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 am 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 are 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 some, 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 will 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.