Henry Wood: Time and Again: (12 page)

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.

She heard movement and then footsteps approaching the door. She counted the steps and quickly surmised the distance from the back office to the door. She pictured the inside and a desk, which would be hers.

“Hello, come right in. How may I help you?”

Though she didn’t show it, she was a little startled by the question. The professor had told her to show up at 9:00 and to give the man the piece of paper, which she had in her coat pocket. Celine had expected to be expected.

The smile and enthusiasm made an impression immediately, though she hadn’t said a word yet. Henry took the piece of paper which had just been thrust at his chest with the speed and accuracy of an Olympic fencer. He opened it.

“I'm here about the job!”

Henry held the door for her and offered to take her coat. He hung up next to his, and motioned for her to follow him into his office. They both took their seats. Henry grabbed a yellow legal pad and pencil.

“I’m Henry Wood, as you might have read on the door. What is your name, Miss?”

“Celine Spinoza.”

Henry wrote her name at the top of the page. “Have you done secretarial work before?”

She spoke clearly and at a blindingly fast pace. “Yes sir. I can type 100 words per minute, take dictation, short hand, pick up dry cleaning, fix coffee, and on occasion bring in a plate of brownies which will change your perception of ‘yummy.’”

Henry had delusions of note-taking, but knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep up with her, so he tried to fake it.

“The brownies sound delicious.”

Celine cocked her head to one side. She looked intently at Henry, and there was a long, strangely comfortable silence. “Did you really write all of that down?”

Henry looked at her, his eyes narrowed, and then he held up the yellow pad, turning it around so she could see that he had been bluffing.

“I knew it!” she said while pointing a finger. Henry thought it would have been more dramatic if she had said it in French, “J’accuse!” Still, her delivery was excellent.

“You need someone who is able to write fast enough to keep up with the speedy talkers.”

Henry couldn’t argue that point. He suspected that anyone trying to argue with this woman was getting in for more than they bargained for. “Tell me about yourself.”

“I’m friendly, but I don’t like fresh. I love baseball, but not the Yankees. I don’t like cats…because of who they are. If you ask me a question, I'll answer truthfully, even if I suspect you might want something else.”

Having given up the pretense of note-taking, he continued, “Tell me about your parents.”

“My mother is Italian, by birth and in attitude. She might be crazy. I can’t imagine her having children. My father, a businessman, also loves baseball. We try to go to games often – he always buys the peanuts. I love him for that. He likes foreign women and loves Mother deeply. She loves him too, but would never admit it.” Celine took a breath.

She was fearless and interesting. Henry was about to ask another question when she started up again.

“Oh, and I have a cat named Buttons.”

“I thought you said you don’t like cats.”

“Yes. I did.”

Henry expected her to elaborate, but she sat in heroic silence.

“You’ve got the job.”

A broad smile crawled across her face. Henry began the salary negotiations phase, which frightened him a bit. She was surprisingly reasonable in her demands, and an agreement was reached. Before Henry could ask her when she would be able to start, she had popped up from her chair, gone into the outer office, and grabbed a yellow legal pad of her own. She returned to stand at the side of his desk.

“Would you like to write a letter, or have me type up the notes from our meeting? I could make coffee.”

Henry’s eyes darted towards the coffee maker, and she was off.

Henry brought her up to speed on the current case, explained how he had lost his mentor, and told her about the meeting with the man in the brown suit. She returned to her desk and began to furiously type notes about the case. She looked up the addresses for “Big” Mike and Professor Brookert and created files for them. There were several filing cabinets, which were mostly empty, as everything before the Tommy “The Knife” case had been destroyed in the fire. Celine asked about the lack of files, and he told her about that case. Then she typed up notes on it, too.

She is a whirling dervish,
Henry thought, and then asked her to make a call to Marian at the public library, explain who she was, and ask if Marian had found out anything.

Henry was quite sure that he had just hired the hardest working secretary in the five boroughs. Soon Mike and the professor would be arriving. He stood at the window and watched the buzz of the city below. Things were starting to speed up. He just knew it.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The morning went by in a flash. Henry liked having Celine around. It allowed him to sit and think, something which he sorely needed to do. His unexpected dinner with Dr. Schaeffer was still weighing on his mind. Though, to be completely honest, it was Hans who made Henry uneasy. For an hour Henry jotted down notes about the high points he remembered from the night before. It was too bad he hadn’t been able to learn more about the anti ky-thingy, or at the very least, learn how it was spelled. It would have been rude to ask, he thought to himself. No matter, soon Professor Brookert would be here, and Henry was sure that researching whatever it was would be right up his alley.

The phone rang. Henry reached for it, but Celine was quicker. She had just set a cup of coffee on his desk, and with the speed of an ancient ninja warrior, snatched the receiver from the cradle.

“Henry Wood Detective Agency: we solve your mysteries.”

Henry gave her a look, and she smiled back. Celine had been there less than two hours and already she had created a tag line. Henry was getting a bargain with this one.

“May I tell Mr. Wood who is calling?” She looked at Henry, with her hand over the receiver. “It’s a woman named Katarina. Would you like to speak to her?”

Henry took the phone, shaking his head a little. Celine bounded back to her desk. She seemed quite pleased with her spur of the moment, and catchy, phone-answering line.

“Hey Kat, how you doin?”

“Henry, who was that woman on the phone? She sounds young.”

“She’s my new secretary. I didn’t ask her age.”

“Is she pretty?”

Henry thought the hint of jealousy in Katarina’s voice sounded strange, but it was also flattering. He knew better than to answer. Normally, he might have considered this a great moment, a sign that she felt the same way about him that he did about her, but not today. Today, there was too much going on to mess around with romance. He wasn’t in the mood, and it came through in his voice. “What can I do for you Kat? It's pretty busy around here.”

“What’s wrong, Henry, aren’t you happy I called?” she said, feigning hurt.

“Always. I just have a lot going on. There are people arriving shortly for a meeting. I'm working on…well…finding Mickey’s killer.”

Katarina's attempt at cute was off key, so she wished him luck on the case and hung up.

Maybe he was just getting too old for romance. Maybe the spell she had on him was weakening. Or maybe he really was just too busy. He wasn’t sure and didn’t care to dwell on it.

Mike arrived first and was introduced to Celine. She hung his coat up, noticed the hall tree was getting full, and said, "I'm adding 'get some additional hooks or another coat rack' to my list."

Mike and Henry were talking when Celine popped in and offered to get Mike a cup of coffee; she had just brewed a new pot. Mike accepted politely, though he was actually afraid to tell her "no". She had that effect on people. Celine said, "We need to get more coffee cups," and started writing on her pad again.

A squeal and an audible hug were heard from the outer office. “That must be Professor Brookert. Have you met him before?” Henry said to Mike.

“Nah, we've never met."

Celine opened the door and showed Professor Brookert in. She introduced him to Mike and explained how the professor had made her new job possible. They shook hands. She got the professor a cup of coffee too, without asking. Then she left, quiet as a mouse, and closed the door behind her.

“She is something,” Professor Brookert said, nodding towards the outer office. “I knew you would like her.”

“Yes she is. You have a good eye. After two hours, I feel I have completely lost control of my life, and my days of sneaking in naps at the office, I fear, are gone for good.”

The professor smiled, guessing Henry was right.

“I appreciate you both helping me out. The client, a Dr. Schaeffer, wants to hire me for something important. His man Hans was here two days ago, laid out some vague terms, heavy on money, light on details, and I agreed to see him today at noon.”

The professor and Mike nodded, listening intently.

“Here are the highlights,” Henry said, looking at his notes. “I had some luck yesterday, running down names from Mickey’s notebook. I ended up at the house of Dr. Schaeffer. It was an accident, as Hans hadn't told me the name of his employer. You should have seen Hans’ face when I showed up on the doorstep. Needless to say, he is a bit suspicious now. Dr. Schaeffer invited me to dinner and then started to tell me a story, which confirms my suspicions. Mickey may not have known it, but he had gotten into something big.”

The professor, always one to enjoy a good tale, asked, “What was the story about?”

“He talked about something called the Anti-kythrine something or other. I still don’t know what it's called. Marian, from the public library, mentioned it too, when I showed her Mickey’s entry, ‘Anti Catherine. She said she would try to scrounge up some details about it.”

“Do you mean the Antikythera Mechanism?”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Professor, that's it. You've heard of the thing?”

“I have, though I can't say I know much about it. I believe that it was discovered around the turn of the century. It's almost 2,000 years old.”

“Yes, well it seems that there were two of them, but I didn’t get far enough into the story at the doctor’s house to learn much more.”

“Two of them?” the professor asked suspiciously. “I'm not sure that's true. I would have read about a second discovery.”

“The doctor says the guy who found the first one found the second years later, in much better condition and didn’t tell anyone. Apparently, he was upset at not having been properly rewarded from his first find.”

“I suppose it is possible, but…”

“That's why I called you. I need you to find out everything you can on the first one, and any rumors you might be able to dig up about the second. And Mike, right now, I just want you to stand in the corner and look menacing. We can figure out our next move afterward.”

“Sounds good, Coach,” Mike said with a glint in his eye.

They heard the sounds of Celine welcoming Hans in the outer room. Lights, camera, action, Henry thought to himself.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Get my car!” he bellowed. Andre Garneau was in rare form and a fine Italian suit, which was wishing it was still hanging in the closet instead of being sweated through. The chauffeur bolted from the room, feeling thrilled to be out of the line of fire. He knew that once they were on the road, his dreadful boss would sit quietly, as he didn’t like to talk in moving vehicles. The others weren’t quite so lucky.

The verbal assault had been going on for forty-five minutes, and Garneau had worked up quite the lather. The upstairs maid, usually immune from his criticism because of the short skirt and stockings she wore, was crying. The cook’s pallid face hid a deep-seeded rage – Garneau had criticized his eggs Florentine and used the word “pedestrian” in the rebuke. The butler had been severely reprimanded as well, but couldn’t have cared less. The downstairs maid, well known for being weepy, was crying too, though Garneau hadn’t gotten to her yet.

He was hot and exhausted. Yelling like a madman is much harder than one might think. He threw a plate, for effect, and then stormed up the stairs and slammed the door to his bedroom. There was silence from the staff. After a minute or so, they each went off to do their jobs and lick their wounds. Eventually, the chauffeur came back inside, grabbed a cup of coffee, and read the newspaper.