Henry Wood: Time and Again: (9 page)

“I will not have you calling me ‘boss.’ Oh, and one more thing: I'm looking to hire a full-time secretary. You know anyone who might be interested?”

“I don't, but I'll ask around. When do you need her?”

“In truth, about three years ago, if I'm being honest with myself.”

Henry could almost hear the smile over the phone. “See you later.”

Chapter Eighteen

The waves, cold, relentless, and seemingly unprovoked, had followed them since the day after they left the Tyrrhenian Sea. The crew and captain couldn’t remember a longer, more miserable trip. To a man, they were a new crew; the captain had only been aboard since the year before, when The Siena left Yard 136 in Denmark. The Siena was a beautiful ship, her displacement 15,295 tons, the length overall or LOA stretching an impressive 491 feet, and the beam 64 feet. She had a top speed of 16.75 knots, but today, she was tired and worn, along with her crew and captain, and two Greek passengers.

Cargo ships sometimes have a handful of passengers, but not often. On this voyage, some palms were greased, so that two middle-aged, but muscular men could accompany a box. The manifest was clear, detailing every item aboard…except the box. For this courtesy, a whole bucket of grease was required. The captain didn’t know the contents, nor did he care. The Greek men, who had guarded it for years, had a vague understanding of the contents. They knew some stories. They knew the people who had found it.

In their youth, they had both loved listening to the theories about what it was, that it might be cursed, and the speculation of hidden powers. Neither man had ever witnessed anything unusual from the object; it just looked like a box with gears, all shinny and impressive. It was a very old box. Both men now believed in the curse and, since they couldn’t eat for all of the sea sickness, spent their days praying to Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors, merchants, archers, thieves, and children. When this didn’t work, they turned their attention to Saint Christopher, since they were traveling.

Today, the North Atlantic was rougher than any of the previous days. The captain didn’t think they weren’t in mortal danger, but that might have been hubris on his part. The year before, The Southern Districts, a former naval ship with a full load of bulk sulfur heading for Bucksport, Maine, had moved through gusts of force 9 squalls, and then force 8 gusts. On December 11, it was reported that they were overdue, and the search began.

The captain thought about his friend who had been a first mate on The Southern Districts. He wondered if the wreck would ever be discovered. His own first mate gave an update: force 9 winds, and squalls. There wasn’t any sign of it letting up either.

The captain said a prayer.

The Siena would be lost at sea, though not on this day, or the next one, either.

Chapter Nineteen

The sleep was not the least bit restful. Henry had expected to dream of Katarina or to have nightmares about Mickey. Instead, he had short dreams. All night, he was chased or drowning or fighting with some strange man. Each mini drama had one thread of similarity: something beyond his control was causing pain, and his struggling against the control just made it worse.

Henry didn't like it. He preferred to be in control, even when asleep. Henry often remembered his dreams; he was also good at being lucid in the nocturnal stories. Last night, he was not, and it started his day off on the wrong foot.

When Henry got out of bed and walked to the bathroom, he hit his toe. It hurt, and it was bewildering to him. He had never hurt himself in his own home, even when drunk. After a short burst of cursing, which he generally didn't do, there wasn’t any improvement in his toe. His gut told him that he should be careful today. It also told him that a big breakfast was in order, though, admittedly, his gut told him this on most mornings, and sometimes late at night.

Henry showered, shaved, clipped his toe nails, and spent several minutes looking at his big toe, which seemed none too pleased with him. Henry rewarded his disgruntled toe and all the other toes with a fresh pair of socks, never worn. This went a long way towards forgiveness.

He spent the first hour of the morning mostly lost in the trivial. It was as if the last 28 hours had so worn his brain, it needed some alone time. Henry let his mind wander aimlessly while his hands made a three egg omelet, brewed some coffee, buttered some toast, and then decided to add a bonus piece of toast, with grape jelly.

The radio gave some good news about a missing boy who had been found. A different man's voice talked about the weather and a violent storm in the Atlantic. Henry noted the weather report and gave a look to the corner to see if his umbrella was there. It was, and ready for action. Henry changed the station and listened to some music, a tune by Stan Kenton, “The Peanut Vendor”, which always reminded him of baseball. Henry thought about Vero Beach, which is where his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers had been holding spring training since 1949. This led his brain conveniently back to Mickey.

Mickey was at the game, September 9, 1948, when Rex Barney threw a no-hitter, having chosen to skip an afternoon of stalking some hysterical woman's husband who was cheating on her with an even more hysterical typing clerk. Henry couldn't remember what happened with that case, but he remembered Mickey feeling genuinely bad that he hadn't invited Henry to come along. Mickey liked to play pranks, tease, and give him a hard time, but he knew that the Dodgers were sacred; if he had known it would be an historical game, he would have gladly taken the stakeout duty so that Henry could go. Henry knew this because Mickey had told him about 1,000 times.

Almost two years later, on August 31, 1950, Mickey got a feeling. He had been planning to go to the track that day, and had given Henry the day off. There hadn't been much work. Henry remembered that was about the time he started to think about going out on his own. Mickey called a friend and got two tickets down the first base line. Then he called Henry and said they were going to the game. They had been to games before and seen some good ones, but nothing like the no-hitter. Henry remembered what his friend had said on the phone: “Henry, I know I gave you the day off, but we are going to Ebbets…I have a feeling”. In truth, Mickey had said similar things before, and was usually wrong, but Henry didn't care. He would never turn down a chance to see the Dodgers play.

Only one Brooklyn Dodger in history has ever hit four home runs. He was kind enough to do it for Henry on that last day of August. Or at least, that is how Henry liked to remember it.

He got up from the kitchen table, turned off the radio, and went to his dresser in the bedroom. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a stack of magazines. In the middle of them, perfectly flat, in perfect condition, was the scorecard from that day. He read through every batter. It was as if he was back at Ebbets with his friend and mentor.

He put it away. Henry pulled out his notebook, dated the first clean page, and made a list for the day. His mind seemed clearer now and it was time to get back on the case.

Chapter Twenty

He listened for any shuffling around inside, as he walked past Bobby's office; he slowed up a bit. Henry wasn't interested in one of Bobby's long stories and was sure that if Bobby heard him in the hall, he would be knee deep in a lengthy tale, before he knew what hit him. He checked his watch. Nine o'clock and time to get back to work on Mickey's case. The empty receptionist desk suddenly bothered Henry. Had he really been doing everything Mickey had taught him? He sat down at the empty desk to think.

Thirty minutes passed and he still didn't know why he had never bothered to hire someone. There were countless times it would have been handy. How many clients had he lost because they showed up while he was out? It didn't look professional.

The thought crossed his mind that he might not be good enough to catch Mickey's killer. The doubt washed over him like a cold northerly wind, and it chilled him to the bone. Mickey had wandered into his life at just the right moment, but now he wasn't sure if he had spent enough time learning the ropes. His old boss was always testing him. Henry had loved it.

Could this be the final exam?
Henry pushed aside the sick feeling he remembered from school. This test he couldn't bluff his way through.

Footsteps were coming down the hall; Henry hopped to his feet and went to the door. He heard a knocking, but it was a few doors down. He heard voices greeting each other and a door being closed. Henry walked back into his office and made some coffee. The view out the window didn't provide any inspiration, but he looked anyway.

When you're stuck, make a list,
he thought, echoing the words of his mentor.

He flipped open his notebook and set it on the desk. The pencil was dull, so he sharpened it. First item...

The fears were strangling his mind. The blank page staring back at him screamed a deafening rebuke.
What do you do next? First item, who are the players in the New York art scene?
Just getting it on paper was a start, but the fears were coming faster than the ideas.

He opened the desk drawer. There was the card for Mr. Brown, who might or might not be wearing a brown suit today. It was the only item on his list, but maybe if he started at the top of the (very short) list, he may find a few more items to add.

Henry locked the office door and headed out to pay Mr. Brown a visit.

The metaphorical wind, which had chilled him earlier, was replaced by a very real arctic blast in Henry's face. His hat nearly got away from him, but his reflexes were still sharp. Hat in one hand, he used the other to hail a cab. The driver knew the address, and Henry was thankful he wasn't chatty.

Traffic in Manhattan was brutal, but they got there. Henry paid him and, with one hand on his fedora, exited the cab.

Mr. Brown's secretary was a stunning brunette. She politely asked Henry to take a seat and then informed Mr. Brown that he was waiting. A few minutes later the office door opened, and Mr. Brown, wearing a different brown suit, invited Henry in and offered him a chair.

"Mr. Wood, how may I help you today?"

"I don't want to take a lot of your time; I know you're busy. When we met the other day, I was unprepared, and for that, I'm sorry." Henry had decided on the ride over to come clean about Mickey being dead.

"I’m happy to help and I do appreciate your being brief, as I have a meeting in about ten minutes."

"I'll get to the point, then. I don't know why Mickey wanted to talk to you, not completely. He was killed yesterday, and I'm not sure it was an accident. I used to work for him, and he means a lot to me, so I was in his office looking for something which might help me find his killer." Henry paused when the secretary popped her head in and reminded Mr. Brown of his meeting.

"I’m sorry to hear it. Were you able to figure out why he wanted to see me?"

"I found some notes…it appears he was working on a case involving art. I was wondering if you might recognize any of these names." Henry took out his notebook.

"I might, as I do know most of the best collectors in New York. I'm quite proud of my own collection."

Henry wasn't sure why he didn't read the list in order, but he didn't. Mr. Brown's reaction to the first two names was a simple shrug and a shake of the head. "I don't have a first name, but it seems there is a Dr. Schaefer," Henry said.

"Yes, he is a well known collector. I have seen him at gallery openings, though I couldn't say that I know him. We have even gone after a few of the same items at Sotheby's."

"Did you win the bids?"

"I have won some, but regardless of whether I win or lose, I always suspect that he has gotten the better of me. I don't like to admit it, but he has a sharp eye."

"What about the name Andre Garneau?"

The moment that Mr. Brown heard the name, he sat up in his chair. "He is a pig! That bastard wouldn't know a Rodin from a rodent. Nobody knows where his money comes from, but if I were to guess, I would say he has stolen it. He doesn't love art – he loves attention. His appetite for art is almost as great as his appetite for food. I would not call him a collector. He is more of a hoarder."

Henry noted the strong reaction and the comments. He read the other names, but Mr. Brown didn't seem to know any of the last few.

"I have just one more question,” Henry said, “are you familiar with an object called the ‘Antikythera Mechanism'?"

Mr. Brown was motionless, unnaturally so, for the briefest of moments. His eyes didn't blink, but Henry saw his pupils change.

"No, I can't say I'm familiar with it. Doesn't really sound like my cup of tea, some antique machine… no not at all. I'm interested in traditional art, paintings, sometimes sculptures, but never something so pedestrian. I haven't heard of it at all. What is it?"

The length of the answer was as telling as the pupils. Henry stood up and thanked Mr. Brown.

Chapter Twenty-One

Damn,
Henry thought. Another person was waiting at his door while he was out. When he got closer, the collar made it even worse. Henry wasn't a religious man, but he respected those who were, and believed that they deserved to be treated well.
I really need a secretary.