by Brian Meeks
The most famous Katherine whom Henry could think of, was Catherine the Great. Could this be a reference to her? It was possible, as he was sure Mickey wasn’t above misspelling her name. But what was the opposite of Catherine? Henry didn’t have any idea, but he did have resources. Over the years, he had developed an encyclopedic knowledge of the references made available at the public library.
Henry grabbed his hat and coat, locked his door, and headed to the office. He was getting his second wind.
CHAPTER 10
The Flatiron building on 23rd had housed his office since Tommy “The Knife” burned Henry out of the old place. It was a little bit bigger, had a better view, a few plants, and some filing cabinets. Henry had settled in and sat behind his desk. A pot of coffee was brewing, and the air was filled with the aroma of thinking.
Henry had gotten tired of flipping through to the back of Mickey’s notebook. He carefully copied each of the three pages into his own notes. Next, he numbered them and turned his attention to page two. With his head clear from the shower, he started to consider the scribbling. There were the numbers one through six written down the side with each one having two words – which didn’t make sense – and then squares or tiny stick figures. He took a deep breath and asked himself the question, “What is the first thing to come to mind?”
Before he could answer himself, he heard some short, stubby, and highly excitable steps coming down the hall. Henry knew the little patter of annoying feet.
He got up and went to meet Bobby at the door.
He waited for the knock, and then opened it.
“Hello, Bobby.”
“Hello, Henry. I heard about your friend. I'm sorry.” He took a heavy breath.
This was strange for Bobby. Henry was used to his frantic ramblings and his nauseating happiness, but to see him in such a solemn state was unsettling. Henry had grown to tolerate Bobby, and, seeing him now, he felt the slightest bit of fondness for the strange little man.
“Thanks...buddy.”
Bobby flashed a brief smile.
“His death was not as it should have been. A man like that, after a life of helping people, didn’t deserve for his days to end. But, sometimes the hands of time cannot be slowed or altered, even if we think we can change what might have been. Is there anything I can do to help? I'm at your service.”
Bobby never ceased to amaze Henry. In a flash, the tiny, annoying man had touched Henry. Then, a scant moment later, his mouth had spewed forth something philosophical and elegant. It didn’t even sound like Bobby; the manner, tone, and vocabulary were all wrong. Words of condolence seldom had an effect on Henry, but this was different. It was, as if, it had come from someone else, perhaps someone from a different age entirely.
Henry didn’t have time to add “The Mystery of Bobby” to his list of things to unravel, but maybe after Mickey’s killer was found, he would give it some thought.
There was a silence as Henry considered Bobby’s offer to help. It couldn’t hurt, he thought. “Come on back…I want to show you something.”
Bobby followed Henry into his office. Henry handed his notebook to him and said, “Mickey tended to write in code. I hadn’t talked to him in a few years, and he always changed the way he took his notes. Back in the day, we used to have breakfast, and he would explain his latest method for encryption. I guess what I'm asking is, what is the first thing that comes to mind when you see this?”
Bobby, excited again, said, “Oh, I love a puzzle! This page looks like a list. Not just a list. It looks like a list of names. Those two people with the stick figures have something in common, as do the three people with the picture frames.”
“Picture frames...” Henry said aloud, then continued, “Those are not just squares…they are thicker. They do look like picture frames. Bobby, that is a good find!”
Bobby was nearly bursting with excitement. “What do you think the picture frames mean?”
“I think they represent art. Maybe those names are a list of painters?”
Bobby, almost hyperventilating, said, “Then the stick figures are statues. Those other people must be sculptors.”
Henry smiled. “This is a good lead. I need to make some calls. Thanks for your help, buddy.”
Bobby did a little leap, spun around, and bolted out of the office. He yelled as he exited the waiting room, “Any time, buddy!”
Henry had to smile. He took a dirty coffee mug, grabbed an even dirtier towel, and made a half-hearted attempt at wiping it out. After pouring a cup, he added some sugar and stirred it while he returned to his desk. In his left hand he held the coffee cup, and on the desk, the open notebook. The coffee tasted good, but the idea about painters and sculptors seemed a touch sour.
Why would Mickey get bumped off because he was looking into a bunch of artists?
Henry didn’t think artists were the murdering type, but he couldn’t be sure. Katarina knew much more about the art scene, so he jotted down a note to ask her what she thought about it.
Henry picked up the phone and called the public library. He asked the head librarian, Marian, if she had any books about Catherine the Great, especially ones that might have portraits that had been painted during her lifetime. She promised to find some and leave them behind the counter for him to pick up.
Henry flipped forward to page three and said aloud, “Anti Catherine.”
Bobby’s sense that the list had something to do with art, plus Mr. Brown being an art collector, seemed to be pointing in the same direction. Henry mulled this over for a few minutes and then he said to the walls, “Not artists, collectors!”
He flipped back to the list, grabbed a yellow pad, and counted the letters next to each number.
The sixth number had seven letters, followed by five letters. If this was “W-i-l-l-i-a-m B-r-o-w-n,” then Henry would have a great start at cracking the code.
CHAPTER 11
November 10, 1902 was a date Henry knew well. It had very little significance, besides being on the cornerstone of his favorite building in New York.
Henry walked towards 5th and 42nd street. If New York was a jungle, then the kings of the jungle could be found guarding the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building. South of the main steps, surveying those who passed by seeking knowledge, was Patience. Always vigilant, Fortitude kept an eye open for trouble. They were originally called “Leo Astor” and “Leo Lenox,” named for the founders of the New York Public Library, but Mayor LaGuardia renamed them in the 1930s, and it stuck.
Patience and Fortitude would both be required to find Mickey’s killer. As Henry walked past, there were tourists gawking at Patience and speaking in a tongue he couldn’t recognize. The words were unclear, but the admiration was evident.
Henry knew his way around the library and loved wandering the stacks, but today there wouldn’t be any time for a bibliophile to explore.
Marian was helping an elderly man check out his books. Henry waited patiently in line. When she saw Henry, Marian reached under the counter and pulled out three books. The smile told Henry he could grab them and go find a nook or cranny and dig in. Five minutes later, Henry was reading all about Catherine the Great.
Catherine took power when her husband, Peter III, was deposed in a conspiracy. This was all very interesting, but didn’t seem relevant. A thought crossed Henry’s mind. He knew so little about the list of names that it was hard to tell if any of the history of her life might be important. Still, there wasn’t much else to do before meeting Katarina for dinner, so he continued for another two hours.
Henry’s head was swimming with miscellaneous facts and bits of Russian history. His second wind was gone, and he yawned as he closed up the third book. He walked past a couple of NYU students who were more focused on studying one another than their physics. The young man had his hand on her elbow and was whispering something in the blonde’s ear. She was giggling. It was nice.
The front desk was quiet now. Henry walked up and placed the books on the cou
nter.
“Hello, Marian, how are you today?”
“Mr. Wood,” she said in a quiet voice. “It's nice to see you today. Were the books helpful?”
“I enjoyed them, but I'm not sure if I'm on the right track.”
There was a glint in her eye. “Are you working on a case?”
Henry knew she liked to live vicariously through his adventures. He didn’t feel like telling her he was his own client doing a job that felt like an anvil on his chest.
“Yes, it's a case. A real puzzler.”
“Oh, how exciting! May I ask how Catherine the Great is mixed up in your case?”
“I'm not sure she is; it's just a hunch. It was something I read.”
“A clue?” she said, hopeful, in a voice which was a bit too loud. If she hadn’t been so excited, she might have shushed herself.
Henry held up one finger to his mouth, with a smile. Marian blushed and looked down at her feet.
Henry pulled his notebook out and flipped to the passage about Catherine. He slid it across the counter. Marian’s blush faded as she picked it up. She tilted her head to one side and pulled a pencil out from the bun in her hair. She tapped it lightly on the counter, the wood end making a slight rapping noise.
She asked, “Are you sure it’s spelled correctly?”
“I got the notes second hand, but Catherine is spelled the same as it was in the books.”
“That isn’t what I meant. Could it be ‘Antikythera’?”
Henry wasn’t sure what she had just said, but he didn’t want to let on. So he fixed a pensive look on his face in the hope she might elaborate if he didn’t respond right away.
“I don’t know what ‘Anti Catherine’ means, but maybe the person didn’t know how to spell ‘Antikythera’?”
Henry decided to end his own suffering, even if it tarnished his image in Marian’s eyes. “I think that is reasonable, as I don’t know how to spell ‘Anti...’ In fact, I don’t know how to say it, or what you're talking about.”
Marian gave Henry a pat on the hand, “It’s okay…not many people do. It's a fascinating story...”
A woman with books on gardening was now standing behind Henry. Marian gave her a smile and said, “I'll be right with you.” She looked back at Henry and continued, “...The story would take a little while to explain. Why don’t I find some information about it for you? It’s starting to get busy. Maybe you could come back tomorrow?”
Henry turned his head and said, “Sorry Miss,” then smiled at Marian. “I'll see you tomorrow.”
He tipped his hat and walked towards the door. Heading out of the building, he had a good feeling about this “anti” thingy. He was anxious to learn what she was talking about…then he spied Patience and decided that it was an omen, or, at the very least, some good advice.
He turned his thoughts to Katarina.
CHAPTER 12
Arthur’s assumption of displeasure at the update had proven to be correct.
The staff hid while Arthur ate his breakfast, seemingly immune to the screaming from his employer. During the rant, a bone china tea cup and two vases had fallen victim to Garneau’s rage. He circled the room yelling about incompetence, calling Arthur names and firing him…twice.
The breakfast rampage lasted for close to an hour. Garneau worked up such a lather, he needed another bath. The French maid and Claude, upon hearing the ruckus, had curtailed their amorous activities. Claude went to find shelter in the car. The maid went to fill the tub for Garneau. He soaked until the water was lukewarm, then he bellowed out a command for more warm water. The poor maid needed to make two return trips that morning.
“Hurricane Andre,” as Arthur sometimes called him, though not to his face, lost steam after a while and was downgraded to a tropical storm. Even Andre knew that his bluster was gone. So he dressed again, ordered Claude to come around with the car, and told Arthur they were going to visit the Matisse place.
Claude knew the way to the gallery. When his boss needed to go someplace but didn’t have anything important to do, he would go to the gallery at 41 East 57th Street, in the Fuller building. Pierre Matisse, a talented artist, who was born in the shadow of his father, Henri Matisse, opened the gallery in 1931. The gallery was the site of Andre’s first legitimate art purchase, a piece by the surrealist, Paul Delvaux.
They arrived, and Claude waited in the car. For an hour, Andre Garneau and Pierre shared a glass of wine and talked about art. Then he returned to the car and instructed Claude to drive to the church.
The pieces of art which Andre had purchased from legitimate gallery owners like Pierre were nice, but they were just for show. The real treasures were locked in a secure room with perfect lighting, steady temperature, and a single velvet chair. He had three lost master works, which had disappeared during WWI, and two more which were presumed destroyed when the Germans rolled through Hungary. Knowing that people were searching for his treasures made owning them extra enjoyable.
There were others around the world, who like to admire their own ill-gotten art, in tiny rooms. This group’s members knew of one another, but never met. A competitive club (some might say ruthless), but without each other, the game would be meaningless.
Like any good sport, there needed to be rules. One of the rules was that notice would be given before visiting the “other gallery,”, as they referred to it.
It wasn’t a gallery at all, but a cathedral, with a priest who was the intermediary.
Each member of this club had established a trigger location. They would go there first and stay an hour. This would give the local eyes and ears time to “announce” the pending visit. The priest would then become available for “confessions.”
Andre Garneau had chosen Pierre Matisse’s gallery for his trigger. It was the only place he could imagine spending an hour where he would not have looked out of place. He had considered choosing one of his favorite restaurants, but then he would have had to limit his visits.
This was not acceptable.
The thought had crossed his mind that he could choose a restaurant he did not like, but then he would have needed to endure an hour of dreadful dining, also a non-starter. He chose Pierre’s gallery because it was logical.
The second rule was that the trigger location must not be “involved” in any way. Pierre was completely on the up and up, and would have objected had he known how he was being used. The semi-frequent purchases by Andre made Pierre’s the perfect place for him to be seen. Even Claude didn’t know that the gallery stop was associated with visits to the cathedral, because he had been driving Garneau there since long before it had become Andre’s trigger.
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 collect
ors 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'm sorry…you're right.” Apologies were also not like him, and it scratched his throat as he said it. “Do you know if it's one of the other collectors?”
“This is the first I'm 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 13
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.
