Doctor,
This letter is a courtesy. There is a rumor that someone is looking into the people interested in the wares I offer. Anonymity is of the utmost concern for all of my clients, so I felt obligated to make you aware of this situation. The upcoming auction date has not been set. I am inclined to put it on ice until this is resolved. I will not tolerate anyone messing about in my, or my clients’, affairs.
Sincerely,
The Curator
Dr. Schaeffer returned the letter to the envelope. “This is an interesting turn. I wonder who might have…” He faded off at the end. A brief silence followed.
“Shall I keep our meeting with Mr. Wood?”
There was another long silence. Dr. Schaeffer, standing up, walked slowly around the room, thinking. The needle on the Wagner was lifted. He bit the tip off of a cigar, lit it, and continued to pace back and forth.
Hans knew his routine and sat quietly, drinking his beer. The next move would come to his boss shortly.
“I believe you should,” Dr Schaeffer said and added, “If the meeting goes well, pay him the retainer, and explain that he will be receiving further instructions at a later date, but to be ready at a moment’s notice.”
“Very good. Are there any other tasks for me?”
“Not right now, my friend. Do you have time for a game of chess?”
“I do, if you let me play white, and agree not to play the French Defense. I'm tired of losing to that opening.”
“Agreed. I shall start with c4.“
They played the first eight moves verbally while they walked to the study. Hans then considered whether he should try something new. He chose bishop to c4, not knowing if the doctor knew the variation.
Across the city, envelopes were being delivered to four other homes and one hotel.
Chapter Sixteen
Father Patrick enjoyed his sea bass, and indulged his sweet tooth with a piece of cheesecake. He sipped coffee for a while after his meal, left a generous tip, and then parted, grabbing a cab to a building where three of his more elderly parishioners lived.
Rose Webber, seventy-two and widowed, lived on the fifth floor and baked cookies, daily. She would often bring them down to the church, and for this, Patrick would visit her and play cribbage at least once per week. Her husband had been a hard worker his whole life, saved his pennies, and invested in Coca Cola stock when he and Rose were young. Eventually, he was able to retire and buy her the beautiful home she had always wanted.
On the third floor, Ginny and Doug, both seventy-five, lived among their collection of china that they had bought over a lifetime. Patrick liked visiting them, and even salivated over a few of the majolica pieces, which dated to 14th century Italy. If he had met them fifteen years ago, he would have robbed them blind – now they were just bobbles. Plus, he liked them both.
Patrick considered this affection for Rose, Ginny, and Doug as a personal character flaw. He assumed he must be getting old. They served their purpose, though.
It was not uncommon for Father Patrick to visit them, usually early in the morning or later in the evening. Everyone knew his face and was not at all surprised to see him in the halls. He never took the elevator, as he told everyone the exercise was good for spirit and body. In truth, Patrick hated taking the stairs, but it was a small sacrifice to maintain believability.
Unit 429, on the fourth floor, right next to the stairwell, was owned by a man nobody knew. The name on the box wasn't familiar to the residents. Everyone assumed the occupant just liked to keep to himself. The name, actually another alias for Father Patrick, wasn't known this side of the Atlantic. Whenever Patrick needed to tear off his collar and just have a nice cup of tea, as himself, he would simply pay a visit to Rose on floor five and then sneak back downstairs into his apartment.
The other priests were not surprised when Father Patrick didn't return, as he was known to stay out late… trying to find and help the homeless. Tonight, he stopped in to see Rose, knowing she would be out playing canasta. He knocked a couple of times, for show, then snuck into his own apartment.
The walls were adorned with paintings by Edgar Degas, Honoré Daumier, George Bellows, and Thomas Cole. Each was a copy, meticulously recreated by Patrick. At one point or another, he had possessed the originals, but then they were passed along. He didn't care much about owning originals, as his own copies meant far more to him, and his focus was on getting the big score. With each successful auction, he would crave one bigger and better, always telling himself he needed just one more to retire. Patrick had visions of living in the south of France and painting away the days.
Patrick sat down at his easel. He was working on an original piece. He could copy the masters, but somehow was unable to come up with his own ideas. He thought about the message he had received from that vile pig, Andre. He thought about his note and wondered if he had made the correct play. He was curious how the various collectors would react to his threat to delay the auction. He smiled. Patrick liked having these suckers, who were dying to give up their millions just to get a piece of history. He suspected that if any one of them tried to tell his forgeries from the real ones, there wasn't but one among them who could spot the difference.
He thought about The Falcon. He wondered what this bird of prey's reaction might be to his threat.
Tomorrow would be a busy day. He had plans to double check. In two days, the package would arrive, God willing, and he would need to make arrangements for individual viewings. Each prospective bidder would be taken to a different location. They would be allowed to spend up to two hours carefully examining the piece, and each would be permitted to bring an expert. Patrick laughed at this last rule, as his clients were much too vain to bring an expert, and thus cast their own “credentials“ into question. To arrange separate viewings, Patrick had assembled individual teams. This was expensive, as the members of each team didn't know one another.
Over the years, Patrick had mastered living in the shadows. If forging was his best skill, reading people was a close second. He knew how to press buttons. Each team had been carefully built. Patrick could tell who might betray him and who would be loyal. He knew what motivated his prospects: to some he provided money, to others fear, and, to a few, friendship. Whatever it took to get people to do his bidding – and never speak of it – he did.
In his early years, before the war, he had pulled off some brilliant cons and was never caught. There were a couple of close calls, but he always had an out. During the war, however, he really flourished. There were all sorts of people stealing, selling, and dying. He excelled at profiting from the chaos. Working both sides of the street taught him the value of anonymity. By the time the shooting had stopped, he was wealthy beyond most people's wildest dreams. He was also a ghost.
It was then that he moved to the U.S. He spent years building up the network of people he would need to start fencing the works of art, which nobody else could touch.
He added a touch of yellow, then put his brush down and walked to the table in the center of the room. The plan sat patiently, waiting for at least one more review. His love of planning was perhaps his third greatest asset. Tonight he would review every detail. At 3:00 a.m., he would go to bed, confident in his vision and his plan.
Chapter Seventeen
Henry put Katarina in a cab around 10:30 p.m. and walked home. He tried to think about the case. He wanted to concentrate on Mickey…but the thoughts of her hauntingly beautiful eyes and soft touch were filling his head.
Mostly, they had spent the evening eating and drinking. The conversation was of the “good ole days.” Henry had tried to ask her about what she was up to, why she was in town. He couldn't remember her giving him a straight answer.
Was she being evasive on purpose, or just letting the wine go to her head? She had mentioned working with art once or twice, and that she was in town on business. He thought she had said she would only be around for a few weeks, but he also remembered her mentioning th
at she was considering staying.
The only thing he was completely sure of: the steak was fantastic.
As Henry tossed his keys on the dresser, he gave a glance at the clock on the nightstand. It was 10:47. He grabbed a glass. The clink, clink, clink of the ice cubes and the fizz of the Coke were like the round bell going off. He had taken some time off, but the fight was back on, and it was time to focus on finding Mickey's killer.
He picked up the phone and dialed. When he heard the voice on the other end say “hello,” he started.
“Mike, any news?”
“Nothing yet, Henry. We found an abandoned car…it was towed to the garage with some marks that might match the ones on Mickey's. I’ll know tomorrow. The car itself appears to be wiped clean, and the registration is to an elderly woman in Poughkeepsie. She is in her 80s, and didn't know her car was missing. How about you?”
“I made a little headway, but not much. Well, I had a guy, possibly chiseled from granite, stop in today, looking to hire a private dick. He said he was shopping around, but I’m not sure he was being straight with me. He wouldn't let on much about the job, but it sounds like a pretty big payday. Too big a payday.”
“Nothing wrong with making a living, buddy.”
“I know, but something doesn't feel right. Look, I need a favor. It's a big one.”
Mike had been back at work for about a month, but had so far been mostly chained to his desk. Still, Henry wasn't sure if he would go for it.
“Anything you need, it's yours.”
“You still got some vacation time left?” Henry asked, already feeling guilty.
“Heck, yeah. I had a pile of sick leave, and even with everything going on, I still have a bunch. I didn't have to use any sick leave when I was out of commission, so I figure I have about six months worth.”
Henry chuckled. “You ever taken a vacation?”
“Yeah, I went fishing once. Didn't catch anything but a cold.”
“This is the deal. I may have implied to this guy that I have a few other people working here. My gut tells me that this new client may have been part of whatever Mickey was looking into. I can't say for sure, but I could use some backup. You mind taking a week or two off, and doing some moonlighting at Henry Wood Detective Agency?”
“You got it buddy – no charge,” Mike said.
“I appreciate the gesture,” Henry countered, “but this has got to be on the up and up. I am putting you on the payroll, and will let the client know you are on loan from the force. I may have implied that we've worked together before, too.”
“Well, technically, we have worked together before. I was just getting paid by the city.” Mike chuckled.
“Good point, my friend. One more thing: I think I need a secretary. If you have any ideas, let me know.”
“I can't think of anyone, but I'll keep my eyes open. When do you need me?”
“I realize it is short notice, but if you could make it in by 11:00 day after tomorrow, the client is coming in at noon.”
“I have the next two days off anyway, so no problem. I'll go down to the station and put in for the time off, then be at your place by 11:00.”
“Thanks.” Henry pushed the plunger down on the phone; as soon as he had a dial tone again, he got the operator to dial an old friend.
“Hello, this is Dr. Brookert.”
Henry loved his old friend's phone etiquette. “Dr. Brookert, it's Henry Wood. I hope I haven't called too late.”
“Don't be ridiculous, my dear boy. I am just reading some interesting Latin text about...well...I find it interesting, but I digress. What can I do for New York’s best detective?”
“I am working on something now. It feels like it may be right up your alley, and I could really use your help.”
The life of a NYU professor is not as thrilling as one might imagine. Henry and the professor met many years ago, at the library. Henry had been fascinated by a pile of old-looking books, and they had struck up a conversation, found that they got along well, and that each was interested in the other's career choices.
The idea of working on a case with Henry thrilled the usually understated professor. His voice was like a child's for the briefest of moments. He paused, regained his composure and then said, “It would be my great pleasure. I am at your service.”
“I appreciate it. I intend to put you on the payroll, but it shouldn't interfere with your classes. Mostly, I will want to use your vast knowledge of art and the art world.”
“It sounds like a very interesting case. When do I start?”
“Is there any chance you could be at my office day after tomorrow, in the morning around 11:00, for a few hours? If you have a class, it’s okay. This is short notice.”
“I have a class at 9:00 and then again at 3:00. I will see you at 11:00. Hey, I heard your place burned down a few months back. Did you get it cleaned up?”
“Oh, no, I got a new office in the Flatiron building.”
“Great, I will see you then…Boss.” ”
Henry laughed. He was quite sure that the impression the professor had of the life of a detective was more glamorous than was actually the case. He hoped he wouldn't be too disappointed.
“I will not have you calling me ‘boss.’ Oh, and one more thing: I am looking to hire a full-time secretary. You know anyone who might be interested?”
“I don't, but I will ask around. When do you need her?”
“In truth, about three years ago, if I am being honest with myself.”
Henry could almost hear the smile over the phone. “See you later.”
Chapter Eighteen
The waves, cold, relentless, and seemingly unprovoked, had followed them since the day after they left the Tyrrhenian Sea. The crew and captain couldn’t remember a longer, more miserable trip. To a man, they were a new crew; the captain had only been aboard since the year before, when The Siena left Yard 136 in Denmark. The Siena was a beautiful ship, her displacement 15,295 tons, the length overall or LOA stretching an impressive 491 feet, and the beam 64 feet. She had a top speed of 16.75 knots, but today, she was tired and worn, along with her crew and captain, and two Greek passengers.
Cargo ships sometimes have a handful of passengers, but not often. On this voyage, some palms were greased, so that two middle-aged, but muscular men could accompany a box. The manifest was clear, detailing every item aboard…except the box. For this courtesy, a whole bucket of grease was required. The captain didn’t know the contents, nor did he care. The Greek men, who had guarded it for years, had a vague understanding of the contents. They knew some stories. They knew the people who had found it.
In their youth, they had both loved listening to the theories about what it was, that it might be cursed, and the speculation of hidden powers. Neither man had ever witnessed anything unusual from the object; it just looked like a box with gears, all shinny and impressive. It was a very old box. Both men now believed in the curse and, since they couldn’t eat for all of the sea sickness, spent their days praying to Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors, merchants, archers, thieves, and children. When this didn’t work, they turned their attention to Saint Christopher, since they were traveling.
Today, the North Atlantic was rougher than any of the previous days. The captain didn’t think they weren’t in mortal danger, but that might have been hubris on his part. The year before, The Southern Districts, a former naval ship with a full load of bulk sulfur heading for Bucksport, Maine, had moved through gusts of force 9 squalls, and then force 8 gusts. On December 11, it was reported that they were overdue, and the search began.
The captain thought about his friend who had been a first mate on The Southern Districts. He wondered if the wreck would ever be discovered. His own first mate gave an update: force 9 winds, and squalls. There wasn’t any sign of it letting up either.
The captain said a prayer.
The Siena would be lost at sea, though not on this day, or the next one, either.
&
nbsp; Chapter Nineteen
The sleep was not the least bit restful. Henry had expected to dream of Katarina or to have nightmares about Mickey. Instead, he had short dreams. All night, he was chased or drowning or fighting with some strange man. Each mini drama had one thread of similarity: something beyond his control was causing pain, and his struggling against the control just made it worse.
Henry didn't like it. He preferred to be in control, even when asleep. Henry often remembered his dreams; he was also good at being lucid in the nocturnal stories. Last night, he was not, and it started his day off on the wrong foot.
When Henry got out of bed and walked to the bathroom, he hit his toe. It hurt, and it was bewildering to him. He had never hurt himself in his own home, even when drunk. After a short burst of cursing, which he generally didn't do, there wasn’t any improvement in his toe. His gut told him that he should be careful today. It also told him that a big breakfast was in order, though, admittedly, his gut told him this on most mornings, and sometimes late at night.
Henry showered, shaved, clipped his toe nails, and spent several minutes looking at his big toe, which seemed none too pleased with him. Henry rewarded his disgruntled toe and all the other toes with a fresh pair of socks, never worn. This went a long way towards forgiveness.
He spent the first hour of the morning mostly lost in the trivial. It was as if the last 28 hours had so worn his brain, it needed some alone time. Henry let his mind wander aimlessly while his hands made a three egg omelet, brewed some coffee, buttered some toast, and then decided to add a bonus piece of toast, with grape jelly.
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