Henry Wood: Time and Again: (22 page)

Henry handed Mike the keys, and they were off.

Chapter Forty-Eight

The door opened and Henry saw a maid, who was giggling. She wore a conservative long skirt, had her hair neatly pulled back in a bun, and had on sensible shoes. She asked who was calling, then Henry heard a voice coming from deep inside the house.

“Show them in, bring them back here.”

Henry followed her back to the kitchen. Sitting at and on the table, a man who looked like a cook and several other staff members were drinking wine. A very large man in a smock of sorts was stirring something in a stock pot. Henry wasn’t sure what was going on, so he stood in the doorway. The man turned around.

“Hello, welcome to my home. We are having a celebration of sorts. Glass of wine?”

“No thanks. I’m Henry Wood. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

Andre shook Henry’s hand. “I'm pleased to meet you. Ask away. Do you mind if I keep an eye on my broth?”

“No, not at all, it smells great.”

Andre waved his hand towards the counter on the other side of the massive kitchen. “If not wine, may I offer you some strudel? It is wonderful and freshly made.”

Henry noticed the cook grinning ear to ear, and then the maid said, “The best strudel you have ever tasted.” She kissed the old cook on the top of his bald head.

“What are you celebrating, and yes, I would love some strudel.”

The other maid cut him a piece, put it on a plate, and then got a glass of milk.

“Mr. Wood, we are celebrating a birthday of sorts. Today I have stopped being the complete ass everyone who has ever met me has known and loathed. I reached a pinnacle of meanness over the last few days, as my staff will attest.”

They all nodded, and the cook said, “Yes, but you made amends and all is forgiven.”

The maid who had answered the door bounced over to Henry and showed him a check. “He gave us all a pay raise, apologized, and then gave us each a bonus. I also got a new uniform.” She spun around to show Henry. “It is much nicer.”

Andre Garneau said, “I used to make her wear the most dreadful outfit…let’s just say that she endured my old lecherous ways for far too long. You see, Mr. Wood, somewhere along the line, I became a monster. My staff has suffered for a long time. Their years of loyalty, quiet suffering, and exemplary service should be rewarded. I'm going to enjoy life, but not at the expense of others.” He tasted the soup and added more salt.

“May I ask what brought about this epiphany?”

“You certainly may, and what’s more, I'll be happy to tell you. I collect art, or should I say, I obsess about art. There is an auction coming up, and I coveted the item so much it drove me to the brink of madness. Last night I realized that even if I won the auction, the happiness I would feel would be hollow and meaningless. I can take far more joy in cooking than I ever could sitting alone in a room admiring my collection.”

“What were you going to bid on?”

“It was an ancient machine, which supposedly could calculate the position of stars, and was in complete working order. It was over 2,000 years old and supposedly had been perfectly preserved. It would have been the crown jewel of my collection, that is, until I decided I didn’t want it anymore.”

The chauffeur walked in and said hello, grabbing a piece of strudel. “Hey, I'm Claude.”

“Henry. Pleased to meet you. What do you do?” Henry asked, already knowing.

“I'm Mr. Garneau’s driver.”

Henry took another bite. “The strudel is really remarkable, my compliments to the chef. So you aren’t going to the auction?”

“Nope, and what’s more, I'm going to sell most of my collection, all the pieces which I bought merely for the lust of collecting. There are some which have meaning, and those I will treasure. May I ask you a question?”

“It seems only fair.”

“Mr. Wood, are you the person hired to figure out who is coming to the auction?”

Henry looked at the jolly man cooking and laughing with his staff and considered giving him a straight answer, but it wasn’t how he worked. He had made a promise to a client. It was important. “Actually, I'm looking into the murder of the man hired. He was my friend.” It was true.

Andre stopped stirring and looked at Henry. The look was genuine and was not the sort of expression worn by a man who ordered a hit.

“I'm sorry to hear it. Who was your friend?”

“His name was Michael Thomas Moore. He taught me the trade.”

The room became very quiet. Andre pulled out a chair for Henry and then sat down across the corner of the table. “Please, Mr. Wood, ask me anything you need to. I'll help you as best I can.”

“Who is behind the sale?”

There was a knock at the front door, and the maid hustled out to answer it. Andre looked up. “My, we are receiving a lot of guests today. I'm sorry, what did you ask me?”

The maid returned with an envelope and handed it to Garneau.

“I was asking you who is behind the auction?”

“Ah, yes. It will be difficult for you to believe when I tell you.” Then he stopped as he read the contents of the envelope, and smiled. “Your timing is extraordinary, Mr. Wood.” He handed Henry the invitation. “You may have that, as I have no need of it anymore. Claude, would you please give Arthur a call; let him know that invitation has arrived. Tell him I have decided not to bid.”

Henry read the invitation to himself until he got to the signature, simply, "Patrick."

"Is this Father Patrick?”

“Yes it is. He has been posing as a priest for a long time, has quite the operation set up.”

“How does it work?”

“The auctions are always run the same way: we have an individual viewing, then the next day we call into a phone number he gives us, and bid.”

“Do you know the other bidders?”

“I know of some of them, but not all.”

“Do you know someone who goes by the name ‘The Falcon’?”

Garneau stiffened for a moment, then let out a deep breath. “That name used to upset me greatly. I have lost many fine works to the Falcon, but now I guess those days are over. I would be lying to say I didn’t still feel some animosity, but I'm sure those feelings will pass in time.”

“Who is the Falcon?”

“I don’t know who he is, but he’s rich. He has some sort of special arrangement with Father Patrick. I have never even heard his voice. We can hear each other bidding, but the Falcon’s bids come in some other way, because Father Patrick always tells us what he has bid.”

“Do you think Father Patrick is the Falcon, just trying to goose the bidding?”

“I had considered it, but he has won so many auctions, it didn’t make sense. Why would Father Patrick go to such great lengths to hold secret auctions and have half of them ending with the Falcon winning? Where is the profit in that?”

Henry made some notes. “That is a good point.” Henry smiled and asked for another piece of strudel.

Chapter Forty-Nine

“He what?!” Hans yelled.

Arthur had to hold the phone away from his ear. “He has given up collecting. I just got a call; he got the notice for the viewing, and had Claude call me to say he wasn’t going.” Arthur answered with an equal measure of frustration and anger.

“What in the world is going on over there? He was your responsibility.”

“Don’t try to blame me, there isn’t any way I could have seen this coming. He has been yelling and going on for days, screaming at anyone within earshot. He was obsessed.”

“Something must have happened.”

“He was ranting and suddenly took a look at the little Degas, then told me a story about his kid sister. She died when he was young. The next morning, he is writing checks, apologizing for his behavior, and is suddenly everyone’s buddy. It is sickening. I want to kill him more than ever.”

“We need to think. Who else is able to bid with the doctor and Falcon?”

There was a long pause. "I know what you are implying.” Arthur’s short temper was beginning to flare.

“I'm not implying anything; we are about to see everything, all the years of waiting on these horrible men, come to naught.”

“You know as well as I do that the others aren’t in a position financially to push the bids. The lawyer from Staten Island, he will bid first and probably be out, the other guy will make two bids at best. The Falcon, Dr. Schaeffer, and Garneau were to battle, driving the price through the roof and keeping them away for hours.”

“The Falcon will be thrilled.”

“Dr. Schaeffer will not try to battle the Falcon head to head, and will drop out after it hits five million. We needed Garneau and the mutual hatred between him and Schaeffer to keep the doctor in the mix. I'll make the call, let the Falcon know what has happened. I'll meet you in an hour. I'm not giving up - we just need to calm down and think.”

“I'll meet you. Oh, and ask if the Falcon has gotten the invite yet.”

“One hour.”

***

Henry got in the car and said, “Sorry, buddy, I thought Claude might be hanging out with the car, but he was inside.”

“I figured. I got a cup of coffee and waited. You were in there a long time...learn anything? Is he our guy?”

“My gut tells me no. He had some sort of epiphany and isn’t even going to the auction. So we are back at square one.”

“My money is on the Falcon. The other two guys on the list were both out of town that night.”

“Yeah, and they mostly collect statues. I was sure Dr. Schafer, Garneau, or the Falcon were responsible.”

“You might still be right. What did the messenger bring?”

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot. He brought an invitation from Father Patrick. It seems the show is about to begin.”

“So your gut was right about the priest. I wonder if our client has his yet.”

Henry was thinking the same thing. The traffic was pretty bad and though it wasn’t a terribly long drive back to the Flatiron Building, it was going to take a while. Henry wondered what Katarina was doing, as that usually lifted his spirits. The problem was it still seemed like the world was covered in a dark, gray mist. In truth, it was clear out, the sun was shining down on the city, and people were starting to feel the hope of spring to come.

As Mike drove, Henry, not used to being a passenger, looked out the window. He saw a man helping a woman get out of a cab. There was another person opening a door for someone with their arms full of grocery bags. Didn’t these people know that a great man had been taken from all of them?

Maybe it wasn’t the good deeds or even the loss of Mickey, he thought. Perhaps it was just the way that everything kept going, unabated. If he was honest with himself, he had gone on with his life, chasing a case, being the detective. This thought made it even worse.

He tried to picture Katarina and how she looked last night, but the image wouldn’t stay. It was the picture of Mickey on the cold street which kept coming back.

Mike parked the car two blocks away, and they walked towards the office. Leaning against the building, smoking, were Henry’s three leather-clad buddies.

“Hey fellas, what brings you around?”

Stan took a drag, trying to look cool, and was about to talk when Lawrence said, “Father Patrick has left. He was accused of being a fake, and bolted.”

Henry and Mike looked at each other, then Henry asked, “Who ratted him out?”

“Nobody knows, but the bishop was there, then Patrick left and never came back.”

“Good work, boys.” Henry handed each of them a twenty and said, “Keep your eyes and ears open. If you find out where he went, let me know.”

It was obvious by the looks on their faces that they were pleased to have helped. Henry wasn’t comfortable being looked up to, but he could grow to like these three. He and Mike headed upstairs to call the professor, get in touch with Dr. Schaeffer, and to plan the endgame. He couldn’t be sure, but Henry’s gut told him they were close to finding the killer...or not. Soon the players would be gone. It was now or never.

Chapter Fifty

Sitting in the office were Henry at his desk and the professor in the chair. Mike stood in the corner, drinking some coffee.

"Dr. Schaeffer is picking us up in a few minutes. Mike, you follow us, at a reasonable distance, and then hang out after we leave the viewing. See if you can catch a glimpse of the recently defrocked Father Patrick or anyone who’s working with him. Follow them if you can do it without being seen."

"Will do."

Bobby came in with Celine, holding a piece of paper. "Hey guys, how are we doing?"

The professor, who had grown fond of the odd, little man, said, "Bobby, good to see you. Whacha got in your hand there?"

Bobby handed the paper to the professor. "I got a call from my friend who knew a few symbols which could be found on each of the three boxes. He told me the exact book I could find them in, and the pages, and so I went to the library and traced them. I thought you would want these for the viewing."