Henry Wood Detective: Boxed Set (Books 1 - 4)

by Brian Meeks

  The rain was still falling though it had slowed. Henry walked up the street to the spot where he had crossed from the sidewalk. He stood there. The emptiness was out of place. He looked up and down the street. The rest of the street was lined with cars bumper to bumper. This spot was just five cars behind where Mickey had parked. Henry looked down at the pavement. A tiny stream of rainwater passed across the middle of the spot. Against the rear tire of the car in front, water was pooling. Henry looked closer.

  A small wet pile of cigarette butts gathered between the edge of the tire and the curb. Henry walked up the street a ways. The rest of the gutter was wiped clean from the hard rain. Somebody had been sitting in their car smoking, and, by the number of cigarettes, they had been there a long time. This wasn't a hit and run. It was murder.

  Henry's hand went to his coat pocket just to check that Mickey's notebook was still there. He pulled out his own notebook, counted the wet butts, and noted it. He counted the number of cars parked on the street and wrote down the license plates of the ones surrounding Mickey's car.

  Henry walked home slowly. Mickey's words followed him: “Life is short; do what you love; and never have regrets.” Mickey said this while placing a bet on a horse. He lost the bet but loved the action. “All women are trouble except for one. The hard part is finding the one.” This was the wisdom Mickey passed along after Henry had gotten the first letter. It hadn't made him feel any better. In fact, it made him feel worse. “Pain is sweetest when it's from a crazy and beautiful girl.” This was sort of said, sort of slurred while Mickey was drowning his sorrows after his longtime, part-time love interest had finally given up on him.

  Now he was gone. Henry was filled with regret at not having stayed in touch. He knew Mickey wouldn't approve of his feelings and would likely say, "Don't cry for me; drink a toast and be done with it. Plus, crying is for girls or guys who are drunk. And you aren't drunk yet."

  Henry wasn't drunk though he wanted to be. He wished he had drank more vodka earlier in the evening. The ten-block walk home wasn't long enough. He went right past the stairs to his apartment and continued on into the city night. The last few hours had been devastating.

  "Damn you, Kat!" he said out loud and regretted it soon after. He hadn't said her name in years and had fought off the temptation earlier when he was wallowing in self-pity. She snuck past his lips, and the sound of her name ripped through him.

  Katarina, who had been named for Katherine the Great, by her mother who loved history. She was well liked by Mickey. He often told Henry to stop being her friend and start being a man. Henry never listened and had let her slip away without ever telling her how he felt. He had assumed she knew, but how would she have known? Now Mickey was gone, and her memory was back.

  He wandered into the diner. It was 4 am, and Becky was there as she always seemed to be. She had aged some since he last saw her, but her smile was still a comfort. "Henry Wood, good to see you. I just put a pot of coffee on. I'll have a plate of eggs and toast up for you in a jiffy." Nothing much had changed here, and it felt like an old, warm blanket around Henry's shoulders.

  Henry hung his coat on the hook by the door and shook the rain off his hat and set it on the counter. The sound of the coffee cup being set in front of him was like the bell at a boxing match. It was time to get to work. Round one was beginning. Henry flipped open Mickey's notebook.

  * * *

  Across town, in a dimly lit room, a figure sat alone in a high backed chair. The fireplace sent warmth throughout the room as the solitary figure stared into the flames, wondering where the years had gone. The hair, no longer blond, but more of a stately gray, still looked good. The eyes, piercing blue, saw more than most. They saw the possibilities, the future… a different world.

  On the coffee table, next to the Tiffany lamp, a copy of Plutarch's Moralia was opened to a favorite passage. The cup of tea was cold, barely touched. In the hallway, the muffled sound of a door knocker bounced off the walls. The figure didn’t move to answer the door, as it was beneath him to do so. There were other people for such tasks.

  The delicate footsteps of Mrs. Hock could be heard coming from the kitchen.

  There were whispers at the door, then two sets of footsteps approached and stopped. A pause, and then the door slowly opened and a shaft of light crept across the floor, not wanting to be a bother.

  “Herr Doctor, Mr. Mauer has arrived. He apologizes for the lateness of the hour, but he would like to give you an update.”

  Hans Mauer, a six-foot-three-inch block of granite, was light on his feet and surprisingly stealthy, when it was a necessity. He had been with Dr. Schafer for eight years. Hans was often given tasks which most people would find menial, but he never appeared to mind. He would go to the grocery for Mrs. Hock, mostly because she was the scariest five-foot-four-inch German woman he had ever met. He was sure she could stare down a Panzer division with nothing but a rolling pin and her angry face.

  Hans also served as a foil for Dr. Schaeffer when he needed to play some chess. Mostly, though, he would stand behind his boss on those rare occasions when he was out in public or conducting business. Dr. Schaeffer was quite sure people were far less likely to try to cheat him when Hans was in tow. He was right. Hans was a jack of all trades.

  The doctor stood and greeted Hans warmly. "How are you tonight, my friend?"

  “I'm fine, Doctor. I apologize for the late hour, but I had a number of things to take care of and it took much longer than I anticipated.” Hans shook the doctor's hand and took the other seat in front of the fire. They spent many hours here talking, planning, or sometimes just enjoying silence.

  “I hope my request wasn't too much of an inconvenience. It was a necessity, however, and I do appreciate your efforts.”

  Hans took out a piece of folded paper. He read it once, checking for errors in spelling, though he knew there wouldn't be any opportunity to fix them, should he find any problems. Dr. Schaeffer, an incredibly precise man, demanded perfection of himself, but wasn't as critical of those around him. He couldn't imagine anyone being as precise as him, and, as such, always expected flaws. Hans was exceptional, however, and frequently surprised Dr. Schaeffer. On these occasions, he would stop, look at Hans, and then genuinely express his gratitude.

  Hans handed the neatly folded piece of paper to his boss. He read it slowly, then stood and placed it in the fire. They both watched it burn, and said nothing until Mrs. Hock returned with a bottle of Pierre Ferrand cognac.

  “Will you join us Mrs. Hock?” asked the doctor, as he always did. Mrs. Hock declined, as it wouldn't be proper.

  The two men sat with the brandy snifters in their hands, slowly warming the liquor, and staring into the fire.

  Life was good for both of these men. But it's man's nature to want more. They each had dreams, which neither shared entirely, but could sense in the other.

  The flames began to die down. Hans stood and gave the doctor a nod, then saw himself out. The doctor, as was his custom on many nights, drifted off in his favorite chair.

  Hans turned up the collar on his overcoat and walked through the cold early morning streets, thinking about what was beginning. He would not be able to sleep for several more hours, he knew it, so he did what came naturally. He walked.

  CHAPTER 5

  At 4:00 a.m. a massive man in a silk robe began his routine. Andre Garneau, a man of inherited means, was, by most accounts, a bastard. Those who called him such, were usually people who didn't know him well, or were naturally predisposed to being charitable. It was likely that if Monsieur Garneau were asked, he, too, would have considered himself a bastard, and would likely have answered with a hint of pride in his voice.

  A French maid in an embarrassingly short skirt and silk stockings ran a warm bath in the claw-foot bathtub. She made her exit when the tub was full lest she witness him disrobing. She made his bed, laid out his attire for the morning, and then went to help or, more accurately, hide in the kitchen with the cook. Upo
n hearing the thundering sounds of Andre's massive feet descending the stairs, she would sneak up the back stairs to start her day’s cleaning. Most of the rest of the day, the outfit which left little to the imagination was only seen by the chauffeur, and then it was often lying on the floor.

  His name was Claude. He had been the driver for five years and found the perks of his job were worth the grief given by his employer. Claude was tall, painfully handsome, not so bright, and completely devoid of ambition. He was exactly the type of person which Monsieur Garneau liked to surround himself with. Andre was not a trusting person. He believed that those who possessed ambition and drive were, by their nature, crooks and thieves. Just to be sure, he paid them slightly more than they could find anywhere else. He considered it a cheap insurance policy against loss and change, two things he abhorred.

  At precisely 5:30 a.m., Andre was joined by his personal assistant, just as he was finishing his breakfast. Arthur, a Brit who grew up in Paris, was the only staff member who didn’t live in the king's castle, but maintained his own tiny apartment a few blocks away. He was also the only royal subject who was able to say “no” to the rotund tyrant. Arthur was an artist who found that starving didn't coexist well with his love of gourmet food.

  He had met Andre on a day which was unusual for two reasons. One, Andre was visiting a Parisian gallery showing a minor artist, something he rarely did. In general, Andre would only leave his abode for the topmost luminaries of the art world. The second reason the day was unusual was because Andre’s mood could have been described as “joyful.”

  The two men struck up a conversation about art, which soon led to dinner, two bottles of wine…and an invitation to become Andre's personal assistant.

  Arthur put down his brushes and picked up a silver fork.

  The name Andre Garneau was known throughout the art world. In less than a decade, he had built both one of the most impressive collections on display in a Manhattan home, and a second collection which was tucked away in a private room and never shown to anyone. This second collection contained works which were often purchased from people who had acquired them by unsavory means. Andre's paranoia about being cheated made him cautious, but since he was also born sans conscience, he never inquired as to how a work was obtained. If a painting or sculpture's provenance could be proven, then Andre could be counted upon to pay well, by black market standards, in order to secure the treasure.

  As Andre soaked in the tub this day, he thought about his latest quest. It would be the prize of his secret collection, and each time he thought about placing it among his other treasures, his heart started to race. The community of serious art collectors was a small one, and the subset who also maintained “private” collections was even more exclusive. Monsieur Garneau's collection was among the finest of the shadow collectors, but it was not the undisputed premier collection.

  That distinction went to a ghost, known by the moniker “Falcon.” The Falcon would swoop in and pluck the finest morsels from the best underground private auctions, via phone. He worked through brokers who never met him, either. The Falcon was known for having platinum credit. He paid promptly, usually in precious metals or diamonds, and it was rumored that his pockets were so deep that, were one to drop a coin into them, it would fall for days.

  Andre relaxed in the warm water and imagined the envy the Falcon would feel when he learned he’d been bested.

  The ringing of a tiny silver bell indicated that breakfast was nearly ready. Andre pulled himself out of the bath, dried himself, and got dressed. For such a large man, he did have an impeccable sense of fashion. The last part of his pre-breakfast routine was to brush his hair and check the mirror for any follicle which might dare be out of place. His hair feared him almost as much as the staff and rarely misbehaved.

  The kitchen smelled of bacon, eggs, toast, and various pastry goodies. A bakery two blocks north would deliver a dozen delectable items each morning, exactly five minutes before the tiny bell was rung. The quality of the pastry had been so pleasing to Andre's palate that he had commissioned twelve items per day, anything the bakery wished to create.

  The pastry chef was the only person who Andre truly respected. He called him the “Caravaggio of the croissant.” Over the previous five years, Andre had politely given feedback, mostly positive, about each of their daily creations. He was fair, kind, and incredibly detailed in his pastry editorials. Each night, Andre would write a one page note to the chef. It would be given to the delivery boy, who treated it as if it were a Dead Sea Scroll. The boy, careful not to wrinkle or crease the note in any way, then delivered it to his boss. Andre's insights into the sugary treats were so profound that the pastry chef took each comment as if it had come from a holy pastry monk.

  Arthur arrived on time. He took a seat across from Andre, as was his daily custom, and waited until he was asked for the progress report. The cook set a plate of sausage, eggs, and toast in front of Arthur. He would wait to eat until after he had given his report.

  Two minutes of relative silence later, Andre looked up, dabbed his face with his napkin, and gave Arthur a nod.

  “I have an update. You aren't going to like it.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Henry sat and nibbled at his breakfast. He was hungry, but distracted. He was heartsick at Mickey's untimely death. The internal motor that lay dormant most of the time started up, and his instincts began to crowd out the pain. He would focus on finding Mickey's killer. He could grieve later.

  The notebook he lifted from Mickey would take time. He looked at the chicken scratches, which sometimes resembled words, and gave a smile as he remembered an afternoon not long after he had been taken under Mickey's wing. Traffic was horrible in midtown that day. Mickey was trying to get to a building adjacent to Central Park. He had a client who lived there and would let him park in the building when he had business in the neighborhood. As it turned out, there was a long-legged, twenty-something blonde who had been promoted from secretary to the wife of an elderly oil tycoon, who might be showing up at the same building.

  The oil tycoon suspected, or more aptly, assumed it was likely, she was having an affair. They had been married for two years, and though she still looked good on his arm, her youth and general stupidity had taken their toll on his affection for her. Two years older, wiser, and closer to his final carriage ride, the gentleman had started to think about his legacy. He hired Mickey to get proof that she was stepping out on him.

  “Everything alright, honey?” Becky asked as she filled up Henry’s cup of coffee.

  Henry smiled. "Just thinking about a friend."

  “I noticed the smile on your face. First one of the morning I've seen.” She gave him a wink and went to take the order of a young couple who were holding hands in the corner booth.

  Henry looked at the notebook and fell back into his interrupted memory.

  “Hey kid, you payin’ attention?! The devil’s in the details!" Mickey had hollered at him as they parked the car. Henry remembered him always asking if he was listening.

  Henry hung on every word.

  They walked across the street to the park. Mickey handed Henry the notebook and said, “Read me what I’ve written there.”

  Henry couldn't make out a single coherent sentence. It seemed to be all gibberish.

  “The reason you can't read it is I have my own sort of shorthand. It’s like a code. Do you know why I do that?”

  Henry chuckled to himself as he remembered his answer.

  “Because you're nuts?” He had said it sort of sheepishly, with a hint of confusion, and a smidgen of annoyance.

  Mickey had laughed hard and long. But then he said that it was because he had a reputation for keeping secrets. Clients liked to know that their business stayed their business. He went on to explain how he had developed his shorthand over the years, sometimes using code words, other times a substitution cipher, and on occasion drawing a tiny picture which would remind him of something.

 
Henry looked back at the notebook and flipped through the last three pages. He could tell the previous case had ended four pages before, as the writing stopped halfway, had two bold lines drawn across it, and a lengthy number below them. Those numbers, actually just the middle five, could be found on a file folder in a locked cabinet in Mickey's office. Mickey always wrote a detailed report, mostly for himself, and filed it after the case was done. Those reports were in plain English.

  Mickey was not eloquent in his writing, but he was thorough. The problem, as Henry saw it, was that Mickey never updated the files until after the case was closed. Henry hadn't seen him in a while, so it was possible he had changed his ways, but Henry suspected that the adage about “old dogs and new tricks” made it unlikely. Still, he would check the office later today, just to be sure.

  The persistent memory returned as Henry was fishing out some bills to pay the receipt Becky had set by his plate.

  Mickey and Henry had bought a newspaper. They were sitting on a bench. It gave them a view of the building where the suspected wayward blonde might be stopping off to meet a roguishly good-looking janitor from Cuba. Mickey had sketched a hand palm, a rectangle 217, and a football in his notebook, followed by “10 J 14 15 4 20 over/under 84 and chain.” After Mickey had asked Henry what it meant and then made him go buy two hot dogs from the vendor, he explained each part.

  “The palm reminds me of a cop directing traffic. So it means “stop”. The rectangle is a building and 217 the number. I usually remember the street, so I don't include it. The point is to take enough notes so I'm able to recreate a mental picture. The football is not really a football, but it looks like one, so it might fool people. To me, it looks like an eyeball, so it means 'watch'. Next is the client's name. ‘Jones’ is coded using the alphabet 1 - 26 as a substitution cipher. But I get clever. The first letter is J, and is a 10. That is how I know where I started. Then the next number is a 14, which is actually one number above the letter I really want. If someone tries to just do the substitution, they get the letter ‘N,’ not the letter ‘O’. The next number will be one below the letter I really want. It goes back and forth until I finish the name.