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 Thirteen
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.
His tiny office, a converted bedroom, had a desk by De Coene Freres with four simple drawers and tapered legs, also of black lacquer and sitting on nickel feet. Next to the desk was a Manik Bagh side table designed by Eckart Muthesius.
In short, he lived in a shrine to the years between the two wars. They were his happiest days, his youth, and though he grew up poor, he was too happy to notice. WWII ended his bliss.
Hans had showered, shaved, put on his dressing robe, and made a light breakfast, though it was well past noon. Two cups of coffee later, after having read the paper he picked up on the walk home, he washed the plate and silverware and put them away. He washed and dried the coffee cup and returned it to its place amongst the others, which never got used. He dressed in a tailored suit and picked out a tie with a small amount of blue in it. Before he left, he went to his desk, opened a journal, and wrote on a piece of note paper his tasks for the day. He handn’t sat at the desk, but chose instead to stand, so as not to break the crease in his pants.
It took less than thirty minutes to walk to the Flatiron building. He climbed the steps and entered the hallway. Hans noted the numbers on the door, and he surmised that the office in question was at the far end of the hall. One door, on his right, opened slightly as he walked past. He gave a quick glance and saw a small man peering through the gap at him.
He was glad it wasn't this man that he was there to see.
The glass on the door read “Henry Wood Detective Agency”. He tried the handle, but, it appeared to be locked. He looked at his pocket watch and noted that it was still business hours. Strange that there wasn't a secretary, at the very least, during the day.
Perhaps this Henry Wood isn’t going to be up to the job, he thought.
He would give the detective fifteen minutes to return. He was quite prepared to go see the next detective on his list. The reputation of Mr. Wood was excellent, but Hans found this little inconvenience intolerable.
***
Henry noticed the man waiting outside his door as he strode down the hall.
I really need to get a girl to manage the office, he thought as he walked down the hall. For years he hadn't been able to afford to hire anyone, but that wasn't the case now. After years of saving, he was finally comfortable, and who knew how many clients he was losing while he was out on a case. Henry decided he would add it to his list, and give it priority, especially since he was sure that his current case would be keeping him busy.
Henry had no idea how long the man had been waiting. Bobby popped out of his office and walked towards the stairs. As he passed by Henry, Bobby whispered, “He has been there for about ten minutes. I don't trust him.”
Henry didn't say anything, but tipped his hat towards Bobby, in lieu of a “thanks”.
“Hello, sir! I apologize for the inconvenience. I had to step out briefly.” Henry opened the door and showed the man inside.
“My name is Hans. I’m looking for someone with your skills to do some...research.”
“That sounds like something for a grad student. What type of research?” Henry motioned for him to follow him into his office and offered to make some coffee. Hans declined.
Hans took a seat, when offered, and then asked if he could smoke. Henry nodded and held up a lighter. Hans offered one of his imported cigarettes to Henry, which he accepted.
Hans said, “You would not be working for me directly, but for my employer. He prefers anonymity, though you will meet him, if your services prove to be right for the job.”
Henry listened and smoked.
“My employer is a very wealthy man who enjoys the finer things in life. A piece of art, or more aptly, a piece of history, is going to be made available for sale, and he is interested in buying it.”
“That is interesting: he collects art. Where do I come in?”
“If we decide to hire you, we will require you to look into the seller and the item. It will be very expensive and caution must be taken. My employer does not wish to purchase a fake.”