Three Fates

One
     
     
     
     
    May 7, 1915
     
    H APPILY unaware he’d be dead in twenty-three minutes, Hutes, Henry W. Wyley imagined pinching the nicely rounded rump of the young blonde who was directly in his line of sight. It was a perfectly harmless fantasy that did nothing to distress the blonde, or Henry’s wife, and put Henry himself in the best of moods.
    With a lap robe tucked around his pudgy knees and a plump belly well satisfied by a late and luxurious lunch, he sat in the bracing sea air with his wife, Edith—whose bum, bless her, was flat as a pancake—enjoying the blonde’s derriere along with a fine cup of Earl Grey.
    Henry, a portly man with a robust laugh and an eye for the ladies, didn’t bother to stir himself to join other passengers at the rail for a glimpse of Ireland’s shimmering coast. He’d seen it before and assumed he’d have plenty of opportunities to see it again if he cared to.
    Though what fascinated people about cliffs and grass eluded him. Henry was an avowed urbanite who preferred the solidity of steel and concrete. And at this particular moment, he was much more interested in the dainty chocolate cookies served with the tea than the vista.
    Particularly when the blonde moved on.
    Though Edith fussed at him not to make a pig of himself, he gobbled up three cookies with cheerful relish. Edith, being Edith, refrained. It was a pity she denied herself that small pleasure in the last moments of her life, but she would die as she’d lived, worrying about her husband’s extra tonnage and brushing at the crumbs that scattered carelessly on his shirtfront.
    Henry, however, was a man who believed in indulgence. What, after all, was the point of being rich if you didn’t treat yourself to the finer things? He’d been poor, and he’d been hungry. Rich and well fed was better.
    He’d never been handsome, but when a man had money he was called substantial rather than fat, interesting rather than homely. Henry appreciated the absurdity of the distinction.
    At just before three in the afternoon on that sparkling May day, the wind blew at his odd little coal-colored toupee, whipped high, happy color into his pudgy cheeks. He had a gold watch in his pocket, a ruby pin in his tie. His Edith, scrawny as a chicken, was decked out in the best of Parisian couture. He was worth nearly three million. Not as much as Alfred Vanderbilt, who was crossing the Atlantic as well, but enough to content Henry. Enough, he thought with pride as he considered a fourth cookie, to pay for first-class accommodations on this floating palace. Enough to see that his children had received first-class educations and that his grandchildren would as well.
    He imagined first class was more important to him than it was to Vanderbilt. After all, Alfred had never had to make do with second.
    He listened with half an ear as his wife chattered on about plans once they reached England. Yes, they would pay calls and receive them. He would not spend all of his time with associates or hunting up stock for his business.
    He assured her of all this with his usual amiability, and because after nearly forty years of marriage he was deeply fond of his wife, he would see that she was well entertained during their stay abroad.
    But he had plans of his own, and that driving force had been the single purpose of this spring crossing.
    If his information was correct, he would soon acquire the second Fate. The small silver statue was a personal quest, one he’d pursued since he’d chanced to purchase the first of the reputed three.
    He had a line on the third as well and would tug on it as soon as the second statue was in his possession. When he had the complete set, well, that would be first class indeed.
    Wyley Antiques would be second to none.
    Personal and professional satisfaction, he mused. All because of three small silver ladies, worth a pretty penny separately. Worth beyond imagining together. Perhaps he’d loan them to the Met for a time. Yes, he liked the idea.
    THE THREE FATES
    ON LOAN FROM THE PRIVATE COLLECTION OF HENRY W. WYLEY
    Edith would have her new hats, he thought, her dinner parties and her afternoon promenades. And he would have the prize of a lifetime.
    Sighing with satisfaction, Henry sat back to enjoy his last cup of Earl Grey.
     
     
    FELIX GREENFIELD WAS a thief. He was neither ashamed nor prideful of it. It was simply what he was and had always been. And as Henry Wyley assumed he’d have other opportunities to