Low City: Missing Persons (A Tractus Fynn Mystery Book 3)

by Alexander, MK

  Something was missing from this bank though. Of course I couldn’t see any vaults or tellers, nor patrons waiting in line. I finally realized there was not a single computer to be seen.

  A smartly dressed secretary took us one flight up. She seemed to know Anika as Mademoiselle Luis, and I heard them chattering in hushed tones, and in Dutch. The woman glanced over at me from time to time, though I could not read her expression. She led us into a large dark office. A man rose and greeted Anika with enthusiasm, a polite hug and a double kiss. He spoke to her in Dutch, and she nodded over at me. He had a thick flushed face and wire rim glasses.

  “Ah, an Englander… I am Miles Vanderhoot. How may I help you, sir?”

  “Not an Englander… an American, actually.”

  “Well, how unfortunate for you. Since you are here with my lovely Anika, I must be of service to you somehow.”

  “Thanks. I’m here trying to find Mr Fynn.”

  “Fynn?” he repeated. “Who?”

  “Tractus Fynn.”

  “Of course, of course, though you must understand I can say nothing. This is a private bank and our clients must remain strictly confidential.”

  “But I’m here with Mr Fynn’s very own daughter.”

  “Is this true, my dear? Tractus Fynn is your father?”

  Anika nodded and smiled shyly.

  “Well, I must admit I had no idea this was so… all these years… Still, I cannot say anything, you must understand of course. Strict confidentiality for all our clients.”

  “It’s pretty important.”

  “I’m sure it is to you, but I’m sorry to say, I cannot be of any assistance.”

  “Please, we’re getting a little desperate. Fynn’s gone missing and we need your help.”

  “I see… but you must understand things from my point of view. It may be that Anika is acting under duress— eh, my dear? You, sir, might be blackmailing her, or forcing her to do something she doesn’t wish.”

  “It’s not at all like that,” I said with growing frustration but tried to return his pleasant smile. I fumbled through my pockets and presented Fynn’s old credit card.

  “This has expired… and it was not issued by us,” he said after a quick glance.

  “Fynn gave it to me.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well then, a question for you: What is your name?”

  “My name? Is that important?”

  “Perhaps I will decide this.”

  “I’m Patrick. Patrick Jardel.”

  “Good heavens, why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  “My name means something to you?”

  “Of course, of course, Mr Fynn has given you carte blanche, the green light as an American might say. Anything you need. I am completely at your service.” He beamed a huge grin and shook my hand vigorously, then sat behind his desk again. “Do you have identification? Papers?”

  I dreaded what was coming next: explaining the difference between myself and Gary Patrick Stevens, but presented my passport and driver’s license. Mr Vanderhoot examined them thoroughly and without a word; nor did any readable expression cross his face. He pressed a button on the intercom and spoke softly. The secretary appeared and he handed off my papers with a few hushed words.

  I turned to Anika, but she just shrugged. Either she couldn’t hear them or it was a language neither of us knew.

  “It will be just a moment, Mr Stevens, while we check the files. A bit of patience, please.” He smiled pleasantly but said nothing more.

  “How long has this bank been in business?” I asked idly.

  “This particular branch was founded on the twenty-seventh of February, sixteen thirty-seven.”

  “Is that significant?”

  “Perhaps not, but March, sixteen thirty-seven certainly was.” He looked up at my uncomprehending face and his smile faded. “Tulip bulbs, my good sir. We sold them at the correct moment in history.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant.

  “Of course, our Geneva branch has been in business a good deal longer, by at least a century. Sadly, we’ve had to close our doors, ever since that bit of Switzerland went missing.”

  “What?”

  Mr Vanderhoot smiled pleasantly. “The incident with the super collider. I’ve been assured it’s only temporary.”

  The receptionist returned with my ID and a very thin folder. Mr Vanderhoot adjusted his glasses and read. “Ah yes, very good… Jardel, Stevens or Sevens are all perfectly acceptable here.” He turned to me. “How may I be of service to you?”

  “Well, like I said, we’re looking for Fynn. He’s gone missing.”

  “Missing you say?”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve seen him lately? Maybe making a deposit or a withdrawal?”

  “No, I’ve never actually met the man… perhaps only his ancestors or descendants.”

  That was an odd thing to say, I thought. “You’ve never met Tractus Fynn?”

  “I may have and not known it. We are very scrupulous about our clients’ confidentiality.”

  “You do keep records, right?”

  “We are scrupulous about those as well. Perhaps I can check them for you?”

  “That would be great.”

  “Give me just another moment, please.”

  Anika took advantage of his absence and leaned into me with a big kiss. I was surprised but pleased. Mr Vanderhoot returned to the office, walking automatically, as the rest of him was wholly absorbed by a file in his hands. He had a worn ledger and began scanning it with his finger. “Ah, this will not do at all… these accounts are dwindling to almost nothing.”

  “How much is left?”

  “Remaining, you mean to say? Mr Fynn is down to a few hundred millions.”

  “Dollars?”

  “Dollars, Euros... Pounds, if you’d prefer…”

  “No, no, I’m not looking to make a withdrawal.”

  “Oh,” he said, a bit surprised. “Well, Mr Fynn has various accounts, all of which have been inactive for a good number of years.”

  “How many?”

  “The last activity in his main account was twenty-three years ago, nineteen ninety-two. A large purchase, I would guess.”

  “How much?”

  “One point three million dollars, US. Paid to Domino Real Estate.”

  “The house,” I said almost in a whisper.

  “What house?” Anika asked.

  “On Dune Road in Sand City.” I turned back to Mr Vanderhoot. “And before that?”

  “Nothing before that… not for a few hundred years.”

  “Really?”

  “It seems no one has made a deposit on Mr Fynn’s behalf in over five hundred and eighty years. There is of course the usual activity in his other accounts, the yearly disbursements: Anika’s allotment…” He paused to smile up at her. “Imagine, his daughter— what a surprise.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Oh yes, let me see: payments to America, your native land, again to Domino Real Estate, a small yearly sum… another amount to Lorraine Fynn, also in America, and rather generous… numerous charities, scholarships and grants… too many to catalogue… That’s all, I’m afraid to say.”

  “Nothing else, maybe something more recent?”

  “Only a wire transfer in nineteen sixty-four.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Five hundred pounds sent to the Bank of England, a London branch.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Not at all.” Mr Vanderhoot went back to the ledger. “There are also quite a few cashier checks made out to a certain individual currently residing in France.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “Please, it could be important.”

  He hesitated. “Very well. Since you’ve been given carte blanche… The name on the check is Pavel Mekanos. I have an address in Paris.” He buzzed his secretary again.


  “Does the bank have a Mr Mortimer as a client, or a Professor Mallinger?”

  “This is not a question I can answer.”

  “Why not?”

  “Strict confidentiality, eh?”

  “Oh, you’d probably remember him… usually wears an eyepatch.”

  “I’ve never seen either of these men,” Mr Vanderhoot said, though he fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Do you have a safe?” I asked.

  He looked at me over his glasses. “A safe? Are you meaning a safety deposit box?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Even with carte blanche I would not presume to open Mr Fynn’s box for you.”

  “Oh.” I was a bit disappointed, thinking there might be a clue or so.

  “Unless of course you have the key?” Mr Vanderhoot smiled.

  “No, but I’d like to make a deposit.”

  “A deposit?”

  “I have something of Fynn’s… and I’d like to keep it secure, out of the hands of anyone, excepting Fynn or myself.”

  “And Meesteress Anika?”

  That was a good question and I wrestled with it for a moment. I wanted to keep her from harm’s way if possible. “No, only Fynn, only me.”

  “Hmm… this is not our usual procedure.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Our standard policy clearly states that anyone who possesses the key can access the safety deposit.” Mr Vanderhoot paused for a moment. “Just to be perfectly clear: you are not meaning to open an account of your own?”

  “No.”

  “You simply want to make a deposit into Mr Fynn’s box?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm. You do understand no one can access this box without the key.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You may make a deposit but not a withdrawal.” Mr Vanderhoot smiled pleasantly. “Unless Mr Fynn gives you his key.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “And you are to make this deposit in the present?”

  “The present?” I asked.

  “Today… this very morning.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. How large a box will you require? Are you leaving your wandelstok with us, Mr Jardel?” he asked.

  “My what?”

  “The cane.”

  I tried to read the expression on his face but there was none. I laughed. He did too. “You know, that might be a good idea,” I said, but reached into my carry-all and pulled out the manuscripts and Franny’s voluminous reports. I placed them on Mr Vanderhoot’s desk. The books had a strong musty odor by now.

  “This is all?” he asked. “Very well, if you’ll just follow me to the vaults, please.”

  ***

  Anika and I took a cab to the Centraal train station, which from the outside looked more like a palace. Inside was rather conventional, and we found a couple of seats together on the main concourse. In no time we were surrounded by a murmur of conversation of which I understood not a word. A tall woman drifted purposely through the crowded terminal, dressed in a bright yellow and black costume, complete with a matching hat. She came right up to us. It was Zalika, and somehow I wasn’t totally surprised.

  She smiled at us both. “No, not another coincidence… I am actually seeking you out,” she explained. “I remembered you’d be in Amsterdam.”

  “Seeking me out, eh?”

  “Yes. I need your advice about coffee or cafe.”

  “My advice?”

  “Your expertise.”

  “Oh. Sorry to say that’s sort of limited. I took coffee for granted all my life. My knowledge is very sketchy.”

  “I hear it grows in Yemen. Is it indigenous to there?”

  “Mocha… I think it’s a port city… but the actual plant might have come from Ethiopia.”

  “Are you sure?” Her eyes lit up.

  “Not sure… but I think I read that. Don’t you remember drinking coffee at the Library?”

  “In nineteen thirty-three?” Zalika thought for a moment. “No, I had tea… or wine.”

  “And what are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Waiting for a train, like you, I suppose.”

  “A train to where?”

  “The Hague, an EU development conference… And you?”

  “Off to Paris.”

  “Really? Who will you see? Edmund?” She glanced down at the cane. “Please say hello from me.”

  “I will… oh, this is Anika, Tractus Fynn’s daughter.”

  “Ah, my dear, a great pleasure to meet you at long last. I know your father, a lovely man. He’s always been very supportive to my aims and goals.” She smiled. “Is he traveling with you?”

  “No… he’s on… vacation,” I said and glanced at Anika who gave me a weird look.

  It wasn’t long before the two women were best friends. They conversed away in French or Dutch for a time, then giggled and threw glances my way.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing…” Anika said and grinned.

  Zalika had another question, something she remembered: “Tell me, Patrick, do you know what happened to the suitcase full of money?”

  “Drummond’s suitcase?”

  She nodded. “They would tell me nothing at the bank.”

  “Which bank?”

  “The Aldus Trust.”

  “Hmm… maybe it was lost in the fire?”

  “A great shame.”

  “Um, I have a question too…”

  “Yes?” Zalika replied with a smile.

  “Do you know anyone named Lilly?”

  “I may have met her sister.”

  “Her sister?”

  “Chloe.”

  chapter twelve

  plaster of paris

  We took the bullet train to Paris, about a three-and-a-half hour ride aboard the Blitzkrieg. Anika curled up on the seat and slept for most of the trip, waking only as we slowed and pulled into the station. She seemed a bit startled and looked around sleepily, but smiled when she saw my face and cozied next to me until the train came to a full stop. It was easy to find the address Mr Vanderhoot had provided, a seven story apartment block not far from the Gare du Nord.

  Along the way, we had to walk by a construction site. It was noisy and dusty. In places, muddy water streamed across the sidewalk. Several jackhammers were digging through the pavement. Men were shoveling dirt, and heavy vehicles were slowly driving to and fro. In passing, I wondered why building crews were working on a Saturday.

  On the Rue des Deux Guerres, I found the right number: 22, and pushed against a giant wrought-iron and glass door; it creaked open, loud enough to wake the sleepy concierge. Along with us came the construction din, though it abated somewhat as the heavy door closed again.

  “Monsieur, Mademoiselle?”

  “Bonjour… Nous sommes ici pour Monsieur Mekanos,” Anika spoke for us both.

  “Plancher sept. Je pense yu sont attendus?”

  “Ah, oui.”

  “D’accord.”

  It was probably once a grand old building. Now the paint was peeling, the plaster had cracked, and the walls were heavily stained. I looked up through the middle of a vast stairwell to see a skylight. It wasn’t raining but water slowly dripped into a bucket next to me. Anika and I started our ascent.

  Minutes later and still breathless from all the stairs, I knocked on the door with the top of my new cane. It opened instantly and a funny little man peered out.

  “Allo, Allo, entrer-vous, s’il vous plaît…” he greeted us lavishly and extended his arm.

  This was Pavel Mekanos, the man I had heard so much about. He was a barrel-chested guy with huge forearms that tapered into the most delicate fingers I’d ever seen. He also had a shaved head and a large white mustache that drooped over his entire mouth. I had trouble not thinking about Yosemite Sam as I glanced at him. And I did wonder why he was wearing a top hat in the middle of the day.

  “I hope you speak English,” I said.

  “Eh
? Why of course, come in, come in, please…” His smile faded quickly though. “Who the devil are you?” he finally decided to ask.

  I was about to answer but he put up his finger indicating I should wait. He strode across the loft-like apartment to a set of glass balcony doors and shut them tight. The din of the jackhammer lessened somewhat and he returned to us.

  “I’m Patrick and this is Anika, Anika Fynn.”

  Mr Mekanos tipped his hat and bowed politely. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle.” He then turned to me. “Ah… yes, the Irishman… Well, I’m sure I’ve heard that name before. You have a dreadful fear of snakes— am I right?”

  “A different Patrick, maybe.”

  Mr Mekanos laughed; a peculiar laugh, a double, rapid-fire ha-ha. He ushered us inside.

  A small foyer led into a large living room with a very high ceiling. There was an alcove to my right with an orderly workbench and some tools, maybe those a jeweler would employ. The far wall held a small balcony beyond glass doors which were now closed against the noise.

  There were more double doors, two on each wall which led to places I could not guess. The entire apartment was lined with low bookshelves, each overflowing, and on the walls, dozens of paintings hung, spanning it seemed, all of art history.

  I hadn’t noticed at first, but one wall was completely covered in clocks. They were neatly arranged, hung with some care, and of every size and description. As I looked around, I saw more clocks: on the shelves, the bookcases, and even a few on the floor. When the jack hammers ceased their work for a moment, the whole apartment filled with a soft asynchronous ticking… it was somewhat soothing. Just a glance told me all the clocks were set at different hours, though as far as I could tell, they all kept the correct time; that is, none were moving faster or slower than normal.

  “Can I ask about the clocks?”

  “You may, though I can hardly give an adequate explanation.” Mr Mekanos beamed at me.

  “Can you say anything?”

  “Only that they are a help to my memory, a jog if you will. They allow me to keep track of my friends… where they might be, or when.” He laughed. “I even have an hour glass somewhere, and a few sundials out on the balcony— though the shade becomes a problem for them.”