Henry Wood: Time and Again: (13 page)

The letter from Father Patrick unleashed Garneau’s feeling of helplessness. It was Garneau who told the priest about the rumor of someone looking into the names of the collectors, but when he read it and saw that the auction might be canceled, he was overwrought. Over the last three weeks, he had parted with three of his most prized treasures, at a minor loss. Andre had feared that the other bidders might be in a better financial position, and he didn’t want to take any chances. This would be the crowning glory of his collection, and he was prepared to do anything to win. Now, he was faced with the real possibility that the item might never go up for sale at all. This was not the worst part.

Yesterday morning, knowing it was against the rules, he sent the chauffeur to see Father Patrick. He included a note begging him to go forward with the sale and offering any assistance, monetary or otherwise, to help uncover the person responsible for the mess. The father wrote back that he did not appreciate the correspondence, that there were procedures, which did not include sending notes via one’s chauffeur, and if he proceeded to meddle in this matter, he would be banished from the group of collectors. Upon reading the father’s reply, Garneau was stricken with disbelief. He was not used to being addressed in such a manner. He was unable to get his way and couldn’t believe it. He remained in denial the rest of the day. After a bad night’s sleep, he had moved on to anger.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Hans hired the
Henry Wood Detective Agency
and handed Henry an envelope with the retainer. He then left without giving many details about the job. They waited until they heard the outside office door close.

Mike spoke up first. "Rich people are nuts."

Henry and the professor laughed. "What do you think?" Henry asked.

Professor Brookert leaned back in his chair, still trying to take it all in. "I can't believe there is another Antikythera device, and intact, too. If it’s true, this may be the greatest discovery in the history of all mankind. I found it strange, however, that Hans seemed so reluctant to answer our questions."

Mike nodded. Henry stood up and walked over to get some more coffee. "It was odd. Mr. Schaeffer was very open last night.” Henry shrugged. “But this is their show. If our client wants me to only speak with him, that's okay. It's his dime. The most striking thing about the job is how similar it seems to Mickey's last case."

"You think they hired Mickey?" Mike asked.

"I don't know for sure, I still haven't decoded all of his notes. Hard to say if the client name is even in his notebook. Mickey was pretty crafty. He could remember every single person who ever hired him and often didn't bother with noting the client name, at least until he wrote up the final report."

"So, what's the plan, Boss?"

"Mike, I want you to dig around and find out what you can about Hans and Dr. Schaeffer. Also, don’t call me boss."

Mike winked.

The professor stood up and asked, "May I see Mickey's notes?"

Henry handed him his notebook. "I copied the three pages from his most recent case and put his notebook in a safe place."

"It looks like you decoded his list. I see that Dr. Schaeffer is on it. If he had hired Mickey, he wouldn't be on the list, would he?"

"Good observation, Professor. I still want to check out Dr. Schaeffer – Mickey may have added him to the list for the same reason."

Mike asked, "Did he check up on everyone who hired him?"

Henry laughed. "It depended. If the client was a dame, with long legs, trying to catch a cheating husband, he was off to the races. Mickey didn’t care if she was on the up and up. A guy, no matter how clean-cut, was never above suspicion. He was pretty good about reading people, or at least…he used to be."

The professor got up and walked around. “It sounds like you think that whoever hired Mickey was somehow involved in his death?”

“I think that this whole thing stinks to high heaven. On one hand, it doesn’t make sense that someone would hire Mickey to look into the people on the list and then kill him before he could finish. On the other hand, Mickey always said that people willing to overpay were usually up to something. On the other hand…” Henry paused and thought for a moment, “…I liked Dr. Schaeffer. My gut tells me he is on the level. Also, I think I may have had one too many hands…but I digress.”

“I didn’t want to say anything, but I noticed your theorizing anatomy was slightly off,” the professor said with a wink.

“That’s why I called you two in; I may be losing my edge.”

Mike stood up. “You still have your edge, but this case strikes too close to home. We're glad to help.”

Professor Brookert smiled and nodded. “Let me see if I have it straight. Right now, all we know is that there is a second Antikythera mechanism, which may be up for sale, it would likely be worth a king’s ransom, and is in some sort of underground auction for the super rich. Dr. Schaeffer is one of the players, along with the other people on Mickey’s list.”

Henry leaned back in his chair. “Yes, but you have left out one important fact. This isn’t just an antique auction for some crazy collectors. It is prized enough that someone was willing to kill, to stop Mickey from completing his job, whatever that was.”

Celine stuck her head in. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your meeting or eavesdrop…okay, I did mean to eavesdrop. It sounds like insider trading.”

They all looked at her. She walked in and said, “The secretaries know what is going on at each brokerage firm. They always talk to one another. I see guys chatting up the girls, trying to get them to spill company beans. But we aren’t as dumb as we look…well some of us are. It sounds like whoever hired your friend wanted to know what the competition was up to, to get an edge. More coffee anyone?”

There was a thoughtful silence. Celine took this to mean no, then whirled around and went back to her desk. Henry looked at the professor and said loud enough so Celine would hear, “You found a good one there. Bright kid.”

“I’m not a kid…Boss.”

They all laughed, then Henry got serious again. “Celine is right: it sounds like someone is trying to stack the deck in their favor. Hans and Dr. Schaeffer certainly seem to be trying to get an edge. For all we know, someone else hired Mickey to do the same. I think that both of you should check out every name on this list. Mike, you check for anything criminal; Professor, try to find out where their money comes from. Plus anything else you can learn about this mechanism would be great. And everyone, be careful…” his voice trailed off.

There was another long silence, and then Mike cleared his throat. “One more thing Henry…Luna and I have got the wake set up for tomorrow night, at
The Dublin Rogue
. You want me to start on the funeral arrangements? There are at least a half a dozen precincts taking up a collection. He had a lot of friends on the force.”

Henry sighed. “It bothers me, the thought of putting him in the ground with his killer on the loose, but I guess we should. A priest came by; I think I'll go talk to him and let you know tomorrow.”

The professor and Mike said goodbye, and went on their way. Henry walked out and sat in the waiting room chair. Celine was behind the desk, writing things on her notepad. “Sorry about the kid crack,” Henry said.

She looked up. “Sorry about the boss crack. I heard you tell Mike. What do you want me to call you?”

“I prefer Henry, but really it doesn’t matter too much. That was a nice observation you made. You've only been here three hours and I can’t believe I ever got along without you. How about I buy you lunch?”

“You’re not getting fresh, Henry, are you?”

“Nope, I'm just getting hungry.”

“Then I accept. Plus, I have a list of things we need.” She ripped off the top sheet of paper, neatly folded it, and then stuck it in her purse. As they headed out, she said, “Remind me to add, ‘Buy an Out to Lunch sign’ for the door.”

“Will do…Boss,” Henry said as he locked the door behind them.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

After lunch Henry walked, alone with his thoughts, Celine having gone back to the office. His efforts to hail a cab were half-hearted at best. A few of them drove past, stopping for better dressed and more aggressive fares. He drifted along for several blocks, his mind trying to connect all of the disparate pieces. His focus reached such a state that the din of the city faded to zero. Henry didn't notice the three guys in leather coats who had been watching him since he and Celine left the deli.

In his mind, he shifted pieces, theorized, moved other pieces, and still couldn't tell what the picture was supposed to be. Eight blocks later, unable to make any progress, a thought leapt into his mind as he passed a pay phone. He picked up the receiver, threw a dime in, and started to dial the number he knew by heart: Klondike 5, 5, 3, 7, 8…and then his finger hung in the air. The din of the city returned.

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 Thirty

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