Chapter Forty
It's hard to say how many people showed up to The Dublin Rogue, but they all had the same solemn look on their faces. A look Mickey would not have tolerated. At the end of the bar, a large photo of Michael Thomas Moore greeted the guests. It was the same with each person, the moment they saw Mickey's goofy expression – a smile and a heavy sigh.
Tommy Dorsey’s version of “I’ll Be Seeing You” brought a roar from the crowd. It was one of Mickey’s favorite songs and his favorite argument. Half the regulars preferred “The Ink Spots” with Bing Crosby’s version, and Mickey would routinely rally the other half in a rousing debate. Tonight, the Bing Crosby supporters, led by officer Thompson, raised their glasses and toasted. “To Mickey and Tommy Dorsey, forever number one, always in our hearts, we will be seeing you whenever this song plays.” A great cheer erupted from the bar.
Throughout The Dublin Rogue, tiny groups laughed as they shared their favorite Mickey stories. One by one, people made their way to the booth in the back to give Henry their condolences.
Luna and Sylvia listened as Henry and Mike told their most loved stories of Mickey. Much as everyone was filled with sorrow, it was impossible to feel sad when remembering such a wonderful and full life.
Mickey had a sense of humor few could top. First and foremost, he always thought about the story, and often did things because it would make the tale more fun to tell. After one particularly funny story, as the laughter died down, Henry took a drink of his beer. There was a silence, which needed filling.
“I think Mickey would have liked the party you threw in his honor. The food, picture, and beer are perfect.” He looked at Luna, then Sylvia and Mike. “It’s perfect.”
Luna grabbed Henry’s hand. “I'm sorry I never got to meet him. He sounds like the most wonderful man.”
***
Katarina had not come with Henry but had taken a cab from Brooklyn. Earlier in the day, she had gathered her belongings from the hotel and settled into Henry’s place. Kat, wearing black, made her way through the crowd. She came up behind the booth and saw Luna’s hand on Henry’s. She put her hand on Henry’s shoulder and leaned down, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “I am so sorry, Henry. Mickey was always kind to me. He will be missed.”
Luna’s eyes flashed. Henry stood up from the booth and introduced Katarina to everyone. When she had a chair, Henry slid back into the booth next to Luna. The tension was slight but unmistakable.
Mike told a story about the time Mickey had hit two trifectas at Aqueduct, went on a whiskey binge, and basically got abducted by circus folk. “The best part was that he woke up three days later, passed out in the clown car. He was wearing floppy shoes and a red nose. Henry had to drive to West Virginia to retrieve him. Not only had he been adopted by the clowns, they had convinced him to join their troop!”
Henry, laughing so hard he was crying, said, “When I arrived, the conjoined twins were begging him to stay, and the midget clown, she was sobbing. They let him keep the nose. He wore it to the bar that night.”
The story broke the tension. “I should probably try to find out where his clown friends are, and let them know of Mickey’s passing.” There were nods and then the sadness was back.
The police chief stopped in, as did the mayor, Robert Wagner. When it was time to close down, the honorable Mayor Wagner issued a “royal decree” extending the hours, which made everyone howl. He had gotten there late, and thought another hour or so would help him with the grieving process. He also bought a round and earned a few votes that night.
When the final toast was done, Mickey's friends gave his picture one last look and headed out. Mike saw to it that Sylvia and Luna made it home, while Henry and Katarina stayed in town, at his apartment. Katarina went to bed, while Henry sat at the kitchen table. His bottle of vodka was ready, but unopened.
Chapter Forty-One
Well past 1:00 a.m., the staff was still on alert. Another full day of Garneau’s fury had worn everyone to the breaking point. Everyone except Arthur. He stood in the private viewing room with his employer, sipped brandy, and listened. He didn’t mind the endless rehashing of what might or might not happen to the auction. Arthur was not the least bit concerned for the welfare of the other worker bees. He considered himself above the fray. He also saw the advantage in their hatred, in their reaching the boiling point. Their frazzled nerves, the tension in the house, seemed to dovetail nicely with Arthur’s own plans.
“It's simply maddening! I have been there since day one. Who does he think he is?” Andre said with a suppressed rage, like a kettle about to blow.
Though rhetorical, Arthur took delight in responding, “He thinks you are a customer, nothing more, nothing less.”
This comment had an equal chance of sending his boss into a rage. Arthur was quite content to take some abuse for the good of the team. In fact, he looked forward to it. Instead, Andre simply set his glass down. In a defeated tone, he said, “You might be right. I suppose he does.”
Well, everything can’t go as planned, Arthur thought.
There was a long silence, the first in two days. The giant of a man stood and walked slowly among his treasures, running his hand over the base of a Degas, “Little Dancer of Fourteen Years,” careful not to touch the brass. He stood and looked at it, bending slightly to examine the form more closely. “This was my first love you know,” he said, barely audible.
“Sir?”
“I didn’t know I liked art, but the money was piling up, and I needed to spend it. I was younger. I saw this in a gallery, in Paris. The tiny dancing girl reminded me of a show my sister was in when we were young. Mother and Father forced me to go, to support her, and I thought it would be boring. I think it was April or May, I don’t remember. I just know that my friends…I had friends back then…” His voice faded ,he slumped down in his chair and looked at the statue.
Arthur said nothing.
Andre continued. “My friends were heading out somewhere…it was warm and beautiful, but I couldn’t go. I was furious. Missing the fun to go watch a ballet was unacceptable, in my mind. So there I was, in the third row, between my parents, watching my sister, in her tutu, dance.
"She was really good. I was shocked. It was the first time I had noticed that she was, well, not my bratty sister.” There was another pause.
Arthur couldn’t remember if he knew his boss had a sister. He had never thought of him as having had parents, or a childhood, or really anything that might be considered human. “It sounds like you have a lovely sister.”
There was another heavy sigh. “Yes…yes I did. When the performance was over, I was the loudest one cheering. I was so proud of her, and I made a scene. My parents let me, and she just glowed. We went out and celebrated that night. I don’t think I teased her much after that. We became close, and I didn’t even mind when she wanted to tag along that summer. She went to the lake with my friends and me, we swam, and they even grew to like her. She got small pox that winter and died. My parents shipped me off to boarding school, as they were overcome with grief. I've been an ass ever since.”
Arthur felt uncomfortable with this display of humanity.
Andre turned back to the statue. “I saw this and thought of her. It was my first piece of art. I don’t know when it went from buying something beautiful because it made me happy, to hoarding and hiding away such great works out of spite.”
Arthur was perplexed, and his usual poker face failed him.
“I know my friend…I know. I am just so tired. I have been screaming and yelling for days, or is it years? I don’t know. The latter, I guess; all my adult life, really. I am an angry, bitter, fat, old man. Why do I care so much about some two thousand year old contraption?”
Arthur had to use his deft touch; he sensed Andre going off script. This wouldn’t do. He needed to press just the right button. “You care, because ‘The Falcon’ cares, and because this time, you will win and show the bastard who is…” he paused briefly
for effect, “…king!”
Andre said nothing.
Arthur stood up. “Boss, don’t let me hear you talking like this. We have worked too hard and are far too close. It will be the crown jewel in one of the finest collections ever amassed. It will be your legacy.”
There was a slight spark behind the defeated eyes. “Arthur, you have been a dear friend. I know you are right. I don’t know where my head was, but tomorrow we will continue on. As you said, we are too close to let that bastard, Falcon, best us, again.”
There wasn’t the same fire in his words, but at least he wasn’t giving up. Arthur didn’t need him for much longer.
Andre walked out of the study and made his way up to his room. The upstairs maid, sleeping in a chair in the corner, still wearing her ridiculous uniform, stood at attention when she heard his heavy feet climbing the stairs. “Shall I get your robe, monsieur?”
“Yes, please.” He followed her into the bedroom. She helped him off with his dinner jacket, then he said, “I will be fine. You may go.”
“Oui monsieur, are you sure? I haven’t gotten your robe.”
“It is fine. I am done torturing you for the day. In fact, I have been just horrible to you and the others. I am sorry. Tomorrow, I will make amends.”
The stunned look on her face and the gawking silence, when she opened her mouth, would have normally caused an outburst, but Andre said, “It's okay, I know, I am not my normal self. But maybe that is a good thing. My normal self isn’t very nice. I'll see you in the morning. Please, tell everyone they can go to bed, and that we should all sleep in a little tomorrow.”
She backed out of the room with a simple, “Oui.”
The rest of the staff, except for Arthur, was in various states of slumber around the kitchen table. When she told them what he had said, there was a collective look of disbelief. There was also a general feeling of relief that the storm had passed. They all said good night to one another and went off to their rooms, each wondering what tomorrow would bring. None of them would guess what was in store.
Chapter Forty-Two
Henry, lying on his side, opened his eyes with great effort. The room was filling with a new day's light, and it stung. The watch on the nightstand appeared a bit blurry, but seemed to indicate it was after 7:00 a.m. Henry rolled to his back and noticed he was alone. It was curious that Katarina should be up so early. He hoped she was making coffee. A deep breath told him she wasn't. He reached over to the other side of the bed; it was still warm. She hadn't been gone long – always the detective.
Henry could sense his brain moving, but just barely. He listened to the noise of the city, sure that the pounding drum beat was just for him. His hangover lacked rhythm. The bed was warm – that, he was sure of – but the world outside still seemed cold. He missed his friend.
A little chuckle snuck out as he lay there recalling the stories from the wake. Mickey would have loved it, as he always enjoyed a reason to drink and tell stories. He thought about how Mickey would be further along with the case. There was a honking horn, then another. Yellow Cabs, thought Henry.
He flipped off the covers and swung his legs out of bed. Running his hands through his hair and over his face, Henry made a quick mental checklist. Shower, coffee, eat, more coffee, go to work, repeat steps two through four. He needed to dig into the names on the list. Who was this “Falcon”? Henry made his way to the shower, turned on the cold, and pulled his body into the shocking water. It helped. Henry was just buttoning up his shirt when the phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Henry, I am sorry for calling so early, but it's important.”
“It is okay, Professor, what have you got?”
“I spent the day deep in the bowels of the library yesterday. I found nothing. Not even a whiff of mention of the Eye of God. My skepticism grew considerably, so I called a friend at Oxford. I couldn’t find anything about another Antikythera mechanism, so I thought I would see if I could dig up something on this mysterious group who found and protects it. My friend is an expert on secret societies like the Ordo Templi Orientis…”
The fog was slowly lifting. “The what?”
“The Ordo Templi Orientis is a mysterious group which started in the 12th century, but that isn’t important. I was saying that there are lots of groups – The Freemasons, The Black Hand, and even The Thule Society – which had in their membership Rudolf Hess, Arthur Rosenberg, and it is rumored, Hitler. So, I asked him if he knew of a relatively new group in Greece, protecting some artifact. I was careful and tried to speak only in broad terms."
"He said he didn’t know of any such group, as he is focused on groups from the 15th century. I hope you don’t mind, but I decided to ask if he knew anything of the Antikythera mechanism. He did and became very excited. His interest was piqued, so I explained that I was doing research on a rumored second device, and was trying to track down the name of the group in Greece who has it. To say he was enthusiastic would be an understatement. I explained the importance of keeping it secret, at least until I publish my findings. I also promised to give him a credit, if he could dig up the name of the group.”
“Publish your findings?”
“Don’t worry, I'm not going to publish anything, but it's how we in the world of academia work; our life blood, if you will. ‘Publish or perish’ is the old saying. Anyway, he said he was happy to do some checking and that he'd get back to me in a few days. I couldn’t think of a reason to ask for it more quickly, so I left it at that.”
“There must be more to the story. I can tell you're setting me up for a dramatic conclusion.”
Professor Brookert laughed. “I do try to have a flair for the dramatic. Yes, he called back this morning. He was almost unable to contain himself. Apparently, there was a group called The Thorstians which was mostly disbanded during the War. He wasn’t sure how many members there were, but apparently their numbers were greatly depleted during the fighting. The few that remained failed to keep the artifact safe, as it was stolen by the Nazis in 1944. Or that was the rumor. He found an article in an obscure Greek underground newspaper which questioned whether it had been truly stolen by Nazis or perhaps it was just a couple of opportunistic Thorstians who weren’t as loyal as the others. It seems it was a paper for members of the club.”
“That is interesting, but…”
“Oh, I'm not done. It appears the paper is still around, though it has grown beyond the business of the Thorstians, and my friend was able to talk to the editor, who was there when it happened. He didn’t have many details beyond the article, but he did say that there were still those who believed they had been betrayed. It was also rumored that the remaining Thorstians had an idea who it might be and had vowed to see them dead and to do anything to get their treasure back. My friend found the name in an old newspaper article ‘Eye of God’ and got a description. He says it sounds very similar to the Antikythera mechanism, but that the Eye of God was in working condition, though the editor didn’t think it really did anything. I trust my friend, but I may have opened a can of worms by letting him in on our secret. I am going to need to come up with a reason for giving up on the research.”
“You made the right move. This is exactly what our client wants to know. It will help justify our fee and keep him happy while I continue to look for Mickey’s killer. Oh, and that reminds me, I meant to call you yesterday. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I asked another friend to look into it as well.”
“Really? You doubted me.” He sounded a little hurt, but mostly curious.
“His name is Bobby. He's a strange little guy who rented me my current office. He wanted to help on the case, so I thought I would throw him a bone. I don’t expect him to have any luck, but I wanted you to know. He is an annoying little fellow, but is starting to grow on me.”
“You are a kind man, Henry Wood. I'd like to meet Bobby, and I'll bring him up to speed on what I've found. Make him feel like part of the team.”
“Yo
u’re aces, Prof. Pop by the office later, and I'll introduce you.”
Henry almost made a call to Dr. Schaeffer, but thought better of it. It was still pretty early, so it could wait. Starting off the day with a little good news helped his hangover.
Chapter Forty-Three
Patrick had been filling boxes for a couple of hours. The radio's volume was barely audible, not much more than white noise. Humming to himself, he applied the packing tape. He had done a lot of soul searching and was at peace with his decision to get out of the business. Maybe he would try painting something not painted before or…perhaps not. It might be nice just to sleep, drink, and wile away the hours.
The phone, under a box, gave a muted ring.
“Yes?”
“I have the final location finished. When will the showings begin?”
“I'll have a schedule delivered to you tomorrow.”
There was a click on the other end, which Patrick liked. Short, to the point, and once the question was answered, done. He continued to pack as he thought about how he would word the invites for the viewing. Short and sweet, a quick review of the process, though it wasn’t necessary, as they had all been through his auctions. He would start with Dr. Schaeffer, as he was always polite, which Patrick appreciated. Then he would invite Andre Garneau, who was seldom polite, usually annoying, and such a pain, he wanted to get him out of the way. Mr. Brown, sadly, had passed.
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