According to Their Deeds

by Paul Robertson

  “About Derek, and about herself. She was very open.”

  “To a perfect stranger?”

  “It is her job to talk about herself. And I am hardly perfect.”

  “Hardly. But even you should have known better than to bother her.”

  “She could have said no,” Charles said. “And I was nearly as surprised as you that she didn’t.”

  “Nearly?”

  “You underestimate Derek Bastien. His name is a little key to certain doors.”

  “There are other things that open doors. Did you ask her about those checks?”

  “I did not, of course. But I hinted. I asked how hard it was to get elected that first time.” He gazed out toward the horizon, his jaw set. “It was very hard. Very hard! But she prevailed!”

  “With five hundred thousand dollars’ worth of help.”

  “Please, dear,” Charles said. “I am speaking of the people triumphing, and justice and all that, and you bring up sordid money?”

  “I apologize,” she said, not. “I suppose she did not take your hint.”

  “Well, it got fuzzy there. Or maybe I should say, it got very sharp. I don’t know. I’ll have to think it through.”

  “And now that you’ve met her, would you say she is the ‘real thing’?”

  “You know, despite what John Locke says about her, I think she is. But I need to make a comparison to be sure. Dorothy, who would you say was higher ranking—a congresswoman, or a Deputy Assistant Attorney General?”

  “The congresswoman.”

  “The Deputy has more syllables, even with her extra one for being a lady. I’m going to try my little key again.”

  “You’re not going to call him, too!”

  “I am.”

  “Why are you doing this, Charles?”

  “I’m wandering.”

  “You’ll get lost.”

  “But I haven’t come to a stopping place, yet.”

  She sighed. “Then just tell me when I should tell you to give up.”

  “I will.” He found the telephone book under the magazines on his desk. “Or else you won’t need to. I’m sure I’ll hit a dead end with this very high-ranking official. It would be foolishness for him to waste his time speaking to me.”

  “Then why are you calling?”

  “Just in case it isn’t.”

  Dorothy turned back to her own desk while Charles found Justice Department under the government listing, and flamboyantly ignored him.

  “I would like to speak with John Borchard,” he said to the voice that answered, and he waited through clicks and beeps until another voice said, “Office of Legislative Affairs.”

  “I would like to speak with John Borchard,” he said again, and this time waited through beeps and clicks until another voice said, “Mr. Borchard’s office.”

  “I would like to speak with John Borchard,” he said.

  “Who is calling?”

  “My name is Charles Beale.”

  “Thank you. What is your position, Mr. Beale?”

  “I’m a bookseller.”

  For the first time in the whole smooth process, the gears clanked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I sell antique books.”

  “Do you have business with Mr. Borchard?”

  “Not really. I only wanted to speak with him.”

  “What about, Mr. Beale?” The gears were preparing to spin in the opposite direction, hard. Dorothy smirked.

  “I used to do business with Derek Bastien.”

  “Just a moment.”

  All motion was brought to a halt. Charles waited. Dorothy did also, watching him over the top of her glasses.

  “I am anticipating your rejection,” she said.

  The telephone spoke. “Mr. Beale, could you come to Mr. Borchard’s office this afternoon at two thirty?”

  He raised his left eyebrow right at her. “Two thirty,” he said. “I will be there.”

  In Dorothy’s eyes, even indignation was beautiful.

  “Charles. Why are you pestering these people, and why are they letting you?”

  “I can’t guess their motives.”

  “Or even your own.”

  “Or yours. Why are you affronted?”

  “It is embarrassing.”

  “You feel embarrassed?”

  “No! You should. And even worse, it is a waste of time.”

  “Ah.” Charles smiled. “The ultimate crime.”

  “It is. Go ahead, have your fun, and don’t come running to me when they throw you in prison.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to.” He was suddenly startled. “Angelo. I didn’t see you.”

  From the doorway, Angelo frowned. “Hey, boss. What do you do, that you go in a prison?”

  “Impersonating an adult,” Dorothy said.

  “Oh.” Angelo shrugged. “I am going out.”

  “All right,” Charles said. “Thank you.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “What?”

  “What she said. Impersonating.”

  “You do things she does not approve of,” Charles said.

  Angelo jerked his head in disbelief. “And you go to jail?”

  “Yes. She is a woman not to be trifled with, Angelo, and I know it well.”

  AFTERNOON

  “I’ll be out for the afternoon,” Charles said to Alice as he passed through the showroom. “Have we sold anything?”

  “That big, illustrated 1940 Wizard of Oz.”

  “That’s who I’m off to see.”

  Behind was the bright yellow-brick road, and ahead was the Emerald City with its imposing sign: Department of Justice.

  Charles stepped through the portal. “My name is Charles Beale. I’m here to see John Borchard. I have an appointment.”

  The woman and the counter both were wooden and imposing. “Just a moment, Mr. Beale.”

  It was a long, slow, wooden moment. Official ladies and gentlemen with badges and serious faces passed by.

  “Someone will be down in a moment, Mr. Beale.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Please sign in. This is your badge.”

  “Thank you.”

  Another moment. The moments were very long here in the shadows.

  “Please follow me, Mr. Beale.”

  He followed through dim corridors. Justice was indeed blind; anyone in these dark halls would be.

  Then a doorway—from gray farmhouse into bright-colored Munchkinland.

  “Just a moment, Mr. Beale.”

  He was in another of the building’s many places to wait; but this bright-lit moment was brief.

  An enormous bald head appeared. “How do you do? I’m John Borchard.”

  “Charles Beale.”

  There was a normal body beneath John Borchard’s large head, clothed in a dark, serious suit. The face spread across the front of the head was serious, too, but capable of many emotions in only a few seconds. Even as Charles lifted his hand, the seriousness shifted through interest and anticipation to pleasure.

  “I am so glad you called,” he said. “Please come into my office.”

  The office was larger than the head. Charles was set on a supple, wine-red leather couch, beneath historic American paintings that needed as large a room as this in which to be properly displayed. Yards away, it seemed, was an immense desk, capable of properly displaying a Deputy Assistant Attorney General.

  John Borchard chose a matching chair closer to Charles.

  “Thank you so much for seeing me,” Charles said.

  “It’s a pleasure.” The voice was of bassoons and cellos. “So you knew Derek?” The head tilted at that profound thought. “What a tragedy.”

  “Certainly,” Charles said. His own voice was rather reedy and oboe-ish.

  “And you are an antiquarian?”

  “I deal in antique books. I met Derek through his collecting.”

  “Yes, his collecting.” Each phrase was a plaque in sound, dark wood wi
th the words engraved in brass. “He was quite a collector. In many ways. But what can I do for you today, Mr. Beale—Charles?”

  “Well . . . not really anything. I only wanted to meet you. As someone who knew Derek.”

  Mr. Borchard—John?—nodded. “I understand. Absolutely. An odd thing, isn’t it? Yet I think anyone who knew him would understand. It was the quality of the man.”

  “There was a quality.”

  “There was. I can’t tell you how much he is missed here. He’d been with me for over ten years.”

  “I’d known him about six years.”

  “How well?” One eyebrow climbed high. “Had you been his guest, even?”

  “I did get in the front door a few times,” Charles said.

  The other eyebrow rose up to its fellow. “Ah. A game or two of chess?”

  “A game or two.”

  A grand smile stretched the lower part of the face while the eyebrows expanded the upper. “He was quite good, wasn’t he?”

  “He was very good.”

  “Yes, I learned my lesson early on, that some battles are hopeless.” What a big smile he had. “And I declined further contests. So you were quite into the inner circle, then.”

  “It was a large circle.”

  “Very, but close in, nonetheless. And your entrée was books.”

  “He purchased a dozen or so through the years.”

  “Did you supply all his books?”

  “Only the antique volumes.”

  “I remember them on his shelves. Did he buy from anyone else?”

  Charles smiled. “Not that he told me.”

  “Nor would he have! Would he? He wouldn’t have told you. So we don’t really know.”

  “I never saw any others.”

  “Then we’ll say he didn’t. He wasn’t usually so loyal with his dealers.”

  “It would have been fine, of course,” Charles said. “Most collectors cultivate a network of suppliers.”

  “And he certainly cultivated his suppliers. He was absolutely a collector.”

  “He had a diverse collection.”

  “More than diverse.” John Borchard was studying him. “Oh, you must realize. It wasn’t antiques he was collecting. He collected people! He always was looking. For an interesting vase, for an interesting person. Maybe we should form a society, The Collected Works of Derek Bastien.”

  “What an odd thought, Mr. Borchard.”

  “Call me, John! Please! Those of us in it, we’d be quite a crew. What do the books on your shelves think of each other?”

  “I think they get along,” Charles said. “They have a lot in common.”

  “I wonder what we have in common, those of us in Derek’s collection. It would be interesting to know what caught his eye. I expect you’re quite an expert on books.”

  “It is my work.”

  “You have an interesting profession. That would make you collectable yourself, don’t you think? Do you understand my point?”

  “I do. But of course, everyone chooses their own friends.”

  “They do. To some extent. And why did you request this visit, Charles? Was it only to reminisce about Derek Bastien?”

  Charles braced against the sudden swerve in direction. He frowned a thoughtful frown. “A little more than just that. It was to meet you. I know you were Derek’s boss, and his colleague. And I appreciate having had the opportunity. I know you must be very busy.”

  “I am busy.” There was no urgency or busyness in his manner. He seemed very relaxed. “So why did I accept your request?”

  “You’ve decided to start collecting antique books?” Charles asked lightly.

  The effect was immediate. John’s smile sank into his teeth, and his eyes were pushed out by it. “Might I? Do you think I should? What are you offering?”

  The force of the questions was more than necessary, an abrupt acceleration of the conversation. Charles was nearly knocked off-balance.

  “Well . . . I have quite a few,” he said. “It would depend on your interests.”

  “My interests. I have quite a few.” John was very intent. His smile had been momentarily forgotten.

  “Then you might want to come in to visit.”

  “I might.” Then John remembered to be jovial. “Now that’s intriguing. Absolutely!” He folded his arms and sank back into the deep chair. “I might. But I’m not sure if you’ve answered my question of why I wanted to meet you. The truth of it is that I was intrigued. You were a friend of Derek, the same reason you wanted to meet me.”

  Charles adjusted to match John’s happiness. “As one specimen to another?”

  “Yes, yes! That’s it. One specimen to another! It speaks volumes about his collection, doesn’t it? Ha! I apologize, Charles. No pun intended! And tell me, have you found any other of his specimens?”

  “I had a short meeting with Karen Liu this morning.”

  The eyebrows rocketed. “Well! Derek’s name opens doors, doesn’t it?”

  “I’ve noticed that.”

  “She’s an impressive person.”

  “I was impressed.”

  “With good reason. And she has been a great ally of the Department. I’ve greatly enjoyed working with her. She’s a good start, Charles, and I wonder who else you’ll encounter.” The eyebrows came down. “Anyway! It has been very interesting talking, Charles, absolutely so, and I’m very pleased you took the opportunity to call.”

  “The pleasure has been all mine.”

  “And I’ve done all the talking! It’s my habit to question people, I’m afraid. My old days as a prosecutor.”

  “A prosecutor?”

  “A life I led long ago. Back in Kansas.” Smile. “I will stop in at your business sometime.”

  “I’m in Alexandria. Downtown.”

  “Very nice. I haven’t been there in ages.” He was standing. “In the meantime, if there is anything I can do for you, please let my secretary know.”

  “I will,” Charles said. “Although I don’t know what it could be.”

  “We often don’t. And I do wonder what you mean, that I might start collecting. A very curious thought. I will think about it carefully.”

  EVENING

  Dorothy had steel in her soft blue stare. “What did Mr. Borchard think of you?”

  “He thought well of me. I will tell you all about it.”

  “Mr. Beale?” Alice flittered into their presence. “You have a call.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Edmund Cane.”

  “Oh.” Charles looked to Dorothy.

  “He’s called twice this afternoon,” Alice said.

  “This will just take a moment.”

  “Go ahead,” Dorothy said.

  “Thank you, Alice.” He picked up his telephone. “This is Charles Beale.”

  “Mr. Beale. This is Edmund Cane.”

  “Yes, how do you do, Mr. Cane?”

  “I am quite well. I am calling to inquire if you spoke with your employee, as we discussed? You thought perhaps he might have been watching outside the auction house.” At his slow, syllabic pace, the sentences took quite a while.

  “Yes, I did speak with him,” Charles said. “I’m sorry I hadn’t called you back.”

  “That is quite understandable. Did your employee have any information about the young woman who bought the desk?”

  “Not really, I’m afraid. He thinks he may have seen her leaving the building and walking away, but it may not have been that person at all.”

  “I see. Well, Mr. Beale, I am sorry to have disturbed you.”

  “Not at all. In fact, I would be interested myself to know who she was representing.”

  “I am sorry I do not know.”

  “I’ve become quite interested in that desk myself.” Charles was still looking at Dorothy as he spoke to Edmund Cane. “Perhaps you could tell me who you were representing?”

  A short pause. “I’m afraid I can’t give you that information, Mr.
/>   Beale.”

  “Oh, too bad. Because I think I’m actually interested in knowing!

  Maybe if I can find any information about the blond woman, we could trade.”

  “I would . . . I don’t . . .” Mr. Cane was having difficulty answering.

  “That would . . .”

  “Then never mind,” Charles said. “Just a thought. But if I do find anything, I will certainly call you.”

  “As you wish. Thank you for your time, Mr. Beale.”

  “Thank you for calling, Mr. Cane.”

  “Are you done with your calls?” Dorothy asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Are you going out to see anyone else?”

  “Not right now,” he said.

  “Then Charles, dear,” Dorothy said. “What is going on?”

  “To tell the truth . . . I have no idea.”

  “You have an idea.”

  “All right, then, yes. I have an idea. Well . . . no, I don’t. I don’t know whether I do or not.” He paused. “There is an idea, I just don’t know what it is.” He paused again. “It’s not that I have an idea, it’s that an idea has me.”

  “Just say it, Charles.”

  “I think that you want a cup of coffee.”

  “I think that I do. Would I need my jacket?”

  “It’s quite pleasant out.”

  “Will it still be when we come back?”

  “The weather should still be, at least.”

  She took her jacket, and he led her down the stairs.

  “Have we sold anything?” he asked Alice.

  “The whole set of Tom Swift books.”

  Two feet of shelf was empty. “What a large space,” he said hollowly.

  “It is,” she said, broadly.

  “Have Morgan order a new set,” he said, commandingly.

  “I did it right away,” she said, quickly.

  The evening air was warm and floral. Pots and window boxes were the obvious sources, but there must have been whole gardens hidden behind the houses. The air was patched with the first fragrances of spring.

  It was a short walk to the corner and a completely different fragrance.

  “I love this smell,” Dorothy said at the open door.

  “What would you like?” he asked.

  “Something a little sweet.”

  She sat, and Charles soon joined her, and they inhaled the dense bouquet of coffee and its café fellow travelers.