The Paris Architect: A Novel Part 23

51.

"He thinks he's hiding under the floorboards, Paulus."

"Maybe he's in that chandelier up there."

"Could be. Or he could be hiding in the cus.h.i.+on I'm sitting on."

Captain Bruckner and Lieutenant Paulus lounged lazily in the plush armchairs of a townhouse on rue de Ba.s.sano, where they'd been ordered to go by Colonel Schlegal. Luckily for them, their superior was off in the countryside with his French mistress, so they could deal with this matter without him breathing down their necks. One of Schlegal's informants told him that a Jew was in this apartment. They had decided to study the problem by relaxing in the luxurious salon first.

"You're not going to have me tapping on the walls, are you?" asked Paulus.

"h.e.l.l no. That Schlegal has a screw loose," said Bruckner. "I'm not going through the same s.h.i.+t we did at that cottage in Epinay. I still can't believe that. I ruined a uniform tearing through that place."

"You think that's bad? I stepped on a G.o.dd.a.m.n nail."

"No, we're going to find our Hebrew in a more logical manner."

"Seems a shame to tear apart such a beautiful flat," said Paulus as he gestured at the walls of the palatial apartment. It had incredibly ornate paneling divided by beautiful floor-to-ceiling pilasters that were covered in gilt. The wood floors were parquet and of a rich golden color that glowed in the midday sun. The ceilings were domed, with huge paintings of angels carrying off nymphs into the heavens.

"You know what we could do?" Paulus said with a great smile. "We rip the place apart a bit, then we pick up a Jew in the street, kill him, and say we found the b.a.s.t.a.r.d here. How would Schlegal know the difference?"

"Paulus, you'll make captain yet," said Bruckner, who was genuinely impressed with his subordinate.

"We'll just tell him he was hiding in the back of a closet behind one of those fake walls we found a few weeks ago. And when we were taking him downstairs, he tried to make a break for it, and we let him have it."

"Sounds completely plausible to me," replied Bruckner.

"Don't worry, I'll make it very convincing. I was an attorney before the war," boasted Paulus.

"No kidding, you were an attorney? I didn't know that."

"Just out of law school in '39."

"So why are you working for a nut like Schlegal?"

"I thought I'd take a break from the law, get some action under my belt."

"And you wound up chasing Jews in Paris," replied Bruckner with a laugh.

"Yeah, but better here than in Russia."

"That's for d.a.m.n sure."

"So what do you say? Do we follow my plan and be able to sit down to a fine lunch by two o'clock?" asked Paulus. He, like most German officers, loved French food. Meals were the highlight of their day, and they planned their menus with the same great care they would take in devising a strategy for a battle.

"I say we do it. But finding a Jew straight off the street's going to be d.a.m.n hard. They never go out anymore."

"You've got a point there. Maybe if we have a couple men each take a block and just keep a lookout, we'll get lucky. Say twenty men for ten blocks. We're bound to find someone."

Bruckner walked over to the sofa and stretched out, placing his s.h.i.+ny black boots on the burgundy cus.h.i.+ons. He gazed up at the ornate ceiling, blowing smoke rings at it. Paulus got up from the armchair and started to examine some objects on the fireplace mantle.

"What an exquisite porcelain piece," exclaimed Paulus, holding up a figurine of a deer. It was painted in beautiful earth tones, and the detailing was so precise one could see the whites of the animal's eyes. "Such incredible workmans.h.i.+p."

Bruckner nodded at his subordinate, keeping his opinion to himself. He couldn't stand dust-gathering doodads like that; his wife had a million of them.

"My wife will love this," said Paulus. He pulled out a handkerchief to wrap up the figurine and stuffed it in the side pocket of his tunic. "It's too fragile to mail, so when I go home next month I'll surprise her with it."

"Well, let's get to it," said Bruckner. "Like you said, we should rough the place up a bit. Go out and get Krueger, will you?"

Paulus opened the double doors to the hallway and found Sergeant Krueger and four of his men lounging idly on the steps of the grand center stair.

"Krueger, get off your a.s.s and come in here," ordered Paulus.

Krueger slowly rose from the stair along with a sallow-faced soldier named Wolfe.

"Krueger, you lazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d, I want you and your men to pull apart these rooms like you were looking for someone," said Bruckner.

"Sir?"

"You heard me, stupid; go through the closets and turn over all the beds," said Bruckner.

"Yes, sir. At once," shouted a confused Krueger, who in turn screamed at the top of his lungs at the men in the hall to come in.

"Wait a minute," interjected Paulus, "have him fire some bursts in the walls here, just for special effect. That'll impress the h.e.l.l out of Schlegal."

"d.a.m.n good idea, my boy. Krueger, spray the walls in here."

Krueger unslung his MP-40 submachine gun from his shoulder and, walking around the perimeter of the great salon, blasted away at close range at all four walls, splintering the wide wood pilasters, puncturing the molded plaster panels with holes, and shattering the large gold-framed mirrors.

"All right, that's enough. Just go through the rest of the rooms and tear them up, and no shooting, do you understand, Krueger?" said Bruckner.

"Yes, sir."

Paulus and Bruckner waited in the hall until Krueger and his men were finished. They pa.s.sed the time chatting about visiting the Louvre, the cognac they'd had at dinner last night, and how much more buxom German women were than French girls. Krueger finally came out, and together, they all descended the stair.

"Come on, let's find us a Jew," said Bruckner.

After an hour pa.s.sed, the base of the pilaster in the center of the wall began to slowly lift up. With great difficulty, Mendel Ja.n.u.sky pushed it upward with both his arms. The top of the pilaster was hinged at the bottom of the deep wood molding that ran along the ceiling. Slowly, Ja.n.u.sky lifted it far enough so he could just slip out from under it. With enormous force, the heavy pilaster slammed back into place behind him. He collapsed onto the floor. He gazed down at his left leg and discovered a trickle of blood oozing through his light brown trousers where a bullet had grazed him. Exhausted and soaked in sweat, Ja.n.u.sky rested his back against the wall. Pulling out a soiled handkerchief, he mopped his face, then dabbed at the blood on his leg.

52.

The splash of water from the speeding Mercedes. .h.i.t Lucien right in the midsection, soaking his trousers and coat from the waist to the knees.

"Kraut son of a b.i.t.c.h," he yelled after the car, then immediately regretted it, hoping the car wouldn't stop.

Because he was wearing his favorite light gray suit, the dirty, oily water made a very dark, very noticeable stain below his belt. He knew he couldn't go to his meeting in this state. During his presentation, the Germans would all be staring at his crotch. Lucien had to try to clean himself up. He realized that he was only two blocks from Bette's building. Twice he had let her off in front of it, never having been asked to come up. They never made love in each other's homes. For Bette it was always the excuse about the out-of-town relatives still being there. For Lucien, it was also some feeble excuse, on account of Pierre.

He decided to take the chance on finding her at home. Bette knew fas.h.i.+on and clothes, so he figured she would know how to get rid of stains. Lucien trotted down the street. When he reached the foyer of the building, he realized he didn't know which flat she was in, so he had to ring for the concierge. An ancient man with a cigarette hanging from his lips stuck his head from behind the door and asked him what the h.e.l.l he wanted. After he got Bette's number, Lucien asked the concierge if Bette's relatives were still staying with her. The old man gave Lucien a puzzled look and then dismissed him with a wave.

Lucien was about to rap on Bette's door when he heard the faint sound of music coming from the apartment. It was a children's tune of some kind. Maybe her relatives were still hanging around. In a way he didn't blame them for coming to Paris. They knew that Bette, with her connections, could put food on the table. In France, everyone was always hungry so you did what you had to do to survive, which meant sponging off relatives to eat. He rapped loudly and waited.

After a minute, she hadn't answered, so he knocked again. Finally Bette came up to the door.

"Who is it?" she shouted from behind the thick oak door. "What do you want?"

Lucien was taken aback by her rudeness. "Is this how you greet all your lovers?"

"Lucien, is that you?" Bette replied in an astonished voice.

"Yes, my sweet, it is me. Open up, I've had an accident. I need your feminine a.s.sistance."

Instead of flinging open the door, embracing him, and welcoming him inside, there was a long silence.

He knocked again. "Bette, it's me, Lucien; come on, I need your help! My suit got messed up just around the corner, and I need to clean it. I've got a meeting in an hour. Please open up."

Another long silence ensued, and now Lucien was starting to imagine things. Like a lover in her bedroom hurriedly getting dressed and finding a place to hide. He banged on the door with his fist, and an old man next door opened his door and stuck his head out.

"What's all this d.a.m.n racket?" he demanded.

"Mind your own business."

"Stop this noise this minute."

"Shut up, you old fool."

The old man slammed his door in indignation, and suddenly Bette flung open her door.

"Lucien, what the h.e.l.l are you doing here? I told you I had people staying with me and you couldn't come up," Bette said. "You're causing a scene."

"Look at my suit," Lucien said. "It's a mess. I just need to clean it up. I thought you could rinse it out and maybe dry it off in front of your oven or something so the stain wouldn't show."

"I told you, you can't come in."

At first Lucien was dumbfounded by her response, then he quickly became angry and hurt. "What the h.e.l.l is your problem, woman?"

Lucien didn't wait for an answer and pushed past her into the foyer. He was taken aback by how splendid the apartment was. The flat was beautifully decorated in a moderne style, with quite expensive-looking furniture. Once his architect's instantaneous appraisal was finished, he returned to being angry. Then he realized that she was acting this way because she had a lover in the apartment, which made him even angrier.

"All right, who are you sleeping with? Is he in the bedroom? Let's meet him. I always like to meet your friends." He started in one direction but realized the apartment had more than one bedroom. "And I thought all the men in the fas.h.i.+on business were f.a.gs," he said scornfully.

He dashed headlong into one bedroom and looked under the bed, then behind the drapes and in a large armoire. Then he found another bedroom and proceeded to search it.

Bette followed him through the apartment. "Lucien, have you gone mad? Stop it. I'm telling you there's no one here. For chrissake, stop," Bette insisted, yanking on his arm. "Now get out of here."

"Bulls.h.i.+t, I know he's here. And where the h.e.l.l are those mysterious relatives of yours?"

"I told you to get the h.e.l.l out of here," she yelled, now slapping him about the head in a fury.

Lucien resisted the strong urge to punch her in the face and kept searching. His anger was like a torrent of raging floodwater that pulled him helplessly along. He could do nothing to stop it. The sense of betrayal shattered him because he had been so happy with Bette. After all the terrible things that had happened to him-the Serraults' deaths, Adele discovering the stair-she was like a miracle who had come into his life. His time with Bette meant he could forget these bad things for a while and just enjoy wonderful moments of pure pleasure. It wasn't only Bette's great beauty and s.e.xuality that appealed to him, but her wit, sense of humor, and intelligence. It was clear to him that he was falling for her. That one could find love in such horrible times amazed and delighted him, making her betrayal all the more painful.

With Bette still beating him about the back, he came to a huge carved walnut chest at the foot of the bed and threw open the heavy lid. When her punches became faster and more furious, he knew he'd hit the jackpot.

"I believe I've found the buried treasure."

"No. Lucien, please don't," pleaded Bette, trying with all her might to pull him away from the chest.

"He must be the f.u.c.k of the century," exclaimed Lucien as he yanked out some heavy blankets from the top of the chest.

"I'm going to choke the life out of the b.a.s.t.a.r.d." When he threw off the third blanket, he saw the terrified faces of two children looking up at him. He froze and stared at them in amazement; he might as well have unearthed an Egyptian mummy.

Bette roughly pushed Lucien aside and helped the boy and girl out of the chest. They both clung to her thighs, burying their faces in her white dress. She caressed both their heads and gave Lucien a defiant look that said "go straight to h.e.l.l."

Lucien was mesmerized by the sight. Bette, a smart, independent, and beautiful fas.h.i.+on model, had never displayed any motherly tendencies at all. Here she was protecting two little children, like a lioness ready to fight anyone who would try to hurt her cubs. He smiled at them, and a feeling of great love and admiration for her swept over him. Lucien knelt down and extended his hand to the boy.

"My name is Lucien, and I'm very sorry I scared you. I was looking for someone else. So what's your name, young fellow?"

The boy looked up at Bette and she nodded.

"Emile."

"And you, young lady, what's your name?"

"Carole," announced the girl, who Lucien could see was not shy like the boy.

"I'm so glad to meet you both. Bette, why don't we get acquainted with some refreshments in the salon while you attend to my suit?"

"You're a mess. Let me get you a robe so you can undress."

Lucien took the children by their hands and led them into the salon. He took off his suit coat and trousers and handed them to Bette, who had brought in some drinks. Dressed in the white robe, Lucien stretched out on the sofa and asked the basic questions one asks of all small children. Their age, their favorite toys and books. Emile and Carole slowly dropped their guard and became friendlier with Lucien, laughing at his silly jokes and funny expressions. He didn't need to be told about their religious affiliation; it was plain to see.

Bette stood in the doorway and enjoyed the scene. Lucien was the first person other than herself whom the children had talked to in a year. He smiled at her and could see that she was happy that they were having a good time and that Lucien, who also never exhibited any parental talent, made them feel comfortable and safe. After a while, Bette shooed the children into their room to play and sat down in the chaise lounge across from Lucien.