolet mumbled something, then passed out from the pain. Voss gave him a kick, but he lay motionless. Schlegal looked down at the Frenchman.

“Take him back to the city and hold him until we track down this cabinetmaker. If it turns out he gave us a fake name, finish him,” said Schlegal. “Sooner or later, we’ll find out who’s behind this hiding place. When we do, gentlemen, I bet we’ll find many more of these ingenious devices.”

Voss went to the hallway and shouted orders at two waiting soldiers, who came in and dragged Triolet away.

“Wipe that blood off the floor,” ordered Schlegal. “This is someone’s home, you know. I don’t want to leave it a mess.”

Voss and Wolf escorted their superior down the grand staircase and out to his black staff car, parked in the circular drive. Schlegal had been preoccupied by the discovery of the stair, and he had ordered his staff to round up everyone connected to the Paris building industry. But each time, the Gestapo came up empty. Informants could tell them nothing, and the most ferocious torture produced no results. This was a very secret operation with only a handful of Frenchmen involved. He knew it didn’t involve the Resistance. None of his people on the inside knew anything about it. Schlegal had found plenty of Jews hiding throughout Paris, but not in such a tricky place. It still gnawed at him that the Jews had fooled him. What angered him even more was that gentiles must be helping them. When he got his hands on them, they would pay dearly.

A dark blue Renault was parked farther down the drive, and a short, barrel-chested man in his late fifties was leaning against it smoking a cigarette. Schlegal saw him and nodded, letting the man know it was all right to approach him.

“Any news, Messier?”

“Nothing yet, Colonel, but I’ll find out something.”