CHAPTER SIX

 

 

The next day, Henry arrived at his office bright and early. Francis wasn't in yet; he preferred to roll out of bed at the crack of noon. It was quiet, and Henry took out Alexander's pencil and a pad of paper. He looked at the numbers again, then used the pencil to write down 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, and 23. Adding the numbers equaled 41. Next, he assigned each number a letter: a, b, c, e, g, w. Leaning back in his chair, he pondered his first two attempts, scratched his head, and dismissed them.

Twenty minutes and three more dismissed theories later, the sound of heels on the hardwood hallway floor caught Henry's attention. He was a bit of an expert on the gait of people. He could tell when it was Francis, he could tell when Big Mike was coming, and he could tell that a woman who strode with confidence was about to enter his office. The door opened. She stood there momentarily as if to say, 'I am here, take me in, I am marvelous.' She wore a Dior dress that would make an hourglass self-conscious, and she knew it. The woman walked in, set her tiny purse on the corner of the desk, and asked, "Are you Henry Wood?" in a dark and hypnotic voice.

With a nod, Henry motioned to the chair. She sat down and crossed her legs. Boy, could she cross a leg, Henry thought. Henry got up and checked the thermostat. "It seems you have me at a disadvantage?"

"I am Miss Culberson. I need your help and your discretion."

"What exactly do you need help with?"

"My father recently passed away," she said, adding a pause for a respectful sigh.

"I am sorry," Henry said.

"It is okay; it has been a month now. I have grown accustomed to the emptiness of the house. The reason I need your help is there are some issues with the estate."

"Issues?" Henry said with a voice he reserved for those occasions when he knew he was being fed a line but didn't want the feeder to know. It was slightly lower than his usual tone and had just a smidgeon of empathy.

"Mr. Wood, my father may have occasionally been creative with his books, but he was a good man. There is a man at the law firm we use who seems to have it out for my father and now me."

"Which firm is that?"

"The Smith, Havershome and Blickstein law firm here in town. The man is Mr. Alexander. I think he is an accountant or something," she said with a casualness that was a bit too casual.

Henry considered taking offense at her remark about Manhattan being 'in town' as if Brooklyn weren't, but her legs were really well crossed.

"Why do you think he is out to get you?" Henry asked, while trying not to look at her legs and intrigued that yet another person was looking for Mr. Alexander.

"He has been keeping a journal."

"An accounting journal kept by an accountant seems pretty standard, wouldn't you say?" Henry asked, hoping to pry something out of her.

"I believe he found some irregularities in my father's books, some tiny, little omissions, and he wants to ruin my father's good name and me in the process," she said with another, albeit sadder, sigh. Apparently, the thought of losing her inheritance was worse than losing her father.

"Why don't you just go to the partners and ask them to straighten him out? Surely, they wouldn't want to lose you as a client," Henry asked. He knew she would have a polished and prepared answer, but he liked to hear her talk.

"They don't know where he is. It seems he didn't show up for work yesterday. I need you to find him and get that journal!" she said with an air of entitlement.

"What makes you think I can find him?"

"I have been told you are looking for him already. I just ask that when you find him, you bring the journal to me. I will pay you five thousand dollars. Here is half now and half when you deliver," she said. She stood and handed Henry a plain envelope. As Henry looked through the envelope, she grabbed her purse and left.

Now he had one job, two clients, and six crazy numbers. The rest of the morning consisted of a trip to and from the diner for a cup of joe and lots of dead end ideas about the pencil clue. Shortly after noon, Francis was coming down the hall with his buddy Don, a photographer at the Brooklyn Daily News. Henry popped his head out of his office and said, "Hello, gents, any good news today?"

"Is there ever?" scoffed Don. He spent most nights prowling the streets looking for seedy scoops. Francis just shrugged.

"Hey, let me ask you guys something," Henry said, nodding towards his office.

"Sure, ace, what is it?" Don usually called Henry and everyone else 'ace' as it meant he never needed to remember names. He was really bad with names and faces and geography, too. In fact, he was really only good at photography.

Francis, Don, and Henry filed back into the office. Henry read off the numbers. Francis shrugged again. If he couldn't eat it, he just didn't care. Don said, "They are all prime numbers. Well, technically, one isn't a prime, but most people don't know that."

"I hadn't noticed," Henry said. He gave Don a nod of appreciation.

Don looked at the pencil and mused, "I wonder why there are four missing primes?"

The confused look on Henry's face told Don he should elaborate. "11, 13, 17, and 19 are between seven and 23."

"There are four missing numbers..." Henry said out loud but mostly to himself. "I wonder..." and his voice trailed off.

Don and Francis could tell Henry's wheels were turning, so they headed across the hall. Henry needed some wood time. He grabbed his overcoat and hat and headed home.

When he got there, the closet was empty as it was most days. He took a piece of oak and rubbed his hand over it. What would this be good for? Henry thought to himself. He grabbed a ruler and a pencil and made some marks. The wheels were still turning.

The piece of wood seemed to want to be turned into a tool-holding device. Henry wanted to use the rare earth magnets he had bought some time ago, so he decided he would combine them with the oak and hang it on the wall. He carefully marked the spots. He would use his Fostner bits to drill holes for the magnets. A quick practice hole in a piece of scrap, and he was ready. The seven holes drilled easily. Henry screwed in a magnet holder. He was inches from plopping in a magnet when he realized that once it was in he wouldn't be able to get it out. The suckers really stuck together, and the screw would have been hidden under the magnet. It was almost a blunder, but his brain was thinking several steps ahead just like Mr. Alexander's seemed to be doing.

Henry sanded the board for an hour and was deciding if he should stain it. He had some General Finishes Georgian Cherry Gel Stain from the mysterious closet. He wasn't sure exactly how to use it, so he decided to think about it for a day.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, he began to ponder out loud: "Mr. Alexander knew I would go to his office. He knew I would notice the out-of-place pencil. He is a cautious and meticulous man. He wouldn't just write down the clue. He would hide the clue." Henry was now convinced the real clue was 11, 13, 17, and 19.

The number 17 seemed to burn like a red neon light in his brain. It was so intense that he was sure this prime was the key to the next clue. The fog was slowly clearing from his mind. He was suddenly overcome with hunger and left to find some dinner.