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

by Brian Meeks

  He hung up the phone. His brain had reflexively suggested he dial the number and ask for help, but Mickey wasn't there. He was dead. He was really dead. Seeing his body hadn't done it, spending every waking moment thinking about finding his killer hadn't made it sink in; Henry had not reached the horrible realization until the pay phone told him the truth.

  The traffic, the car horns, the guy selling newspapers on the corner, all seemed loud and annoying. Henry crossed the street and caught a glimpse, in the chrome bumper of a bright green ‘52 Chevy, of three people behind him. He didn't turn around; he didn't need to. Henry walked for three more blocks. The windows told the tale: he was being tailed. It made him mad.

  Henry was about to make a serious effort at getting a cab, when he realized he was only a block away from the gallery. Earlier he had looked through the phone book and noticed a gallery owned by some French guy who sounded like he might be related to Henri Matisse. Henry figured that he could at least fake going there, as Henry liked Matisse's work. If one wanted to learn about the art community, go to a gallery. It seemed like a reasonable move.

  Henry opened the door and held it for a tiny blue-haired woman, who was leaving with a small painting carefully wrapped in brown paper. She smiled and thanked him. Her driver hopped out of the waiting black sedan, apologizing profusely for not having noticed she was coming out. There was a young couple admiring a sculpture in the corner. The rest of the gallery was empty, save for a gentleman behind a petite desk. The man, speaking with a thick French accent, was on the phone. He made brief eye contact with Henry, then returned to his conversation. Henry assumed that he had been sized up as a window shopper, which was true, so he didn't take offense.

  Ten minutes passed. The couple had left, and the gentleman, who Henry assumed was Pierre Matisse, the owner, was still talking, though he was now speaking only French. A large man walked in, and Pierre hung up the phone and greeted him. "Monsieur Garneau, so good to see you again. Twice in one week, it is an honor."

  They shook hands. "Yes my friend, I saw a couple of items which are not to my particular liking, but would be wonderful gifts. The people I'm buying for, well, their tastes are a bit...how should I say...unrefined."

  Pierre swallowed hard at the slight. "Of course, though we have many fine works, your tastes run to only the finest object d'art. I'm expecting a Klimt next week though, which you might find suitable to your taste. I was just speaking with the seller when you walked in."

  "Really? That would interest me. Do call me when it is available for a viewing."

  Pierre nodded politely.

  "I noticed the miniature Toulouse-Lautrec the other day. I think I would like it, along with the Rodin sculpture of Balzac."

  Henry couldn't believe his ears. It had to be Andre Garneau, and now Henry knew what he looked like, but he wouldn't be able to get a word in with the owner, so he slipped out of the gallery and decided to head over to see Father Patrick.

  Outside, across the street, the three guys stood smoking. If they hadn't been in front of a flower shop, they might have blended in, but the bright pink store front did little to help them look incognito. Henry didn't even glance in their direction; he wasn't ready to let it be known that he was onto them. He even crossed the street to be on the same side and to make it a bit easier for them.

  Henry walked for about three blocks, then began to imagine a figure, maybe more, sitting in a car, smoking, waiting for his friend. Now, he was angry. He hailed a cab, hopped in, and told the cabbie to step on it. The three shadows were caught off guard. Before they could get their own cab, Henry was out of sight.

  Henry tipped him an extra fiver for the quick footedness, and got out at the steps of the church. He walked inside and asked to see Father Patrick. An altar boy shuffled off to find him. Henry sat in the back. He didn't go to church often, and wasn't very religious. He considered saying a prayer, but he was still mad. Too mad to talk to God, so he just sat and watched the two people at the front lighting candles.

  CHAPTER 30

  The altar boy returned. "Father Patrick is with someone. He will be available in thirty minutes. Do you mind waiting?"

  "I don't mind." Henry didn't mind at all. Being followed, and followed so clumsily, offended him. The calm of the church and the solace it might bring was much needed…time to cool off.

  There was the faint sound of a choir practicing, though he couldn’t tell from where. No doubt in a room behind a door, but the beauty of their sound reached him and it was nice. The hint of music soothed his frayed edges. There were whispers accompanying soft footsteps. The sound of muted reverence steadied his uneasiness further. Henry was glad he came in to make the arrangements.

  The minutes passed by and soon Henry was being led towards the priest’s modest office. Father Patrick greeted him warmly and offered a cup of tea. Henry declined and took a seat. The office was sparsely decorated, which is to say, it was almost completely barren of personal items. The Bible, sitting open on a small table, had a suspicious, though barely perceivable, layer of dust on it. Clearly this holy book was not regularly used.

  The wall had but one painting. Likely painted by a young parishioner, the scene of the Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus was competently rendered. The desk lamp seemed lonely, with nothing to illuminate. The priest removed a small black appointment book from the drawer. It had a gold cross on it.

  The details for the funeral were straight forward. Henry’s calm was slipping away. The suspicions about Father Patrick returned. Henry guessed it had been the priest watching him at the restaurant. The office, which the father said he had been using for years, had an unsettling feel. It was too temporary. It occurred to Henry that if he had known Latin, he might test the padre’s knowledge of the Scripture, but then he would also needed to have read the Bible, so it probably wouldn’t have worked. Still, the man before him did seem to know how to make arrangements for the funeral. Perhaps Henry was being paranoid.

  The altar boy returned, lightly knocking on the open door. There was a gentleman waiting to give confession. Father Patrick stood, gave his condolences once more, and then shook Henry’s hand.

  Henry made his way up the stairs and walked towards the front of the church. The echo of a creaking noise caught Henry’s attention. He turned his head to the left. It was Andrea Garneau who was seeking absolution.

  Henry’s little voice in his head was musing. If I believed in coincidences, this one would be a doozie. Henry strolled outside, and the three leather coats were just getting out of a cab. Henry played it cool. He walked, and they followed.

  Two blocks, then a left, another block, and Henry stopped to buy a newspaper. He went for another fifty yards and casually turned into an alley. The moment he was around the corner, he backed up against the wall. A few seconds later the sound of hurried footsteps announced their arrival.

  “Hello, boys, whatchya doing?”

  The three of them stopped cold. The tall one could think on his feet, well sort of. “Nothing, daddio, just stretching out legs.” He tried to sound hip and cool, but failed in both regards. It just made Henry angrier, but he didn’t show it.

  “You sure seem like you were in a hurry. One could be forgiven for reaching the conclusion that you were following them. In fact, that is the very conclusion I've reached. Why are you following me?”

  The tall one took out a pack of Lucky Strikes, shook it, and pulled out a cigarette. He flicked his lighter, lighting it like he had practiced in front of a mirror. He took a long deep pull and then blew it out, towards, but not directly at, Henry. His voice tried to sound tough, but was a weak attempt at best. “So, what of it?”

  His buddies chuckled, which didn’t endear them to Henry. They would regret laughing.

  CHAPTER 31

  "Listen kiddo, me? I don't like being followed. In fact, I really hate being followed by amateurs; it’s insulting."

  The three leather jackets were pretty sure they had been put down, and Henry could se
e them replaying it in their heads, trying to find the slight.

  In a calm-before-the-storm tone, he asked, "Who do you work for?" They may not have been honor students, but his measured speech wasn't lost on them. What they didn't know was that Henry was in a foul mood and he wanted to punch a wall, but that would be unproductive.

  The tall one had one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette, and so was wide open. "Hey, pops, it's a free..." was all he managed before he crumpled to the ground.

  Henry leaned into the punch and caught him right under the rib cage. The calm was gone and the storm was ashore.

  Henry preferred clever word play to fisticuffs. He rarely carried a gun. He had been in his fair share of scuffles, though, and did some boxing in his youth, so he could take care of himself. The last time Henry was in a brawl, it was in a bar in upstate New York, but that was merely recreational.

  Henry stepped on the tall one's neck. The shorter chubby thug jumped back when his friend dropped; the one whose appearance hinted at weasel, froze. Henry's left arm shot forward and grabbed the weasel's neck. The weasel grabbed the arm attached to the hand crushing his windpipe. The look in his eyes was a mixture of surprise and terror.

  “I'm going to beat the weasel here for a while, just for sheer joy of it.” Henry smiled at the frightened weasel. The chubby one took another step back. Henry removed his foot from the gasping thug on the ground and stepped into a right jab. The force of the blow sent the weasel across the alley, bouncing off a trash can, and hitting the wall with a thud. Henry took three steps, kicked the overturned can out of the way and grabbed his neck again.

  “After I get done beating the weasel into a pulp…” he paused to look at the still gasping thug on the ground.,“…I'm going to have a discussion with chubby, possibly bust him up a bit…” Henry looked at the rotund thug, who had terror in his eyes.

  Before Henry could finish his threat and accompanying beating, the chubby one blurted out, “Father Patrick asked us to watch you! We didn’t mean nothing, mister.”

  Henry released the weasel, who slid to the ground, rubbing his neck. Henry reached down and pulled the tall one off the ground and patted him on the back. The chubby one picked up the weasel. “Now I'm going to say this once, you understand?”

  They nodded, not making eye contact.

  “You're going to tell the padre I gave you the slip. You're not going to mention that I saw you following me, or say anything about this little unpleasantness in the alley. Got it?”

  There was some more nodding while studying their feet. It was sort of sad, Henry thought. These three kids, probably not more than twenty-five, and this is how they handle themselves in a fight. I guess the leather jackets were just for show.

  The three of them, sensing that Henry didn’t have anything else to say, turned and headed down the alley. Henry picked up his hat, which had fallen off when he landed the first punch, and noticed the pack of Luckys on the ground. “Hey, you dropped something…”

  They all turned around. Henry tossed the pack to the tall one. Henry looked at them, and lowered his voice. “I may have been a bit hard on you fellas. How about I buy a beer, or maybe two?”

  They looked at each other; the chubby one sort of shrugged his shoulders. “I could use a beer.”

  The weasel cracked his neck. “Yep, I could use a cold one, too…for my eye.”

  Henry laughed and led the three young men out of the alley. They crossed the street and went into a seedy bar. The place was empty, and smelled of stale beer and memories erased, one shot at a time. The bartender, reading the Wall Street Journal, set it down on the bar. “How can I help you fellas?”

  “Hey Mack, could I get a pitcher of Old Style and four glasses?”

  The leather jackets nodded. The chubby and unscathed one smiled.

  Henry grabbed the pitcher and glasses. They went to a table near the back. The tall one spun the chair around, getting some of his swagger back, and sat down.

  “Let’s start off with a proper introduction. My name is Henry Wood, and who are my three shadows?”

  The chubby one, pouring and handing out the beers, said “Everyone except my mom calls me Pig.”

  “What does she call you?”

  “Mostly Lawrence, unless she is sore at me…then it varies.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Lawrence.”

  The other two chuckled. “I’m Stan, just Stan,” said the tall one, as he started tapping the pack of Lucky Strikes on the table.

  “Stan, sorry about the cheap shot back there,” Henry said with a nod.

  “It’s okay. You hit real good for…” Stan paused.

  “…for an old man. Thanks,” Henry said, finishing Stan’s sentence.

  The tension from the whooping was gone. “They call me Fish, though my name is Francis. I prefer Fish.”

  Stan lit up a smoke. Fish bummed one and lit it too. He held it between his middle two fingers, cupping his hand around his mouth as he took the drags. He thought he looked cool. Actually, he did. Stan offered one to Henry, who accepted.

  “I used to smoke these. Haven’t in a while.”

  “Why’d you quit?”

  “I don’t remember, just did. You smoke, Lawrence?”

  “Not really. The guys give me a hard time about it.”

  “Why you two give Lawrence a hard time about smoking? Why does it matter?”

  Stan patted Lawrence on the back. “Ah, it’s nothing, we just kid around with him. If it wasn’t the smoking, it'd be something else.”

  Henry looked at Lawrence, who sort of nodded and shrugged.

  “Hey, I'm sorry about how things went back there. You caught me on a bad day. Can I ask you something?”

  The three of them had warmed up to Henry and were enjoying the free beer. “Sure old man, er, Henry. Sorry.”

  “You can call me old man, I really don’t care.” Henry actually liked the sound of it. “Why did Father Patrick tell you to follow me?”

  They all looked at each other, then Stan said, “We didn’t ask. He has us keep an eye on the neighborhood. We mostly watch for some fat guy, and let him know when he goes to the art gallery.”

  “You keep an eye on a guy a few night’s back, about my size?” Henry didn’t think these guys had killed Mickey, they didn’t have it in them, but he wanted to see their reaction. They all waved their heads no.

  Lawrence asked, “What do you do, mister?”

  “I'm a private detective.”

  All three of them were impressed. Lawrence said eagerly, “Is that how you learned to fight?”

  “No, that was a long time ago, a different time in my life.”

  Now they were all in awe of Henry. They talked for another hour or so and put away a second pitcher. Henry had won them over, and they promised to not let the father know, though they didn’t understand why.

  Henry left the bar and hailed a cab. Across the street, smoking and reading the paper, dressed in business attire, Arthur watched Henry leave. When the cab was out of sight, he went to a pay phone and called his boss Andre Garneau.

  “Boss, I did as you instructed. I tailed you all day to see if anyone suspicious was watching you. It may be nothing, but there was someone. I noticed him at the gallery and then at the church. While you were in with the padre, he left, and a few of Father Patrick’s boys were following him.”

  “That is interesting. Find out who he is. Well done, Arthur. See you tomorrow at breakfast.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Patrick removed his collar. He was tired. The years of being someone else and playing the game were starting to wear on him. The last few days had been especially trying, and for the first time, it just wasn't much fun. He didn't like the people, he didn't like the solitude…he especially hated Garneau.

  Patrick reached up under his desk, pressed the exact right spot, and a tiny panel opened up on the side. From the secret hiding spot, he removed a journal. It had the numbers of his bank accounts in Switzerland and ac
curate accounting of every penny he had squirreled away over the years. He flipped through the pages and read the dates. It was four years ago when he reached his own magic number, the one where he planned on retiring and giving up the life. Now he had almost doubled the number, and with this last big score, would double it again.

  He turned on the radio and listened to the news. He couldn't focus; he just wanted to be done. After so many years, the thought of even one more day dealing with this last big score, was almost more than he could stand. He considered praying for strength, which made him chuckle. If the other priests only knew he was a fraud, and a damn good one, they would have a fit.

  There wouldn't be time for dinner – his daydreaming about leaving the life had run longer than he expected. Patrick needed to go out for the evening, without the risk of being stopped for a chat by a parishioner. He needed freedom to move unseen. It had been years since he had worn a disguise, but he hadn't forgotten how to do it right.

  From under his bed, he pulled out his case, opened it up, and set it on the kitchen table. In a moment of inspiration, he knew the perfect disguise: he would become a rabbi for the evening. It made him laugh to think about it. It wasn't the first time he had dressed as a Jew. Back during the early days of war, he learned Yiddish, to be able to sell the part.

  As he carefully added a substantial beard to his face, he remembered his days of breaking bread with the top Jewish families in Berlin. He spent a year cataloging the art and wealth in these homes. It was substantial. When the Nazis began to round up families, sending them to the camps, and ultimately to the gas chamber, Patrick changed his plan and took the opportunity to form a partnership with an enterprising sergeant and his colonel. He had originally planned on robbing the families. He figured he could get away with four to five masterpieces and they would never know. He would copy them and then switch his copies with the originals.