Henry Wood: Time and Again: (16 page)

“Then a man came to me, he was hunting for a particular piece, which was rumored to be hidden in Romania. He asked that I go check it out. The piece was famous and had gone missing during the war. Before we went to Romania, we went to Vienna. He took me to dinner, introduced me to some wealthy people, and then I got to see a ‘private collection.’ As we were walking down the long hallway to the secret room, which housed the treasures, he reminded me that I was not here to validate any pieces. I should just smile and gush.

“It was an impressive collection, to say the least. I won’t bore you with the details, but there were three pieces which I knew had been stolen during the war. One of them was the very piece we were on our way to see in Romania. Our host knew of my vocation, and stood next to his prize. He asked if I would mind, as a courtesy, to give it a quick look. The brushwork was perfect, the frame was of the right age, even the canvas was beyond reproach. When the host looked away, I took a tiny straight pin, and poked it through the corner of the canvas. The oils were not yet dry. This was not a 300 year old painting, probably closer to three months. He asked me for my opinion, and I said honestly, I had never seen anything like it.

“I didn’t lie; it was the finest forgery I had yet seen. My benefactor seemed concerned, until I explained my findings to him.”

Henry ordered another round when the bartender stopped by the table.

A beat cop came in and talked to a few of the other cops in a hushed tone. Most of the bar was getting up and putting on coats, girlfriends and wives were being kissed goodbye, and out they filed. Henry grabbed the arm of a young one who had just gotten his coat from the back, and asked, “Hey, what’s going on?”

“Some rich guy, a friend of the mayor, just got his head bashed in. It’s all hands on deck.”

The Dublin Rogue
was eerily quiet after everyone had left. Henry got up and put four bits in the juke box and returned to the table with two more beers. Katarina took a drink, lit a cigarette, and took a long, slow drag. Henry accepted when she offered one. He slid it behind his ear. "For later, thanks. Now, you were telling me tales of your dark and mysterious life."

A sad half-smile crossed her lips. One more pull and a look off into the distance.
Was she looking back at the good days, or forward to what might come?
Henry didn't know. "Where was I?"

"You had just explained to your benefactor that the painting was a fake."

Katarina looked across the table, into Henry's caring eyes, and began again. "Yes, so we went to Romania. In a real life dungeon, deep under a castle, there was a room with the painting. It was the real McCoy. After the viewing, we had a wonderful dinner with our charming host, and then we left. I remember the rush. It was exhilarating beyond anything I had ever known. Better than even…" She raised one eyebrow.

Henry knew she was going for levity, perhaps she needed to, because he could see where the story was going. A brief smile, with no return eyebrow play, and a drink of beer would be all she would get. "Tell me about this benefactor of yours."

She turned her head towards the bar and crossed her long legs, as she brought the cigarette to her mouth. Another long pull, her eyes looking at nothing in particular, she answered, “His family name was Pergerinus, and he had grown up a gypsy, wandered about most of his life, and eventually changed his name to marry money. He changed it back when most of her family was killed during Dresden bombings, leaving him but one obstacle between him and obscene wealth. His wife died of grief. Or that is how he told it. I didn’t ask for details.”

She tapped out her cigarette, took a drink, and looked back at Henry. “He had connections all throughout Britain, Europe, Russia, and North Africa. At first I looked at the evaluations as simply jobs. They weren’t any different than if I had done them for a legitimate art house. But they were different. Their pay was much higher, and eventually he started to play both sides. Sometimes I convinced people they had fakes, in order for…”

She paused.

“It is hard, Henry, to tell you about this.”

“It's important I know what is going on, if I'm going to help you. Please...”

“Mr. Pergerinus would send in a shill to buy the real art, which I deemed fake, at a modest price. The rube would think they had gotten a deal, considering it was a worthless fake.”

Henry looked up for a moment. In a whisper, “Do you know the guy at the bar?”

The bar was mostly empty, and Katarina couldn’t see him from her side of the booth. She grabbed her purse and went to the ladies’ room. As soon as she did, the man folded up his paper, put a fin on the bar, and headed out into the night. Henry waved the bartender over.

“You know that guy who just left?”

“Nah, never seen him before. He just ordered one beer, read his paper, a racing form I think, then left. Probably waiting for his girlfriend to sneak away from her husband or something.” He chuckled. “We get quite a few people in here who are just killing time. Can I get you anything else?”

“No, we probably need to get going. I’ll see you tomorrow…we will toast to Mickey until we can’t see straight.”

“You bet we will.” He wiped off the table and took the empty glasses back to the bar.

Katarina returned with a concerned look on her face. “I have seen him before. I think he may be one of the guys following me.”

“Grab your coat. You're staying with me tonight.”

Normally she would have made a remark, but she did as she was told. Katarina looped her arm through Henry’s as they walked out of the bar.

“I have a place we can go,” he said. “It is safe; very few people know about it.”

They didn’t talk much during the walk to the car, or the drive to Brooklyn. Henry drove in circles, looking for tails, and eventually wound his way to his house. It had been a few days since he had been back home. It was unusual for him to stay in the city more than one night in a row. All his tools and woodworking stuff were in Brooklyn, and most nights that was how he chose to unwind.

***

From a phone booth down the street, Arthur put down his racing form and called in to Mr. Garneau. “I did as you said and continued my observations, but there is an interesting twist. I'll tell you in the morning, at breakfast.”

Arthur lit up a cigarette and then walked a few blocks before hailing a cab. He had the cabbie drop him off outside of the Ritz, then a few minutes later, hailed another cab. Arthur was a cautious man; much like Henry, he didn’t like being followed. One never knew who was watching in the night.

Chapter Thirty-Five

One sixtieth of a second passes, and the smallest fraction of a moment is imprinted on a negative; one can print up a photo to help them remember. Life is made up of these moments, most of which fade over time. It helps to have an album.

Henry didn’t need a camera. They had driven to Brooklyn, and Katarina had gotten to the part of the story where she thought she was in danger and being followed. Of course, the reason they were in Brooklyn to begin with, was that Henry had already figured it out.

Katarina came out of Henry’s bedroom, having borrowed one of his shirts. Her hair was down, and there was a relaxed look on her face as she padded into the kitchen in her bare feet. Katarina started to make an omelet.

Henry sat at the table and watched. She had great legs for omelet-making. Katarina was tired of talking, so she hummed instead. The light sizzling sound of bacon seemed to fit with her rendition of “Mr. Sandman.” It was a huge omelet. Henry ate. She watched him and nibbled occasionally.

They kissed.

Many years later, it would be the late night omelet he shared with her, not the bed, which he would remember most fondly. Her nibbling, while all around hung a comfortable silence, combined to form a moment for which all others would be judged.

She was still sleeping when he got up. Henry wandered down to his shop. The tools were there waiting for him to return, as he had left so abruptly the other evening. Henry held a chisel and tapped it lightly against the bench. He stood and looked at the closet.

The closet, which he had never fully understood, and, strangely, never questioned, had been quiet for a couple of months. Henry had meant to ask Sylvia’s father if he was behind it. He had been doing experiments, and it was the only remote explanation. How could there be a closet in which things seem to appear from nowhere? Not just nowhere, but from the future. It seemed that every time he needed a little bit of help to find the next clue, there would be “presents” from the future. It was so strange, so beyond belief; he figured there was no point wasting time trying to uncover the mystery. Plus, he liked the stuff it gave him. He couldn’t have solved the last case without the closet's help.

Henry opened the door. On the floor were a couple of newspapers. Not at all typical for the closet, but Henry bent over and picked them up. The date was March 21, 1955. Henry flipped the top paper over and looked at the second one; it was from the day before. This was almost stranger than getting stuff from the end of the century. Why would there be current papers in the closet?

Henry was in too good a mood to question anything too deeply. So he set the chisel down, flipped off the light, and headed back upstairs. It was just 7:00 a.m., but there was a lot to do, before the wake. Henry felt as though he would conquer the world today…but not before a couple of bagels. He wrote a note telling Katarina he was heading out to forage for the morning meal, and left it on the table next to the two papers.

Henry had to shield his eyes when he stepped out onto his front porch. The morning sunlight caught him right between the eyes. It had been dreary for about 600 years, and suddenly it was warmish, probably 50 degrees, and there might have even been a bird or two crooning. Henry drove around for a short while, taking in Brooklyn and all of its greatness. He had several favorite bagel haunts, including one run by a Polish couple, who always made him laugh.

The Krakow Bakery would do nicely, he thought, and turned on the radio as he headed off in search of baked round goodness. Actually, that was the wife’s motto, though Henry was never sure if she was talking about the bagels or herself. He picked up two dozen, several types of cream cheese, and some lox. Henry decided he would take the rest in to the office for Celine to enjoy and offer with her coffee. This made him think of coffee. So he went to the grocery store and picked up several choices, some filters, and some tea. He was quite sure his new secretary/boss would approve.

The hint of spring in the air told Henry that today would be the day he made a breakthrough in his case, or cases. Did he have one or was it two, or perhaps three, if he counted the guy tailing Kat? Hell, he would solve them all, as a group or individually; it didn’t matter.

Henry returned to his humble abode and found Kat sitting at the table, reading the paper.

“You’re my hero. You save me from the bad guys and then feed me. Will you be slaying a dragon in my honor?”

“Perhaps after breakfast, though I do need to get into the office. Could I deal with the dragon later?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Sure, whenever you like.”

Henry set the bagels down and started to brew some coffee.

“This must be where they were going to last night,” she said.

“Oh, what is that?”

“It says here, a Mr. Brown, of Park Avenue, was beaten to death in his home. They think it happened yesterday afternoon, though time of death hadn’t been determined officially.” She paused, “I wonder what he did? It doesn’t say, but the name sounds…”

Henry had stopped cold. “May I see that please?”

Katarina had a distant look on her face, like she was trying to remember something, and handed him the paper.

Henry sat down and read the article. It was the same Mr. Brown from Mickey’s list. Henry’s stomach did a flip. He opened the other paper, and then found the article about Mickey. When had these arrived?

He could barely breathe. Had they been sent as warnings? Was he supposed to have saved his friend and the nice man in the brown suit? Suddenly, Henry’s world was in a fog. He kissed Katarina on top of the head and told her that he was going to take a shower. He needed to get back to the office, for only work would keep him from going crazy, and he knew it. This moment he wouldn’t forget, either.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Henry was not surprised to see the office lights were on. He was right on time, but had had a sneaking suspicion Celine might beat him in today. She did seem eager. He opened the door, and she greeted him with a smile.

“Good morning, Celine,” he said, adorning a much cheerier disposition than he felt. The discovery of the newspapers had kicked a hole in his psyche.

“Good morning, Mr. Wood. There is already a message for you. It is from Mike and seems urgent; it came in about ten minutes before nine.”

“What time did you get here?”

“I was just walking in the door when it rang.”

Henry set the bagels and other things he had purchased on the corner of her desk. He flung his coat and hat on the chair in his office and sat down to return Mike’s call. Celine gave him a dirty look as she picked up his coat and hat.