Time and Again

by Brian D. Meeks

  His mind suddenly noticed something. It was a little thing, sort of fuzzy, like it was out of focus. Sitting behind Katarina, near the window at the front of the restaurant, was a man. He tried to see him more clearly, but he was just a dark mass eating a fish course. Henry wasn't entirely sure he was right about the fish course either.

  Henry grabbed his sleeping notebook and pencil and ran out of the office. His coat and hat felt slighted at not being included in the outing. Once spring arrived, they would be out of action until the fall, or the odd rainy day. His progress on Mickey's killer had been minimal, at best. He was sure – or more accurately, he hoped he was sure – he would be able to piece everything together, but the whole Mickey case was out of focus too. He just couldn't wrap his head around Mickey working on something in the art world that was such a big deal, it got him killed. There must be more to it.

  Henry didn't care that his light jogging up 23rd street, round the corner, and then up to the restaurant, was strange enough that people were lifting their heads out of the gray to give him dirty looks. Surely this crazy running man must be from out of town.

  Henry looked around the restaurant, but didn't recognize anyone. He hadn't really paid much attention to the wait staff, but then he noticed the bartender was the same guy as before. Slightly out of breath, Henry took a moment to gather himself. With his composure returned, he asked if it was possible to find out who had been sitting at the table by the window the other night. The bartender didn't know his name, and asked one of the waiters. The waiter remembered only that he had been very generous…for a priest. Henry asked if the priest was a regular. He was not.

  The pencil and notebook got it all down. There are lots of priests in New York, it could have been any of them, but his senses were telling him it was Father Patrick.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was 6:00 when Henry decided to visit the residence of Dr. Schaeffer. He had been too busy to call Marian, though he was curious if she had found anything about the anti-thingy.

  Hans answered the door. Both Henry and Hans were caught off guard. In the briefest of moments between shock and things getting out of hand, Henry decided to explain what he knew. It was possible that Henry had just stumbled upon a major piece of the puzzle, the same piece which he was expecting to meet with the next day at noon. It also crossed his mind that the expression on Hans’ face, had made a slight shift from surprise to distrust, and it looked like anger was just around the corner.

  “Hans, I had no I idea I would find you here. I am following up on an old case, and just today was told that Dr. Schaeffer was an expert on art. I hope you don’t think…”

  “Mr. Wood, I find this to be highly irregular. We have a meeting scheduled for noon tomorrow, and now I am not sure…”

  A voice in the back could be heard, but was only clear to Hans; Henry couldn’t make out what had been said. Hans had stopped talking, and then responded, “Yes, Doctor. Please follow me, Mr. Wood.”

  Henry was immediately aware he was walking through a home unlike any he had ever seen. The décor was late 19th century wealthy-beyond-imagination, with a nod towards, early 18th century opulence.

  Henry was shown to the dining room, where Dr. Schaeffer was standing by his Victrola. The man was removing the needle from Wagner’s Die Feen. He carefully took off the record and returned it to its sleeve. Dr. Schaeffer then made another selection. When the music began, he spoke to Henry.

  “I hope you don’t mind a little music.”

  “I like music, though I don’t know this piece.”

  “It is by a 19th century Russian composer and pianist by the name of Anton Rubinstein. Will you stay for dinner?”

  Henry expected to ask him a few questions, but the aromas emanating from the kitchen were too enticing to resist. Hans stiffened at the request, but eased up when Dr. Schaeffer gave him a quick glance.

  “Thank you, I believe I will, if it isn’t too much of an inconvenience.”

  “Not at all Mr. Wood, though…where are my manners? I have not properly introduced myself. I gathered from the brief conversation at the door that you must be the detective Henry Wood. I am Dr. Schaeffer… welcome to my home.”

  Henry shook his hand, looking him straight in the eye. One can learn a lot about a person if one looks them in the eye, especially when they first meet. Henry learned nothing, and made mental a note to never play poker with Dr. Schaeffer.

  The three of them took seats and a place was set for Henry. Dr. Schaeffer seemed to know the questions before they could be asked, so he did most of the talking. It was a long narrative about his home, with a little bit about Hans. He didn’t really touch on why Hans had come to see him, but as dinner was finishing up, he asked Henry, “Would you like to hear a story?”

  Henry had very much enjoyed dinner. Hans had warmed to him and forgiven the intrusion. If the story was half as interesting as the dinner conversation, it would be well worth hearing. “I do like a good story. What is it about?”

  “Have you heard of the ‘Antikythera Mechanism’?”

  The hairs on the back of Henry’s neck stood up. “I was asked that yesterday. I hadn’t heard of it, but I guess I have now. What is it?”

  “Follow me, let’s go into the library.” Dr. Schaeffer gave Hans a look, and Hans made an excuse to leave. Henry followed Dr. Schaeffer to the library. As they entered, a flash of gray fur darted in front of Henry. It startled him, then a black whirling dervish shot between his legs.

  “My apologies, Mr. Wood, for Jacob and Wilhelm; they are the true lords of the manor. I have had them both since they were kittens, failed to establish who was in charge, and they naturally assumed it was them. They will likely check you out, possibly give you a disapproving hiss, which shouldn’t be taken personally, and then hide in the piano room. I hope you aren’t allergic?”

  “No, I am fine. I almost stepped on the gray one.”

  “Yes, he is always under foot. The gray one is Jacob.”

  The cats did seem to vanish, though without the hiss. Henry felt they were still watching.

  Dr. Schaeffer offered Henry a cigar and brandy, which he gladly accepted. They sat down in the two chairs facing the fire. There was a brief discussion about the brandy.

  Dr. Schaeffer was about to begin his story when he noticed that Jacob was on Henry’s lap, and Wilhelm was perched on the top of the chair behind Henry’s head, in pre-nap position. How unusual, he thought.

  “It appears my audience is ready. They aren’t bothering you, are they?”

  Henry smiled. “No, I think we are ready for the story.”

  Captain Dimitrios Kondos made the decision in October, 1900. They might have been able to sail through the storm, but he thought it would be safer to stay. They chose to dive for sponges. His team used standard diving dresses; the canvas suits and copper helmets allowed them to dive deeper than without the gear.

  The first diver to come across the shipwreck was Elias Stadiatos. It was his description of the scene that started the questions. He said that it looked like a giant pile of rotting corpses and horses on the seabed. There was much concern on board at that, as it wasn’t the first time he had been touched from the madness which comes with too much carbon dioxide. They didn’t believe he had found anything… until the second diver came back with the bronze arm of a statue.

  Over the next two years, a treasure trove of artifacts was recovered. There were statues, a marble bull, a bronze lyre, and even a strange box with many gears.

  The work at the site was not without troubles. Several divers died from decompression sickness. This put an end to the diving.

  There were many people involved in the salvage of the ship, but it was the politics of the Greek Education Ministry which caused a few of the divers to talk of mutiny. Valerios Stais, an archaeologist, was well known for having found the “Antikythera Mechanism,” but what was less well known was that he felt cheated. It might have been the greatest technological discovery of the 20t
h century, or of any century before, and his compensation was rather paltry.

  He had a brother who also excelled at diving, and was older and less honorable than Valerios. It was the brother who discovered the tube, covered in a thousand years of sea growth. It looked like a long thin rock, but he had a good eye and brought it up. He didn’t tell anyone, not even his brother, at first. Several weeks of carefully removing nature’s outer shell revealed a tube, carved of ebony, with a remarkably tight- fitting cap. A month later, he confided in Valerios, and they opened it together.

  They were shocked. It contained a perfectly intact document. The brothers decided not to report the find. Valerios was curious and loved documents more than the other treasures, and felt he and his brother deserved a small bit of treasure. It was the first shady thing he had ever done. Though he felt guilty about the deception, his joy at reading the ship’s manifest helped him get over it.

  The ship had been carrying a portion of the loot from the Roman General Sullas, in 89 B.C., and was en route to Italy. In addition to the loot, there were several items which were gifts for high-ranking officials back in Rome, including a wealthy businessman. The businessman, who was only listed by a number on the manifest, had commissioned a device for studying the heavens. The creator saw the value of it, and decided that if he were going to spend so much time inventing such a machine, it might be worth creating two. When it was completed, the first machine was such a brilliantly conceived device that those few who saw it joked that he must have gotten help from God. The second device was never shown to anyone but the man who had made arrangements to sell it to Augustus. The second machine was much more advanced, inspired by the first, and improved upon greatly.

  When it came time to ship the items, great care was taken with their packing. Two men were hired to travel with them to make sure they arrived safely and to keep anyone from knowing about the second machine. Both items were listed on the manifest. There was a detailed paragraph explaining that the box destined for the benefactor was not to be touched by anyone aboard. The penalty for disturbing it was loss of one month’s salary. The penalty for opening the second hand-carved ebony and ivory crate, which was for Augustus, was death. The entire crew knew better than to cross the captain or get curious about the cargo.

  The container for Augustus was four times the size required to hold its precious cargo. There were three other interior boxes, lined with wool, and sealed tightly to protect it on the voyage. The precision of the machine was impressive, but the engineering and craftsmanship of the boxes was truly remarkable. The outside box was heavy and thick, with modest ornamentation, just enough to be impressive without being so awe-inspiring as to invite thieves. The interior boxes were not just containers, but locks, of a sort. Each box had a secret panel, which needed to be found in order to remove the lid. Each of the three interior boxes was made by the same craftsman, and was so precise as to be air tight.

  All of these details were described in the manifest. If the ship carrying Augustus’s shipment were to go down, it was believed the box would float, and thus be found and sent to Augustus. The ship did go down, but the box destined for Augustus didn’t, not at first. It did float…for a while. The outer box was not quite as air tight as had been hoped. It stayed buoyant long enough to travel another three kilometers, before it sank.

  The brothers, reading about the second box, knowing that it hadn’t been found, devoted the next twenty years to searching for it. They found it by chance, mostly buried in the sand, a proverbial needle in a wet hay stack. They didn’t know what they had; nevertheless, they bestowed the name “The Eye of God” on their find.

  This is where the story begins.

  Dr. Schaeffer was about to continue, when Hans entered, apologized for interrupting, and whispered something in his ear.

  “I apologize, but it is a call I must take. Perhaps we can continue the story another time. It is quite fascinating, and when you know the rest of the tale, you will be better able to help me in my request. Hans will show you to the door.”

  The cats had both vanished when Hans had entered. Henry stood up, thanked the doctor and Hans for the dinner, and left. Henry shook Hans’ hand, apologized again for the surprise, and then headed back to his office. He had a lot of writing to do.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A lovely young woman with straight dark hair and what some would describe as a European beauty sat with her friends. The bar was moderately crowded with people engrossed in their own lives. Professor Brookert sat at the bar reading while he drank a beer.

  The woman was overheard saying, "I don't walk outside."

  Her friends laughed. They were used to declarative statements from Celine. The aging Professor Brookert, not generally inclined to eavesdropping, had his curiosity piqued. He set his newspaper down and gave a look at the woman and her friends.

  “May I inquire as to how one avoids walking outside?”

  Her friends giggled. He wasn’t sure if it was his age, attire, or manner of speaking which brought about their collective laughter. Their tone was light and not at all condescending, though, so he chose not to take it personally.

  Celine, sensing that her friends’ burst of laughter might have been misinterpreted, stood and addressed the professor. “Don’t mind them. They are laughing at me.” Then she told them to shush. “In the winter, it is much too icy. I choose to walk like this.” Celine took a few steps on the balls of her feet.

  The professor couldn’t stop from smiling.

  “I haven’t fallen down in four winters!” she said triumphantly.

  The last comment made her friends burst out in even greater laughter. People in the bar were beginning to pay attention to the commotion. It certainly seemed like there was a lot of fun happening around that table.

  Celine grabbed her beer and went up to the bar. She threw herself onto the bar stool. “Does that answer your question?”

  Professor Brookert picked up his own beer and clinked her glass. “Yes it does, and that was a superb demonstration, young lady, thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome.” Celine cocked her head to one side, surveyed his horrifically unfashionable suit, and said, “You look like a professor.” She smiled confidently with a nod.

  Now it was time for the old man to laugh, though it was more of a chortle.“Guilty as charged, Miss.”

  “What do you teach?”

  “I enlighten the minds of our youth regarding antiquities, old cultures, and ancient languages at NYU.”

  “A history teacher, eh?”

  Normally having his life’s devotion distilled to such a pedestrian description would have gotten his dander up, and he would have torn into the troglodyte who said it. She had not meant to offend, was hardly a cave dweller (she was too fashionably dressed), and he found her rather charming. He simply nodded in agreement.

  Professor Brookert finished his beer and was about to leave, when Celine’s friends insisted he join them. Two hours passed. It was a lively conversation, with Celine doing most of the talking. She had lots of stories to tell, and the professor enjoyed them all. He rarely spoke that night, but occasionally doled out a spoonful of fatherly advice when called upon.

  One of the women worked at a brokerage firm, mostly getting coffee, typing up letters, and fending off advances from the bankers. “Most of the time,” she giggled. The two other women were in serious relationships, lived together, and were working diligently at getting their men to propose. Both were quite sure that they would be betrothed soon.

  Celine was between jobs. Two days earlier, her boss had crossed the line. She demanded respect. This part of the story she emphasized with a fist to the table. Her friends cheered. Her boss was unimpressed when she had said it to him with the same flourish, and fired her.

  When Celine expressed concern about finding a job, the professor had an idea.

  “I hope you won’t find this too forward, but this very day…” More snickers from the peanut gallery
. “…an associate of mine, a private detective, who I occasionally consult with, has expressed interest in bringing on a secretary. Though I suspect ‘Chaos Manager’ may be a more apt title.”

  Celine shot a serious look at the old man. “A detective! I would be a great secretary for a detective. Didn’t I figure out that you are a professor?”

  Brookert laughed, “That you did, my dear, that you did.” He pulled out a piece of paper and wrote down the address and a phone number for the Henry Wood Detective Agency, and included a note to Henry. “If you give Henry this piece of paper and show up at 9:00 sharp tomorrow morning, he will grant you an interview.”

  Celine, showing an even higher level of enthusiasm than she had already displayed that evening, popped up from the table. “If I am going to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow, I best go. Night, girls. Professor Brookert.” Celine flew out of the bar, and, true to form, immediately started her special winter prancing. A few careful steps later, and she was in a checkered cab.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Celine walked down the long hallway and read the words aloud on the door as she approached. “Henry Wood Detective Agency.” Just hearing it seemed thrilling, certainly more so than her last job. She just hoped that this Henry Wood was more of a gentleman than Mr. Grabby Hands.

  Celine was not one who was prone to stage fright. She hadn’t been at all nervous when she played Little Orphan Annie as a child in the school play. Today, though, there was the slightest bit of trepidation. She really needed the job, and wanted it more than she had wanted anything in a long time. She took one last long deep breath, which calmed her fidgeting, and came to stop in front of the door. She raised her perfectly manicured hand and knocked at an appropriately moderate noise level.