by Brian Meeks
“No idea at all.”
Henry had his answer. A theory was beginning to form, but he was a long way from figuring out where to find the next clue. He needed to get the journal to the district attorney and find the key that would unravel its contents. He was sure something in this house would point him in the right direction. In his mind, there was only one question: would he be able to spot it? He decided to head back to Mr. Culberson's office and take a closer look at the books. Every clue had been subtle; it seemed reasonable that trend would continue. He would need to talk to Winston.
CHAPTER 22
Henry walked briskly through the house towards the office. Sylvia had difficulty keeping up. The moment he crossed into the office, he stopped and scanned everything, hoping to let the room tell him where to go next. The room wasn't at all talkative. He turned to his left and started to read the titles one by one. Mr. Culberson's methodology was to group his books by subject and, within each subject, arrange the books alphabetically. It was very much a library.
There was a massive section on chess and next to it a section on puzzles. Henry stopped, sure that the puzzle he was unraveling must have a clue within these volumes. He pulled each book off the shelf, flipped through it, and looked for anything out of the ordinary. Sylvia watched him for a while until her curiosity finally got the best of her and she asked, “What are you looking for?”
Henry had forgotten he wasn't alone and realized she might be able to help. “I am not sure, but I think there may be a clue here that will help…” He paused before he finished as he hadn't been entirely truthful with Miss Culberson. She had hired him and paid him well to find the journal, which he had done, and now he needed to make a decision. He continued, “Sylvia, can I trust you?”
She thought the question was rather strange. “Yes, why would you think you couldn't?” She backed up, sensing there was something going on, something she might not like. “Have you found the journal?!” Sylvia demanded.
Henry sensed he was walking a fine line. He knew that he needed Sylvia. He couldn't let her fly off into a rage, so he must choose his words carefully. He started with, “I have learned something about your father. Please sit down.”
“Have you found the journal? I paid you well. I demand to know what you are up to! Can you trust me?! The nerve. Can I trust you?” She was now in a rage.
It became apparent that Henry had done a poor job of choosing his first words. Henry was nothing if not quick on his feet. He took two steps towards her and tightened up his face. “Listen here, sweetheart, I found your story to be thin, very thin. I have seen dames like you, and you are all alike. You can either park your cute little butt in that chair and listen to what I have to say or you can go to hell and try to find your father on your own!”
This change in approach hit the mark. She was stunned by the last bit and stammered, “Did you say find my father?” She seemed unsteady. Henry helped her to the couch. She was calmer now, so Henry lowered his voice.
“Yes. I don't believe he was killed in the lab. I don't have any proof, and I probably shouldn't have gotten your hopes up, but I needed you to listen,” he said and paused. She didn't say anything, so he continued, “First of all, I don't believe Mr. Alexander was keeping the journal about your father's business, but they were working together to code the journal to keep it a secret.”
This didn't make any sense to Sylvia. She asked, “They were working together? Why would an accountant need my father's help?“
“The next part may be hard to understand, perhaps impossible, but I believe that Mr. Alexander had discovered some information, some proof if you will, that would bring down one of the city's most dangerous criminals. I think that your father and Mr. Alexander were planning to turn the journal over to the DA when someone found out what they were doing. They are both smart men and realized the danger. I believe they may have staged the explosion. It was then…” Henry stopped when he heard the footsteps in the hall.
Sylvia was stunned but immediately filled with hope. She didn't understand why he had stopped talking as she hadn't heard the footsteps. “Yes, go on. It was then, what?”
“Winston is coming,” Henry said.
“Oh, you can trust Winston; he has been with the family since we moved here.” She stood up and ran out to Winston, “Henry thinks that father may still be alive!” she said with glee.
Winston remained unfazed. He looked at Henry and said, “You are as clever as Mr. Culberson had hoped.”
Sylvia looked shocked. “You knew! Winston!” She was angry but also thrilled, “It is true then?” She was almost shouting.
“Miss Culberson, you must lower your voice. I will try to explain.”
Henry let Winston explain as he went back to the stacks. He went through each of the puzzle books until it occurred to him that perhaps Winston knew where the next clue was. “Winston, do you have a message for me?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Culberson told me to let you know that he was very interested in animals of late.”
“That is the message?” Henry said. He had hoped for more but wasn’t surprised by the message’s cryptic nature. Undaunted, he continued through the stacks until he found a section on the animal kingdom. There were dozens of books. A few books in, Henry noticed that these weren't in alphabetical order by author but were ordered by species, starting with 'Aardvark Studies,' and ending with a thick book about zebras. It seemed that the section contained all the books that had anything to do with animals, fiction and non-fiction combined. Next to the book on beavers was a book on cows then a book about crows.
Henry paused. Could that be the clue as a group of crows are called a murder? He asked himself. He opened it and flipped through the pages. If the clue was there, he didn't get it. Henry continued looking. The Tage Frid clue was one that only he would understand, so he expected the next clue would be similar. It was. A book entitled, 'Fox Habits,' was sitting to the right of a book 'A Gaggle of Geese.' It was out of order by just one book but that, combined with the last present from the closet, meant it had to be the book.
Henry opened to the title page and read the inscription.
CHAPTER 23
Henry pulled out of the drive, the book resting on the passenger seat and the Four Knights' 'I Get So Lonely,' playing on the radio. The steering wheel was cold, really cold, but Henry didn't even notice. His gloves were in his pocket, all warm and napping, just waiting to get in the game. In his mind, he was laying out the cards that had been dealt, looking them over and searching for patterns. It was obvious, at this point, his hand was weak.
Henry reached down and flipped through the radio stations. Frankie Laine & Jimmy Boyd's 'Tell Me A Story' seemed appropriate, so he stopped searching. Snow began to fall again. The wiper blades seemed to be keeping time. It was one thing to know that one was on the right path; it was an entirely different thing to know where that path was heading. Henry stood on the metaphorical path. It was a maze. Though he knew the 'Goal' was to end up in the DA's office with the journal and key in hand, he wasn't sure where to turn next. Henry was sure of one thing: if he weren’t careful and got lost in the maze, it could be deadly.
The cityscape changed. He crossed the bridge, and the buildings grew and the traffic thickened. Whether it was paranoia or his aching ribs, Henry kept checking his mirrors. He had a feeling he was being watched from the moment he left the bridge and arrived in the city. Left, right, left, right, right and left put him back on course. He didn't see anyone, but the feeling of being watched persisted.
Henry pulled up to the address on the back of Bobby's card. Henry couldn't believe it. He stood looking up at the Flatiron Building at 23rd Street, famous for its triangular shape and its responsibility for the saying, 'Twenty-three skidoo.' The draft from the height and shape of the building had, after the completion in 1902, caused women's skirts to fly up, which meant the local constables had to “skidoo” the men who hung out for a peek. Henry had always hated right angles. He loved a
room with character and had always been curious to see the inside of this famous address. For a moment, Henry forgot about his sore ribs, the business card from the future, and the general feeling of being watched.
He walked into the building, climbed the stairs to the third floor, and started down the hall. The numbers got larger as he walked. There it was at the end of the hall: office 309. It would have the window looking out from the point of the triangle. He hadn't called ahead as he wanted to check the place out without Bobby yammering on. Henry reached down and found the door unlocked. He opened it slowly and walked in.
“Hey, Mr. Wood, I am so glad you decided to check the place out. It really suits you. Don't you love the building? You know, the phrase, 'Twenty-three skidoo' is because of the Flatiron building?”
“Bobby,” Henry said, momentarily startled, “Yes, I did know that. What are you…”
“I had a feeling you would be coming over today. I mean, you can't work for too long without an office, can you? You need to find a place fast, and this place is perfect for you. Here, look around. There is plenty of space out here in the waiting room for a secretary and a desk, and the office is fantastic - here take a look. I know you will love it.” Bobby opened the door and held it. Henry walked through, and it was, indeed, perfect for him. He wasn't about to let Bobby know.
Bobby, a seasoned realtor, was better at reading poker faces than Henry was at wearing one. “I knew it! You do love it. It's perfect for you. You don't have a secretary do you? I know a woman who would be fantastic. She is blonde, types 85 words a minute, and has legs that go on for miles. I can get you her number if you like. Should I get the rental contract?” he asked and presumably took a breath. Henry thought it was possible that Bobby could talk for hours without stopping or breathing. Henry didn't answer.
He walked around the room, stopping at the window to look down on the street. The room felt like a fortress, which was comforting. He turned around and looked at Bobby who stood silently, a feat Henry would have guessed was beyond his abilities. Short, Henry guessed about five feet, and stout. He wore an old overcoat and a somewhat worn hat and had a notebook in one pocket and a racing form peeking out of the other. His round face seemed honest, even kind, but his constant chatter made him annoying. Henry stared at Bobby, sizing him up, looking for a clue. Who was this guy? Where did he come from? Why did Sylvia have one of Henry's cards with this address on it? Why was he wearing a coat indoors?
The room was silent; the flow of chatter out of Bobby had completely ceased. After 30 seconds, it became uncomfortable for Henry. He expected Bobby to start blathering at any moment, but he didn't. He was mute. Finally, Henry decided he wanted to try something and said, “It is ok, but I was wondering if you have anything else in the building, maybe on a different floor?”
“Nope, the building is full; this is the only office available. Shall I get the paperwork?” he responded. He was concise and to the point. This also surprised Henry. He couldn't get a read on Bobby.
Henry said, “I think I would like to think about it for a while.”
Bobby, now a paragon of brevity, said, “Why?”
Henry knew he was outmatched. He turned and looked out the window as he didn't want the little man to see his smile. He liked Bobby despite his chatter. Henry thought it best to keep that from the strange, little man. He also liked the office and, since taking the place seemed to be in the cards, he decided not to fight it. “I'll take it.”
Bobby made a strange noise, which might have been laughter, Henry wasn't sure. “Great, I have the contract in my office. I knew you would love the place; it is a great building. Oh, you know what? I almost forgot to tell you the best part, aside from being next to the greatest deli in the world, the best part is that my office is right down the hall! We will be neighbors. I know you will love it here. The other tenants are great except for old man Conner, but don't you worry about him. He keeps to himself. I will get the paper work. I will be right back.” He scurried out of the room. Silence seemed to hesitantly creep back in, not sure if it was ok.
Henry didn't know how Sylvia had gotten one of his business cards, which he had yet to print. He didn't know why it was important he have this office. All he knew was that, like it or not, he had a new friend. From down the hallway, the sound of papers being shuffled, a door creaking as it closed, and someone's radio playing Tony Bennett's hit ‘From Rags to Riches’ seemed to say Henry was on the right path.
CHAPTER 24
The traffic was bad enough that Henry was stopped on the Brooklyn Bridge. He had the window down despite it being winter and 15 degrees out. He was burning: burning with rage, mad at himself, and disgusted that he hadn't considered the ramifications of disappearing to his secret house. Since the office was burnt down and his ribs were bruised by Tommy's boys, he had been available to no one. Luna was safely tucked away in his house, and he had made sure not to contact any of his pals except Mike.
He thought about Mike, though he didn't want to. He wanted to think about something else. The sky looks inky blue, Henry thought. No, no, it isn't; it isn't inky blue at all. It is a bruised and battered blue and purple and black. Everything he looked at reminded him of Mike. Henry had been calling into the precinct daily and updating Mike about the case. They had decided not to get the journal until the mystery about the code had been worked out.
The newspapers were writing and speculating about where Mr. Alexander was, how he was connected to Tommy 'The Knife,' and if Tommy was losing a grip on his organization. A rival family smelled blood and almost spilled a bit of Tommy's. An attempt had been made, but he had escaped unharmed although five of his boys had not been so lucky. Tommy had immediately retaliated and a pizza parlor with 12 patrons, three of whom were rival thugs, had paid the price. The mayor wanted answers, the police chief worried there was more to come, and the criminal element in the Big Apple was working overtime to find Henry, Mr. Alexander, and the now infamous journal.
Henry knew hiding Luna was a good idea. He thought that hiding himself seemed reasonable, too. What he hadn't counted on was the brutal message Tommy would deliver through Mike. Sometime late last night, a handful of guys grabbed Mike as he was getting home from working the night shift. They beat him with bats and left him on the front step of his place. Two hours later, he was barely alive. He couldn't even make it up the stairs. The giant of a man just lay there bleeding and broken.
Sally Mae was the one to find Big Mike. She was 11 years old and small for her age. She lived next door to Big Mike and adopted him the day he stopped the neighborhood kids from teasing her. From that moment on, if Mike was out on a Saturday walking to the market or talking with the neighbors, Sally Mae would be close by asking him questions and generally worshiping him. Sally Mae didn't know her father; like so many fathers, he had perished on Omaha beach.
When Sally Mae saw Mike, she let out a cry that stopped the neighborhood. Though the ambulance drivers wouldn't let her ride to the hospital with him, nobody had the heart to say she couldn't go with the police officers who followed behind. She sat in the back of the car and sobbed the entire way. It was the most heartbreaking thing either of the officers had ever heard. They could tell she was trying not to, but she just couldn't stop herself. When they arrived at the hospital, she sat in the waiting room, head down, weeping into her hands. She didn't stop until they wheeled Mike out of surgery and into his room. Her mother, the nurses, and even the police chief had all tried to make her feel better, but she just sobbed.
Henry had arrived just as Mike was being wheeled into the room, which was guarded by two officers. He saw Sally Mae run to the door, stop, take a deep breath, wipe the tears from her eyes, and put a smile on her face. She was being brave for Mike. Neither officer made a move to stop her; they just watched as she went in and gently placed her hand in Mike's. In a tiny voice, without so much as a tremble, she said, “I will take care of you. It is going to be all right.” Mike did not hear her; he wasn't conscious yet. Henr
y thought it was a small blessing. He was sure Mike would have felt more pain at seeing Sally's little face than he ever felt from the beating.
The traffic picked up slightly and Henry eased the car forward. He thought about Mike. He thought about little Sally Mae and her brave face. He thought about the words Mike had struggled mightily to get out after regaining consciousness. “You were right. Important…don't stop now.” Henry assumed he was referring to there being someone in the department who was on the take. He didn't know who, and Mike had succumbed to the pain killers before Henry could ask. He didn't think Mike was in any further danger. Tommy had been trying to send a message, which he had done.
The traffic now moved along nicely, and the lights of the city cast a dim orange glow across the sky. Night was in full swing by the time Henry arrived home. Henry was relieved to find Luna was safe and sound. He filled her in on the day, and they sat and talked and didn't talk. They mostly just sat. Just before bed, Henry went downstairs and checked the closet. It was filled with goodies. He laid them on his bench and looked at them. They must be clues. He was too tired to figure it out, though. He flipped off the light switch and went upstairs to bed.
CHAPTER 25
Captain Donnelley had worked his way up from beat cop. He had been a detective for 12 years, then promoted to captain. When word came down about Mike, he cancelled all time off and mobilized every man in the precinct. It wasn't just an attack on one of their own; it was on one of their best and most loved. The squad room was packed and buzzed with the din of anger and speculation. Donnelley wasn't much on making speeches, but he liked listening to a good one. In the captain's mind, a good speaker is a man to be respected. He considered it his great weakness because the right words can move men to push themselves beyond their best, to something unstoppable. This was a time when he needed to get it right.