“I hope my request wasn't too much of an inconvenience. It was a necessity, however, and I do appreciate your efforts.”
Hans took out a piece of folded paper. He read it once, checking for errors in spelling, though he knew there wouldn't be any opportunity to fix them, should he find any problems. Dr. Schaeffer, an incredibly precise man, demanded perfection of himself, but wasn't as critical of those around him. He couldn't imagine anyone being as precise as him, and, as such, always expected flaws. Hans was exceptional, however, and frequently surprised Dr. Schaeffer. On these occasions, he would stop, look at Hans, and then genuinely express his gratitude.
Hans handed the neatly folded piece of paper to his boss. He read it slowly, then stood and placed it in the fire. They both watched it burn, and said nothing until Mrs. Hock returned with a bottle of Pierre Ferrand cognac.
“Will you join us Mrs. Hock?” asked the doctor, as he always did. Mrs. Hock declined, as it wouldn't be proper.
The two men sat with the brandy snifters in their hands, slowly warming the liquor, and staring into the fire.
Life was good for both of these men. But it is man's nature to want more. They each had dreams, which neither shared entirely, but could sense in the other.
The flames began to die down. Hans stood and gave the doctor a nod, then saw himself out. The doctor, as was his custom on many nights, drifted off in his favorite chair.
Hans turned up the collar on his overcoat and walked through the cold early morning streets, thinking about what was beginning. He would not be able to sleep for several more hours, he knew it, so he did what came naturally. He walked.
Chapter Five
At 4:00 a.m. a massive man in a silk robe began his routine. Andre Garneau, a man of inherited means, was, by most accounts, a bastard. Those who called him such, were usually people who didn't know him well, or were naturally predisposed to being charitable. It was likely that if Monsieur Garneau were asked, he, too, would have considered himself a bastard, and would likely have answered with a hint of pride in his voice.
A French maid in an embarrassingly short skirt and silk stockings ran a warm bath in the claw-foot bathtub. She made her exit when the tub was full lest she witness him disrobing. She made his bed, laid out his attire for the morning, and then went to help or, more accurately, hide in the kitchen with the cook. Upon hearing the thundering sounds of Andre's massive feet descending the stairs, she would sneak up the back stairs to start her day’s cleaning. Most of the rest of the day, the outfit which left little to the imagination was only seen by the chauffeur, and then it was often lying on the floor.
His name was Claude. He had been the driver for five years and found the perks of his job were worth the grief given by his employer. Claude was tall, painfully handsome, not so bright, and completely devoid of ambition. He was exactly the type of person which Monsieur Garneau liked to surround himself with. Andre was not a trusting person. He believed that those who possessed ambition and drive were, by their nature, crooks and thieves. Just to be sure, he paid them slightly more than they could find anywhere else. He considered it a cheap insurance policy against loss and change, two things he abhorred.
At precisely 5:30 a.m., Andre was joined by his personal assistant, just as he was finishing his breakfast. Arthur, a Brit who grew up in Paris, was the only staff member who didn’t live in the king's castle, but maintained his own tiny apartment a few blocks away. He was also the only royal subject who was able to say “no” to the rotund tyrant. Arthur was an artist who found that starving didn't coexist well with his love of gourmet food.
He had met Andre on a day which was unusual for two reasons. One, Andre was visiting a Parisian gallery showing a minor artist, something he rarely did. In general, Andre would only leave his abode for the topmost luminaries of the art world. The second reason the day was unusual was because Andre’s mood could have been described as “joyful.”
The two men struck up a conversation about art, which soon led to dinner, two bottles of wine…and an invitation to become Andre's personal assistant.
Arthur put down his brushes and picked up a silver fork.
The name Andre Garneau was known throughout the art world. In less than a decade, he had built both one of the most impressive collections on display in a Manhattan home, and a second collection which was tucked away in a private room and never shown to anyone. This second collection contained works which were often purchased from people who had acquired them by unsavory means. Andre's paranoia about being cheated made him cautious, but since he was also born sans conscious, he never inquired as to how a work was obtained. If a painting or sculpture's providence could be proven, then Andre could be counted upon to pay well, by black market standards, in order to secure the treasure.