by Brian Meeks
His tiny office, a converted bedroom, had a desk by De Coene Freres with four simple drawers and tapered legs, also of black lacquer and sitting on nickel feet. Next to the desk was a Manik Bagh side table designed by Eckart Muthesius.
In short, he lived in a shrine to the years between the two wars. They were his happiest days, his youth, and though he grew up poor, he was too happy to notice. WWII ended his bliss.
Hans had showered, shaved, put on his dressing robe, and made a light breakfast, though it was well past noon. Two cups of coffee later, after having read the paper he picked up on the walk home, he washed the plate and silverware and put them away. He washed and dried the coffee cup and returned it to its place amongst the others, which never got used. He dressed in a tailored suit and picked out a tie with a small amount of blue in it. Before he left, he went to his desk, opened a journal, and wrote on a piece of note paper his tasks for the day. He hadn’t sat at the desk, but chose instead to stand, so as not to break the crease in his pants.
It took less than thirty minutes to walk to the Flatiron building. He climbed the steps and entered the hallway. Hans noted the numbers on the door, and he surmised that the office in question was at the far end of the hall. One door, on his right, opened slightly as he walked past. He gave a quick glance and saw a small man peering through the gap at him.
He was glad it wasn't this man that he was there to see.
The glass on the door read “Henry Wood Detective Agency”. He tried the handle, but it appeared to be locked. He looked at his pocket watch and noted that it was still business hours. Strange that there wasn't a secretary, at the very least, during the day.
Perhaps this Henry Wood isn’t going to be up to the job, he thought.
He would give the detective fifteen minutes to return. He was quite prepared to go see the next detective on his list. The reputation of Mr. Wood was excellent, but Hans found this little inconvenience intolerable.
* * *
Henry noticed the man waiting outside his door as he strode down the hall.
I really need to get a girl to manage the office, he thought as he walked down the hall. For years he hadn't been able to afford to hire anyone, but that wasn't the case now. After years of saving, he was finally comfortable, and who knew how many clients he was losing while he was out on a case. Henry decided he would add it to his list, and give it priority, especially since he was sure that his current case would be keeping him busy.
Henry had no idea how long the man had been waiting. Bobby popped out of his office and walked towards the stairs. As he passed by Henry, Bobby whispered, “He has been there for about ten minutes. I don't trust him.”
Henry didn't say anything, but tipped his hat towards Bobby, in lieu of a “thanks”.
“Hello, sir! I apologize for the inconvenience. I had to step out briefly.” Henry opened the door and showed the man inside.
“My name is Hans. I’m looking for someone with your skills to do some...research.”
“That sounds like something for a grad student. What type of research?” Henry motioned for him to follow him into his office and offered to make some coffee. Hans declined.
Hans took a seat, when offered, and then asked if he could smoke. Henry nodded and held up a lighter. Hans offered one of his imported cigarettes to Henry, which he accepted.
Hans said, “You would not be working for me directly, but for my employer. He prefers anonymity, though you will meet him, if your services prove to be right for the job.”
Henry listened and smoked.
“My employer is a very wealthy man who enjoys the finer things in life. A piece of art, or more aptly, a piece of history, is going to be made available for sale, and he is interested in buying it.”
“That is interesting: he collects art. Where do I come in?”
“If we decide to hire you, we will require you to look into the seller and the item. It will be very expensive and caution must be taken. My employer does not wish to purchase a fake.”
“I can find out anything you want to know about a person, but what makes you think I'm qualified to authenticate art? I'm not an art historian. Surely there are men more qualified than me to determine the authenticity of some old painting?”
“The object is not a painting…but that isn't important. What is of concern to my employer is that the object actually exists. We only require that you learn a little about the seller and verify that the object is as described. If it's determined that this object does exist, and my employer wishes to participate in the sale, he will be given an opportunity to have an expert authenticate the piece.”
“Who is the seller?” Henry took out his notebook and prepared to take notes.
Hans took a long drag on the cigarette. “I'm not ready to hire you, Mr. Wood. I have a few questions, if you don't mind?”
Henry closed the notebook, leaned back in his chair, “I don't mind at all. Fire away.”
“How long have you been a private detective?”
“Almost thirteen years.”
Hans had known the answer, but wanted to see if Henry would exaggerate.
“Would you be able to commit to my employer with 100% of your time?”
Henry didn't have any other clients, nor did he want to be distracted from finding Mickey's killer, but his gut told him that Hans' employer might be on Mickey's list.
“I just finished up a case. I was going to take some time off, but I could handle this job first.”
“That is excellent. My employer is prepared to pay $10,000, plus daily expenses. He would require complete discretion. Do you work alone?”
Henry was quick on his feet. He knew that if this guy was involved in the case Mickey was working on, then he would need some help. “I have a couple of people who work with me, beating the bushes as it were. They can keep a secret, if that's what you mean.”
Hans thought for a moment. He had expected that this was a one-man shop. “I would need to meet your associates before I make a decision.”
Henry hadn't counted on this request. He bluffed.
“No problem…they'll both be back in town day after tomorrow.”
Hans thought about this. He had decided that Henry was the man for the job and really didn't want to wait. “I prefer to get started, as soon as possible… but I suppose one extra day will be fine. My employer is cautious, as I said, so shall we say noon?”
Henry set his cigarette in the ash tray, stood and extended his hand. “I'll see you then.”
CHAPTER 14
The icy cold shower seemed like a necessity.
Who killed Mickey? What had caused Katarina to show up after so many years? Had Marion changed her hair?
After an hour of getting ready, which was about thirty minutes longer than usual, Henry decided enough was enough. Slowly, his focus turned to the woman who haunted his dreams.
He reminded himself that she was just a friend. He had never told her how he felt; she would be expecting to dine with her buddy, not the lovesick guy who had followed her around like a puppy so many years before. He wasn't sure if he could even remember what being “lovesick” felt like anymore. Years of hardening his heart had made him immune to such foolishness, or at least…he hoped he was immune. Luna had tested his resolve not too long ago…
He imagined how the upcoming dinner might go as he sat at the kitchen table. Henry had left plenty of time, even with his extra fussing over the tie choice. He considered rereading her letters, but thought better of it. The best course of action, he thought, was to let her do most of the talking.
He had a plan.
Henry hailed a cab. It wasn't terribly far to the restaurant, but he was running on only a couple of hours sleep, and he had already done his fair share of walking today, so it didn't seem unreasonable.
He arrived fifteen minutes early, which would be thirty minutes before Katarina showed up “fashionably late.” Henry took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer.
There were
four Wall Street bankers smoking cigars at the far end of the bar. At a table nearby, two bubbly stewardesses were enjoying some drinks and batting their eyes at the bankers. About half of the tables were full. The waiters glided around the tables. It was much like Henry remembered, though he imagined it would have been busier. He considered how long it had been since his last visit. All those years ago… perhaps the steady crowd of diners had started to drop off. He decided to ask.
“Hey buddy, it seems a little slow tonight.”
The bartender, who was setting out some new martini glasses, looked up. “Yes, it is. But, it'll pick up in an hour or so.”
“I haven't been here in a few years. You still have the best steaks in town?”
“Yes, we do, sir,” he said with pride. “They are so tender that they melt in your mouth. Some say that when they take that first bite, they get a glimpse of heaven.”
Henry's mouth began to water.
The bankers and the stewardesses had moved to a larger table, gotten some more drinks, and been joined by two more stunning blonds. There was a lot of giggling from the ladies and winking from the guys.
No mystery there, Henry thought. While he nursed his beer, Henry resisted the urge to snap his head around each time the door opened. Instead, he found a good reflection of the front door in the bar mirror and kept his eyes peeled for her arrival.
When it was finally Katarina who walked through the door in a brilliant blue coat, it seemed that time slowed. He stopped staring and took a sip of beer.
He felt a light touch on his shoulder. “Henry Wood...”
A coolness came over him. He was confident and surefooted. This had never happened before, when she was around.
He stood up and gave her a light hug, more polite than anything. She hugged back with a moderately tight squeeze. They lingered, and then parted.
A waiter was waiting to show them to their table. Henry helped her off with her coat and handed it to someone nearby, who may or may not have worked at the restaurant.
Her dress was black and curvy. Henry couldn't help but say, “You look beautiful. The years have not only been kind…they have been complimentary.”
“Seeing you, makes the years melt away. It seems like just yesterday, we were at that diner."
Henry pulled out the chair for her and then took his own. A man lit the candle on their table and asked if they wanted anything to drink. Katarina ordered two martinis, the same way she had ordered them the last time they were there together. Henry wasn't sure, but he thought she might have been wearing the same earrings.
“Those were some good years,” he said, feeling that old familiar warmth.
Katarina reached out and took his hand. “My dear Henry, I did miss you.” She smiled, then let go of his hand when another waiter stopped with a pitcher of water. “It was a hard decision, leaving New York, but I had to. You know that.”
“What have you been up to over the last decade or so?”
“I went to visit my aunt in Wyoming after I got the news. I spent a couple of years losing myself in books. And then I got a message…that Paul was alive, hiding in Egypt.”
There it was…that old kick in the gut. He knew it well, it came to him each time she talked about her fiancé Paul. He had disappeared and been listed as missing in action. Henry had tried to console Katarina, but she was in denial, and decided she needed a change. Henry had always thought she would be back. When the record turned up eighteen months ago, he was sure she had returned, but when it was followed up with nothingness, the wound was opened, again.
He decided not to mention the record.
She took a sip of water, giving Henry a chance to speak.
He chose not to take it.
“I joined him in Cairo and found work in a gallery. You know how I love art.”
There it was again: art.
“Yes, I do.” Henry could see her ring finger was bare, without breaking eye contact. “So you married Paul, like you had planned?”
She shrugged. “Well, no, we hadn't known each other very long before he proposed. The war, life, and his own stupidity, took the luster away. We spent two years together in Cairo and then I moved on.”
Henry knew the emotions creeping up on him had been buried for many years. It was unsettling to have them surface and possibly, dangerous.
She took his hand again and looked into his eyes. “I should have stayed in New York – with you.”
Henry mustered a practiced confident, charming smile. He stared into her eyes with such depth that the rest of the restaurant seemed to fade away.
He didn't even notice the priest eating alone in the corner, or that he seemed to be watching them.
CHAPTER 15
Dr. Schaeffer and Hans had been enjoying some maultasche, a traditional Swabian dish made with an outer layer of pasta dough and filled with minced meat, a bit of smoked meat, bread crumbs, and onions. They look similar to Italian ravioli, but to Dr. Schaeffer, they were a reminder of his nanny's cooking when he was a boy.
The conversation was sparse, as both men were enjoying their meal, the beer, and Wagner playing in the background. They preferred to savor the food. The talk would come later.
To most people, the knock at the door would have gone unnoticed with Der Fliegende Hollander playing, but the exceptional ears of Dr. Schaeffer heard the three taps clearly. Soft feet treaded down the hallway, the door opened, and an envelope was handed to the woman. She said nothing, giving only a nod. The woman walked to the dining room and cleared her throat.
“Herr Doctor, a message.”
He motioned her over and received the envelope. “Ick danke Ihnen”. He didn’t read it.
“Hans, how was your day, my friend?”
“It was productive. I selected three possible candidates, though I must admit, even the most highly regarded one has an air of seediness about him. If there were more time, I might reject them all, but as it stands, Mr. Henry Wood seems our best choice. I'm to meet his associates at noon, day after tomorrow.”
“Did he strike you as the sort who can keep a secret?”
“Yes, I believe he can. I'm going to reserve final judgment until after the meeting. Tomorrow, I'll visit the other two candidates, as neither was available today.”
“That is excellent, Hans. I’m quite pleased. Now, let's see what the padre has to say.” Dr. Schaeffer stood up and went to the sideboard, opened the top drawer, and removed a silver letter opener. With surgical precision, he sliced the envelope open. Removing the letter, he sat back down. From his jacket pocket, he retrieved his reading glasses, set them on his nose, and began to read aloud.
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'm 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?”
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“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 16
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 baubles. 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.