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

by Brian Meeks

  “Hey Luna, how are you feeling today?”

  She laughed. “I took the day off from the bakery. I'm feeling a little rough.”

  “Me too, but I owe Mickey, so I dragged myself out of bed.”

  A heavy sigh came, then, “I feel just terrible about Mickey, even though I never met him. After hearing the stories last night, I know I would have liked him a lot.”

  “You did a good job with the wake. Mickey would have loved it. I like to think he was watching.”

  “So you made it home all right…er…obviously, I guess.”

  Henry sensed the question not being asked, but didn’t want to discuss it. “Yes.”

  “Good, well, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I'll let you get back to work. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thanks Luna, you are a good friend.”

  The sound of Bobby coming was unmistakable. The decoding would have to wait.

  CHAPTER 44

  Bobby shut the door, louder than he intended. "Sorry." He opened it up again, peeked through at Celine, then whispered, "Sorry, I didn't mean to slam the door."

  Celine giggled.

  "Henry, I have a friend, well, really more of an acquaintance. He lives in London, drinks too much, but he's really smart. He used to work for a guy who was some professor at Oxford. You know, tweed suits, proper accent, snooty attitude.... Well, I met the professor once. It was a few years ago…” He took a breath and looked up at the ceiling. “…no, I think it has been almost ten years ago...wait, it was before the war. It was a long time ago. I didn’t think he would remember me, so I called Norton. Norton is my friend, well, acquaintance. I like him well enough; I suppose we could be friends. It is hard though, him living in London and all.”

  Henry listened. Bobby seemed to be on a roll, and disrupting his runaway train of thought could be dangerous. It wasn’t worth the risk.

  “So I called Norton yesterday. He was pleased to hear from me. It was late afternoon, so he had a few pints in him, but he could still talk. Sometimes he can’t, he gets drunk and his accent is so thick I can’t make out a word. I asked him if he knew if the guy he worked for at Oxford was still there teaching. He said, 'No, he is here drinking.' He then went on to tell me a lengthy story of how the professor got kicked out for a transgression with a grad student. He said it was rather unseemly and rather funny. I could tell you the story, but I'm sure you want me to get to the point.”

  “I think that boat has sailed.”

  “Boat? Oh, you mean ship. Yes, you are right, the ship sailed a few weeks ago.”

  Bobby didn’t catch the joke, which made it all the funnier to Henry, but he controlled his smile. “I fear you have lost me. Could you back up to the professor?”

  “Oh yes, well, the professor got on the phone and he remembered me, called me a good American chap. He is really quite nice. I feel bad that he lost his job. I asked him if he knew anything about secret societies and ancient artifacts. Could I have some coffee?”

  Henry stood up. “Please keep going, I’ll get you a cup.” Henry poured a cup while Bobby talked at a blistering pace.

  “He said he knew everything about secret societies and ancient artifacts. I think this was a bit of a boast, and it was obvious he had a few pints in him as well, but I believe he knows a lot. I had written down the name of the device. I don’t remember it now, weird name, but he knew it. As soon as I asked about the anti-thingy, he said he knew of it, but also knew something else. He said it was something nobody knew. Then he ordered another beer. I didn’t think it would help, but what could I do?”

  Henry handed Bobby the cup of coffee. Bobby took a breath and a sip. “You got any sugar?” Henry handed him the sugar and a spoon. “Okay, where was I? Oh yes...so I asked him what the thing was that nobody knew, and he said there was a secret society, which had almost disappeared during the war, but there were rumors they had survived. I didn’t know what he was talking about, but he kept going. They are called the 'Thorstians,' and they are from Greece. I remembered their name, because I knew it was important.”

  Henry was surprised that Bobby could get so far, and though he already knew about the Thorstians, he flipped open his notebook and wrote it down. Bobby spelled it for him. “Good find, Bobby.”

  “Oh, that isn’t all. The professor went on to tell me that they had their own anti-thingy, but it was much better, and had strange powers.”

  “What sort of powers?”

  “The members of the Thorstians had used it to bring good fortune to their friends and great tragedy to their enemies. He said it didn’t always work, and there were times it backfired, but eventually they figured out how to read the dials. Once they understood when it could be used, they were able to find answers to questions, and from there profit greatly. One member had a maritime insurance business, and he would ask if a ship he was considering insuring was doomed. In the first year, he turned away five contracts, and all five ships sank. All of the ships he wrote that year sailed without incident. He told another story of a member who used it to find the woman he was to marry. He had lots of other crazy stories, but at the end, he told me it had been stolen during the war. Not by the Nazis or something, but by a handful of the members, who had taken it and seemingly disappeared. He said the item is priceless, even if the stories about its powers aren’t real. He also said it could become invisible. I didn’t believe that last part. This is really good coffee.”

  Henry was now writing furiously. This might explain why some would kill for it. People have killed for less, he thought.

  “The weird part was this: he knew that the Thorstians had recently discovered that the artifact was heading to New York, to be sold in some secret auction. He also said that the Thorstians almost had the culprits, but that they slipped through their fingers. Now they are in NY, trying to find out about the auction. I asked how he found out this last bit, but a song broke out in the pub, and he was gone. Norton got back on the phone, and we talked a little bit more, but I never got to speak with the professor again.”

  Henry was writing intently and didn’t even notice that Bobby had left. He was in the waiting room telling Celine the same story. Henry thought he heard him jumping with excitement. Celine could be heard encouraging him to "go on."

  Henry took a sip of his own coffee and started to reach for the phone, though it wasn’t ringing yet. Just then, it did, and he grabbed it before Celine could. “I got it. Hello.”

  “It’s Mike. A buddy called...they fished two Greek guys out of the Hudson. My gut tells me you should get down there and check it out."

  CHAPTER 45

  Father Patrick wasn't much into religion before he donned his collar, but he didn't mind his cover. He liked the church; he enjoyed working with the elderly and hearing confession. His favorite part was the quiet, closely followed by the sound of a choir practicing to an empty room. He often spent hours sitting in the back of the church, listening with his eyes closed. Today a group of men were singing some sort of Gregorian chant. It was delightful; he would have listened, but had too much to do.

  As he walked to his office, Patrick sensed people shifting their gaze. The greetings were muted. The little voice in his head was issuing warnings. Patrick knew better than to tune out the little voice. He opened his office door.

  “Your Excellence, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Patrick noticed that the bishop wasn’t alone, and he gave a quick look to the three priests huddling in the corner.

  The bishop remained sitting behind Patrick’s desk, his hands folded in his lap, and a look of sadness on his face. “We received a disturbing call, and we would like to hear your side of the story.”

  “I'm sorry, but I don’t understand?”

  One of the priests began to speak, but a look from the bishop stopped him. “You have been accused of being a fraud.” The bishop paused to gauge Patrick’s reaction.

  Patrick’s mind calculated the best expression and tone. “A fraud? By wh
om?” The tone was a mix of mostly hurt and a small measure of confusion. The confusion was mostly through his facial expression. It was brilliantly delivered.

  “The who isn’t important, but we must take any accusation seriously, so I have come to talk to you myself. You have, in your time here, done a remarkable job.” He looked at the three priests, who all nodded in agreement. “We put in a call to seminary, and they confirmed that you, or at least your name, was there when you said.”

  Sensing the other shoe was about to fall, he asked, still sounding hurt, “Then what is the problem?”

  “I spoke with a priest who thinks he remembers you, but he describes a different man, shorter, much heavier, and bald. I asked him if he was sure, and he said he wasn’t. So we need to look into this further.”

  “Short and fat, hmmm, and balding…” Patrick was talking but really just stalling as he decided on his next move. “I don’t know why he wouldn’t remember me, but I guess I was pretty quiet, kept to myself.”

  “He is getting on in years, so it is possibly an honest mistake. What I'm wondering though, is why someone felt compelled to level the accusation in the first place. Have you upset someone recently? Do you have any idea why he might have brought this to me?”

  Patrick sensed that the scales were tilting in his favor. The bishop was now leaning back in the chair. He seemed more relaxed. It seemed like he was on his side now.

  “I really couldn’t say. I take confession, help with the food kitchen, and visit some of our older parishioners. There are some people who get upset in the food lines, but when they get full bellies, they calm right down. If I could just talk to the person and ask them, I'm sure we could get to the bottom of this.”

  The bishop shook his head and then stood. He walked over to Patrick and put his hand on his shoulder. “We need to be careful and get to the bottom of this. Even a rumor could be disastrous. We must use caution. This is a serious accusation. It is a crime, but the church would like to keep this in house, while we sort this mess out.”

  He then did something Patrick didn’t expect. He returned to the chair behind the desk and asked the other priests to leave. When the door closed, he leaned forward and looked Patrick in the eye.

  “Are you a priest?”

  The tone was strong.

  Patrick felt like he was a child again, being interrogated by his father. His chest tighten, his mouth went dry, and he wasn’t sure if it was showing on his face. The voice was crystal clear: he needed to get out of there, and he needed to leave now. He needed to stare the bishop in the eye and lie to him. He had a lifetime of lying, and he was good at it, but this time was different. It was wrong. He liked the bishop, he liked the other priests, and he couldn’t remember ever being happier than he had been pretending to be a priest. He was actually good at it. Not as good as he was at painting forgeries, nor as good as he was at selling stolen art, but he was good. Did he need redemption? It crossed his mind.

  Then it was time to answer.

  “Yes I'm,” he said looking down, then looking back up and squarely in the eye of the bishop. “And I can prove it! I have a photo from the seminary. I'm younger, but I have my hair, and it is a good photo.”

  The tone went from sad to excited, and the bishop bought it. “I'm glad. I'll need to see it.”

  Patrick hopped up from his chair. "I know exactly where it is. I have an old box…but you don’t care about that. If Your Excellency would like, I can run and get it now.”

  “I think it would be best. I'll be pleased to put this whole unpleasant affair behind us.”

  Patrick walked out of the church and down the street and turned the corner. He passed a bakery, a florist, and a bank, then turned down an alley and tossed his collar into a trash dumpster.

  His life in the church was over; soon his days in America would end, too. It would be good to retire, but he didn’t feel happy. Should he just walk away from this last deal? No, it will be his greatest triumph. Time would heal the guilt.

  CHAPTER 46

  Hans sat with his legs casually crossed, The New York Times in one hand, while his other rhythmically stirred his coffee in its fine china cup. He liked the sound of the bone china. Three taps of the spoon signaled he was done with his routine. Arthur was now acknowledged.

  Arthur was a patient man, and familiar with Hans' ways. It was his attention to detail which made Arthur trust him.

  “I want to…” Arthur paused when the young woman asked if he would like to order. She smiled when he declined, and went to help another table. “Everything seems to be on schedule.”

  “Yes, the only three serious bidders who remain are our guys and the Falcon. The bidding should be competitive.” Hans set his paper down and sipped his coffee.

  “Have you spoken with the Falcon?”

  “Yes. I was told to give you kudos on your exemplary service.”

  “It has been a good run. It will be sad to see it come to an end,” Arthur said with a hint of a smile as he took a sip of water.

  Hans didn’t harbor the same ill feelings towards the Falcon. Hans had his own grudge, his own reason for the betrayal. It wasn’t his nature to do anything but follow orders; though he had the mind for being a leader, he preferred to help others run the show. With Arthur though, they worked well together and contributed equally. Each of them seemed to be able to add key elements to their plan without stepping on one another’s toes.

  “It has been a good run. I won’t miss it, though. I plan to spend the remainder of my days answering to only myself. It will be nice.”

  “You will go back to Nuremberg?”

  “I was thinking Vienna. Am I too old to learn to play the piano?”

  Arthur laughed. “I would expect you would be a great pianist.”

  “Did you learn anything new about the detective? Is he going to be a problem?”

  “He is chasing his tail. I don’t think he has a clue who the Falcon is, and that is all that matters.”

  “What about the guys working with him? Mike and the professor.”

  “Mike is a beat cop. He is taking time off to help his friend investigate Mickey’s murder. The professor is some art teacher at NYU and likes to drink. It’s possible Wood may figure out that Father Patrick is behind the auctions, but that’s his problem, not ours.”

  The waitress seated an older couple at the table next to theirs, so they stopped talking business and instead discussed their plans for the future, all the dreams they had both been keeping hidden away.

  CHAPTER 47

  Mike got himself a cup of coffee.

  They had just returned from the crime scene, where two Greek men had been found dead. In an alley, about three blocks from the docks, they were stabbed multiple times. They each had their watches, billfolds, and envelopes packed with hundred dollar bills. One didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to know it wasn’t a robbery. A patrolman found a sailor who knew who they were and that they had come in on a ship called The Siena.

  Mike and Henry had the patrolman take them to find the sailor, and learned that the two men had traveled not as crew, but as guards for a large box. They never left its side, even when the weather got really rough. He didn’t know what was in the box, but he overheard the two men saying they thought it was cursed. They also found out that the ship had arrived the previous night.

  The area the men were found in had quite a few bars. Both men reeked of alcohol, so Mike guessed there could be a waitress or bartender who might remember two drunk Greeks. It was too early for any of them to be open, so they went back to the office with plans to canvas the neighborhood later in the day.

  "What’s the plan?" Mike asked.

  Henry made a slight grunting noise. "I assume you are using the term 'plan' in the loosest possible sense."

  "I was."

  This made Henry smile. "This Andre Garneau person is another collector. I thought we should pop over to his house and try to get an audience with him."

  "You make him
sound like royalty."

  "Remember when I told you about my visit to the Matisse gallery?"

  "Yeah, I remember…oh, that's right, you saw him there."

  "He was hard to miss. Mostly though, I heard him and how he talked to the owner. It was condescending, bordering on rude, and completely elitist."

  "That sounds like every rich guy I ever met."

  "How many rich guys you ever met?"

  "I know the mayor and..."

  "The mayor didn't seem too elitist when he was pouring you a beer last night."

  "Well...I have run into a few like Garneau, but you are right, the mayor is a good guy. So we gonna go rattle his cage?"

  "I thought we might try a two-pronged attack. I’ll get in to see him, and you hang outside to see if you can get the inside scoop from his driver."

  "Sounds good to me...I bet I find out more than you do."

  "It's a bet...lunch?"

  There was a slightest tinge of pain, as Henry remembered all the bets he and Mickey had made, but he quickly got over it. "There’s one more thing. I want you to drive, let me out, and then park the car. My gut tells me there has been someone keeping an eye on what we are doing, but I haven't seen anyone."

  "You want me to be your driver?" Mike said, raising an eyebrow.

  "Yes."

  Mike didn't laugh as often as Henry, or most people, but when he did, it was a hearty chortle, to say the least. “I should probably call the captain and let him know we are going to canvas the bars later. He will appreciate us saving him some man hours, and the cooperation will win us a few points. Also, even though we don’t have any proof of a connection, he should know we suspect that those murders are tied into this whole art mess.”

  “That is a good call…pun intended.”

  Henry wandered out into Celine’s domain. “How is it going?”

  “Everything is running like a well-oiled gazelle.”