Henry Wood: Time and Again: by Brian Meeks Read Free Book Online Page B

to repent.
    Garneau walked up the steps. The inside was warm and comforting, but most of all, it was dark and quiet. He lit a candle, prayed, and then entered the confessional.
    “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned....”
    A whisper answered him. “Yes, and you will again. Do be quick – I don’t have all day...my son,” the priest said in a mocking tone.
    In truth, the priest was not actually ordained. He was, however, a great forger and had conned his way into the church. He was hiding from enemies. They were looking for him in Europe and even North Africa. A few people suggested he might have gone to America, but nobody suspected a Catholic church.
    He was called Father Patrick Liguori…which wasn’t his name at all. He was one of the greatest fences in the world. His success was so profound that he had to go into hiding and now only dealt in works, which nobody else would touch. Before an item made it to him, it would travel to dozens of countries, be passed through many careful hands, and eventually be made available in a private auction.
    “I understand that someone hired a P.I. to try to find out who the collectors are?” Garneau asked.
    This was news to Patrick, but he played it cool. “So what if they did? Why do you bother me with such matters?”
    “I want to know who is poking around in my business. I want to know if it was you!”
    “Your fatness is equaled only by your stupidity. I already know who all of you are. Idiot.”
    This stunned Andre, as he immediately realized the absurdity of his accusation. In his rage at breakfast, the first name to pop into his head was Patrick’s. He hadn't thought it through, which was not at all like him.
    “I'm sorry…you're right.” Apologies were also not like him, and it scratched his throat as he said it. “Do you know if it's one of the other collectors?”
    “This is the first I'm hearing about it.” After a brief pause, Patrick decided not to be too hard on Andre. He was, after all, one of his best clients. “I do appreciate you bringing this to my attention. It's best that I take some precautions before the upcoming auction.”
    “Yes, I agree,” Andre said eagerly. He wanted to ask about the auction, but knew better. The third rule was to never speak about the art, especially in the confessional. It had happened once: the next day, the gentleman's home was raided and his collection was seized by the authorities. That was the rumor, at least. Whether it was true or not, the thought was enough to keep everyone in line.
    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