Time and Again

by Brian D. Meeks

  Claude had noticed, however, that Garneau only seemed to go to confession after their visits to Pierre’s place. He never understood why, but assumed that Garneau was getting the better of the young Matisse, and was feeling a need to repent.

  Garneau walked up the steps. The inside was warm and comforting, but most of all, it was dark and quiet. He lit a candle, prayed, and then entered the confessional.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned....”

  A whisper answered him. “Yes, and you will again. Do be quick – I don’t have all day...my son,” the priest said in a mocking tone.

  In truth, the priest was not actually ordained. He was, however, a great forger and had conned his way into the church. He was hiding from enemies. They were looking for him in Europe and even North Africa. A few people suggested he might have gone to America, but nobody suspected a Catholic church.

  He was called Father Patrick Liguori…which wasn’t his name at all. He was one of the greatest fences in the world. His success was so profound that he had to go into hiding and now only dealt in works, which nobody else would touch. Before an item made it to him, it would travel to dozens of countries, be passed through many careful hands, and eventually be made available in a private auction.

  “I understand that someone hired a P.I. to try to find out who the collectors are?” Garneau asked.

  This was news to Patrick, but he played it cool. “So what if they did? Why do you bother me with such matters?”

  “I want to know who is poking around in my business. I want to know if it was you!”

  “Your fatness is equaled only by your stupidity. I already know who all of you are. Idiot.”

  This stunned Andre, as he immediately realized the absurdity of his accusation. In his rage at breakfast, the first name to pop into his head was Patrick’s. He hadn't thought it through, which was not at all like him.

  “I am sorry…you are right.” Apologies were also not like him, and it scratched his throat as he said it. “Do you know if it is one of the other collectors?”

  “This is the first I am hearing about it.” After a brief pause, Patrick decided not to be too hard on Andre. He was, after all, one of his best clients. “I do appreciate you bringing this to my attention. It's best that I take some precautions before the upcoming auction.”

  “Yes, I agree,” Andre said eagerly. He wanted to ask about the auction, but knew better. The third rule was to never speak about the art, especially in the confessional. It had happened once: the next day, the gentleman's home was raided and his collection was seized by the authorities. That was the rumor, at least. Whether it was true or not, the thought was enough to keep everyone in line.

  Andre said nothing more and returned to the car. He felt very much on edge. He needed to take action, and had believed that a visit to the church would make him feel better. It had not.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hans had walked for a couple of hours. He had slept for a few. His apartment was clean, neat, and meticulously geometric. Along one wall of the living room, a China cabinet by Paul Frankl, with its slate gray base, and ivory doors, was precisely centered. His streamlined sofa, also by Frankl, was made from black lacquer and covered in black leather. There was a simple rectangular, black coffee table, art deco lamps and sconces, and a rug with a giant red circle in a field of gray and black overlapping rectangles.

  His tiny office, a converted bedroom, had a desk by De Coene Freres with four simple drawers and tapered legs, also of black lacquer and sitting on nickel feet. Next to the desk was a Manik Bagh side table designed by Eckart Muthesius.

  In short, he lived in a shrine to the years between the two wars. They were his happiest days, his youth, and though he grew up poor, he was too happy to notice. WWII ended his bliss.

  Hans had showered, shaved, put on his dressing robe, and made a light breakfast, though it was well past noon. Two cups of coffee later, after having read the paper he picked up on the walk home, he washed the plate and silverware and put them away. He washed and dried the coffee cup and returned it to its place amongst the others, which never got used. He dressed in a tailored suit and picked out a tie with a small amount of blue in it. Before he left, he went to his desk, opened a journal, and wrote on a piece of note paper his tasks for the day. He handn’t sat at the desk, but chose instead to stand, so as not to break the crease in his pants.

  It took less than thirty minutes to walk to the Flatiron building. He climbed the steps and entered the hallway. Hans noted the numbers on the door, and he surmised that the office in question was at the far end of the hall. One door, on his right, opened slightly as he walked past. He gave a quick glance and saw a small man peering through the gap at him.

  He was glad it wasn't this man that he was there to see.

  The glass on the door read “Henry Wood Detective Agency”. He tried the handle, but, it appeared to be locked. He looked at his pocket watch and noted that it was still business hours. Strange that there wasn't a secretary, at the very least, during the day.

  Perhaps this Henry Wood isn’t going to be up to the job, he thought.

  He would give the detective fifteen minutes to return. He was quite prepared to go see the next detective on his list. The reputation of Mr. Wood was excellent, but Hans found this little inconvenience intolerable.

  ***

  Henry noticed the man waiting outside his door as he strode down the hall.

  I really need to get a girl to manage the office, he thought as he walked down the hall. For years he hadn't been able to afford to hire anyone, but that wasn't the case now. After years of saving, he was finally comfortable, and who knew how many clients he was losing while he was out on a case. Henry decided he would add it to his list, and give it priority, especially since he was sure that his current case would be keeping him busy.

  Henry had no idea how long the man had been waiting. Bobby popped out of his office and walked towards the stairs. As he passed by Henry, Bobby whispered, “He has been there for about ten minutes. I don't trust him.”

  Henry didn't say anything, but tipped his hat towards Bobby, in lieu of a “thanks”.

  “Hello, sir! I apologize for the inconvenience. I had to step out briefly.” Henry opened the door and showed the man inside.

  “My name is Hans. I’m looking for someone with your skills to do some...research.”

  “That sounds like something for a grad student. What type of research?” Henry motioned for him to follow him into his office and offered to make some coffee. Hans declined.

  Hans took a seat, when offered, and then asked if he could smoke. Henry nodded and held up a lighter. Hans offered one of his imported cigarettes to Henry, which he accepted.

  Hans said, “You would not be working for me directly, but for my employer. He prefers anonymity, though you will meet him, if your services prove to be right for the job.”

  Henry listened and smoked.

  “My employer is a very wealthy man who enjoys the finer things in life. A piece of art, or more aptly, a piece of history, is going to be made available for sale, and he is interested in buying it.”

  “That is interesting: he collects art. Where do I come in?”

  “If we decide to hire you, we will require you to look into the seller and the item. It will be very expensive and caution must be taken. My employer does not wish to purchase a fake.”

  “I can find out anything you want to know about a person, but what makes you think I am qualified to authenticate art? I'm not an art historian. Surely there are men more qualified than me to determine the authenticity of some old painting?”

  “The object is not a painting…but that isn't important. What is of concern to my employer is that the object actually exists. We only require that you learn a little about the seller and verify that the object is as described. If it is determined that this object does exist, and my employer wishes to participate in the sale, he will be given an opportunity to have an expert auth
enticate the piece.”

  “Who is the seller?” Henry took out his notebook and prepared to take notes.

  Hans took a long drag on the cigarette. “I am not ready to hire you, Mr. Wood. I have a few questions, if you don't mind?”

  Henry closed the notebook, leaned back in his chair, “I don't mind at all. Fire away.”

  “How long have you been a private detective?”

  “Almost thirteen years.”

  Hans had known the answer, but wanted to see if Henry would exaggerate.

  “Would you be able to commit to my employer with 100% of your time?”

  Henry didn't have any other clients, nor did he want to be distracted from finding Mickey's killer, but his gut told him that Hans' employer might be on Mickey's list.

  “I just finished up a case. I was going to take some time off, but I could handle this job first.”

  “That is excellent. My employer is prepared to pay $10,000, plus daily expenses. He would require complete discretion. Do you work alone?”

  Henry was quick on his feet. He knew that if this guy was involved in the case Mickey was working on, then he would need some help. “I have a couple of people who work with me, beating the bushes as it were. They can keep a secret, if that's what you mean.”

  Hans thought for a moment. He had expected that this was a one-man shop. “I would need to meet your associates before I make a decision.”

  Henry hadn't counted on this request. He bluffed.

  “No problem…they'll both be back in town day after tomorrow.”

  Hans thought about this. He had decided that Henry was the man for the job and really didn't want to wait. “I prefer to get started, as soon as possible… but I suppose one extra day will be fine. My employer is cautious, as I said, so shall we say noon?”

  Henry set his cigarette in the ash tray, stood and extended his hand. “I will see you then.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The icy cold shower seemed like a necessity.

  Who killed Mickey? What had caused Katarina to show up after so many years? Had Marion changed her hair?

  After an hour of getting ready, which was about thirty minutes longer than usual, Henry decided enough was enough. Slowly, his focus turned to the woman who haunted his dreams.

  He reminded himself that she was just a friend. He had never told her how he felt; she would be expecting to dine with her buddy, not the lovesick guy who had followed her around like a puppy so many years before. He wasn't sure if he could even remember what being “lovesick” felt like anymore. Years of hardening his heart had made him immune to such foolishness, or at least…he hoped he was immune. Luna had tested his resolve not too long ago…

  He imagined how the upcoming dinner might go as he sat at the kitchen table. Henry had left plenty of time, even with his extra fussing over the tie choice. He considered rereading her letters, but thought better of it. The best course of action, he thought, was to let her do most of the talking.

  He had a plan.

  Henry hailed a cab. It wasn't terribly far to the restaurant, but he was running on only a couple of hours sleep, and he had already done his fair share of walking today, so it didn't seem unreasonable.

  He arrived fifteen minutes early, which would be thirty minutes before Katarina showed up “fashionably late.” Henry took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer.

  There were four Wall Street bankers smoking cigars at the far end of the bar. At a table nearby, two bubbly stewardesses were enjoying some drinks and batting their eyes at the bankers. About half of the tables were full. The waiters glided around the tables. It was much like Henry remembered, though he imagined it would have been busier. He considered how long it had been since his last visit. All those years ago… perhaps the steady crowd of diners had started to drop off. He decided to ask.

  “Hey buddy, it seems a little slow tonight.”

  The bartender, who was setting out some new martini glasses, looked up. “Yes, it is. But, it'll pick up in an hour or so.”

  “I haven't been here in a few years. You still have the best steaks in town?”

  “Yes, we do, sir,” he said with pride. “They are so tender that they melt in your mouth. Some say that when they take that first bite, they get a glimpse of heaven.”

  Henry's mouth began to water.

  The bankers and the stewardesses had moved to a larger table, gotten some more drinks, and been joined by two more stunning blonds. There was a lot of giggling from the ladies and winking from the guys.

  No mystery there, Henry thought. While he nursed his beer, Henry resisted the urge to snap his head around each time the door opened. Instead, he found a good reflection of the front door in the bar mirror and kept his eyes peeled for her arrival.

  When it was finally Katarina who walked through the door in a brilliant blue coat, it seemed that time slowed. He stopped staring and took a sip of beer.

  He felt a light touch on his shoulder. “Henry Wood...”

  A coolness came over him. He was confident and surefooted. This had never happened before, when she was around.

  He stood up and gave her a light hug, more polite than anything. She hugged back with a moderately tight squeeze. They lingered, and then parted.

  A waiter was waiting to show them to their table. Henry helped her off with her coat and handed it to someone nearby, who may or may not have worked at the restaurant.

  Her dress was black and curvy. Henry couldn't help but say, “You look beautiful. The years have not only been kind…they have been complimentary.”

  “Seeing you, makes the years melt away. It seems like just yesterday, we were at that diner."

  Henry pulled out the chair for her and then took his own. A man lit the candle on their table and asked if they wanted anything to drink. Katarina ordered two martinis, the same way she had ordered them the last time they were there together. Henry wasn't sure, but he thought she might have been wearing the same earrings.

  “Those were some good years,” he said, feeling that old familiar warmth.

  Katarina reached out and took his hand. “My dear Henry, I did miss you.” She smiled, then let go of his hand when another waiter stopped with a pitcher of water. “It was a hard decision, leaving New York, but I had to. You know that.”

  “What have you been up to over the last decade or so?”

  “I went to visit my aunt in Wyoming after I got the news. I spent a couple of years losing myself in books. And then I got a message…that Paul was alive, hiding in Egypt.”

  There it was…that old kick in the gut. He knew it well, it came to him each time she talked about her fiancé Paul. He had disappeared and been listed as missing in action. Henry had tried to console Katarina, but she was in denial, and decided she needed a change. Henry had always thought she would be back. When the record turned up eighteen months ago, he was sure she had returned, but when it was followed up with nothingness, the wound was opened, again.

  He decided not to mention the record.

  She took a sip of water, giving Henry a chance to speak.

  He chose not to take it.

  “I joined him in Cairo and found work in a gallery. You know how I love art.”

  There it was again: art.

  “Yes, I do.” Henry could see her ring finger was bare, without breaking eye contact. “So you married Paul, like you had planned?”

  She shrugged. “Well, no, we hadn't known each other very long before he proposed. The war, life, and his own stupidity, took the luster away. We spent two years together in Cairo and then I moved on.”

  Henry knew the emotions creeping up on him had been buried for many years. It was unsettling to have them surface and possibly, dangerous.

  She took his hand again and looked into his eyes. “I should have stayed in New York – with you.”

  Henry mustered a practiced confident, charming smile. He stared into her eyes with such depth that the rest of the restaurant seemed to fade away.

&
nbsp; He didn't even notice the priest eating alone in the corner, or that he seemed to be watching them.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dr. Schaeffer and Hans had been enjoying some maultasche, a traditional Swabian dish made with an outer layer of pasta dough and filled with minced meat, a bit of smoked meat, bread crumbs, and onions. They look similar to Italian ravioli, but to Dr. Schaeffer, they were a reminder of his nanny's cooking when he was a boy.

  The conversation was sparse, as both men were enjoying their meal, the beer, and Wagner playing in the background. They preferred to savor the food. The talk would come later.

  To most people, the knock at the door would have gone unnoticed with Der Filegende Hollander playing, but the exceptional ears of Dr. Schaeffer heard the three taps clearly. Soft feet treaded down the hallway, the door opened, and an envelope was handed to the woman. She said nothing, giving only a nod. The woman walked to the dining room and cleared her throat.

  “Herr Doctor, a message.”

  He motioned her over and received the envelope. “Ick danke Ihnen”. He didn’t read it.

  “Hans, how was your day, my friend?”

  “It was productive. I selected three possible candidates, though I must admit, even the most highly regarded one has an air of seediness about him. If there were more time, I might reject them all, but as it stands, Mr. Henry Wood seems our best choice. I am to meet his associates at noon, day after tomorrow.”

  “Did he strike you as the sort who can keep a secret?”

  “Yes, I believe he can. I am going to reserve final judgment until after the meeting. Tomorrow, I will visit the other two candidates, as neither was available today.”

  “That is excellent, Hans. I’m quite pleased. Now, let's see what the padre has to say.” Dr. Schaeffer stood up and went to the sideboard, opened the top drawer, and removed a silver letter opener. With surgical precision, he sliced the envelope open. Removing the letter, he sat back down. From his jacket pocket, he retrieved his reading glasses, set them on his nose, and began to read aloud.