The front desk was quiet now. Henry walked up and placed the books on the counter.
“Hello, Marian, how are you today?”
“Mr. Wood,” she said in a quiet voice. “It is nice to see you today. Were the books helpful?”
“I enjoyed them, but I am not sure if I am 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 is a case. A real puzzler.”
“Oh, how exciting! May I ask how Catherine the Great is mixed up in your case?”
“I am not sure she is; it is 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 are talking about.”
Marian gave Henry a pat on the hand, “It’s okay…not many people do. It is a fascinating story...”
A woman with books on gardening was now standing behind Henry. Marian gave her a smile and said, “I will 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 will 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 Twelve
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.