“Are you peaceful?” Charles asked presently.
“I think I am.”
“Good. That will help.”
“And I’m ready for you to begin.”
He took one more deep breath. “I am intrigued by the papers that Derek had hidden in the book.”
“Well, of course. Just ‘intrigued’?”
“Tottering on the edge of deeply disturbed.”
“What do you think they mean?”
“That is the point. I’ve decided not to jump to conclusions. I am going to follow the wind.”
“Then where has it led you?”
“Karen Liu and John Borchard are both important, busy people. Both of them dropped everything at Derek’s name and immediately welcomed me into their castles. Does that seem reasonable?”
“I have made my opinions on that known,” Dorothy said.
“Strongly. Why should they? Is it because I’m so interesting?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m not interesting?”
“You are very interesting, dear,” Dorothy said, with deep interest in him, “but they wouldn’t know it.”
“What a nice answer. So it must be because of Derek.”
“Derek couldn’t have been that fascinating.”
“I will tell you about the two meetings. My conversation with Ms. Liu was pleasant and energetic but didn’t tell me much except that she is quite a politician. My conversation with Mr. Borchard was more centered on Derek, and had a few sharp points, but was also not very informative. But both of them were undeniably interested in me.”
“Just because of Derek.”
“Kind of somewhat. The congresswoman particularly asked what I knew about John Borchard and what Derek had told me about him. John Borchard very particularly asked about my selling books to Derek.”
“Selling them?”
“And if I would recommend any to him. That was the part where Oz was the most great and terrible. Those points in both conversations were actually rather tense, and I felt like I was supposed to do or say something.”
Dorothy stirred her coffee. “What would they want you to do?”
“Whatever I must have come for in the first place.”
“But you didn’t go for any particular reason.”
“Not really. Just to meet them.”
“Well,” Dorothy said. “And because of those checks to Karen Liu.”
“And this is where it starts getting repetitive, doesn’t it? And by the way, between the two of them, Ms. Liu and Mr. Borchard, she doesn’t like him, he says he likes her, and they both thought Derek was wonderful.”
“They are politicians. Were they being political?”
“Surely they were. So, that’s where the wind has blown so far, and those are the windmills I’ve tilted at. And, to further tilt the conversation, there is, of course, Mr. Cane and the desk.”
With a sudden growl, a huge locomotive-shaped roaster in the front of the shop roared to life. A man dug a scoop into a burlap bag and began feeding the roaster coffee beans.
“Is Mr. Cane just following the wind, also?” Dorothy said, raising her voice to speak over the thunder.
“Perhaps he is marching to the breeze of a different summer. But I’m holding my finger to that wind, too. Why would two people want Derek’s desk so much, enough that the loser is pursuing the winner?”
“Where is that wind blowing?”
“Back through Norman Highberg, I’m afraid,” Charles said. “So I’ll call him tomorrow.”
Puffs of smoke escaping the roaster blew past them. “And any other winds?”
“There are four winds, aren’t there? And that’s just two. So the wind blows where it wants but we don’t know where it comes from or where it goes.”
“You’re sounding biblical.”
Absently, he sipped his drink and looked deep into its swirls. “There’s a feel about this, Dorothy, and I don’t know what. Something deep and far-reaching. I want to not do anything wrong.”
“What could you do wrong?”
“I don’t know.” His eyes were on her now, looking deep. “But reading about that judge in the newspaper, I think about how easy it is to do something harmful.”
“I don’t see the connection.”
He smiled. “Never mind. I will just follow the wind and keep my eyes very open.”
“Don’t follow it too far.”
“It may lead to the Emerald City.”
“That’s the wrong metaphor, dear,” Dorothy said. “We are talking about the wind.”
“All right, then, it might lift your whole house up and carry it to another country.”
“If it gets that serious, you should talk to the police.”
“If you drop a farmhouse, you don’t know who it might land on. And you”—he pointed right at her—“should know that better than anyone.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. And Toto, too.” He looked at his watch. “I think if we linger a bit longer we can get back to the shop just in time to leave for the day.”
“The Federalist Papers. Charles, what was it about that generation? Every one of them could write.”
“They had something to write about, perhaps.”
“Revolution. I said it made for good literature.”
“You don’t like revolutions, Derek.”
“All right. I admit they have their uses. But they’re uncontrollable once they’re started and they create terrible vacuums. It took Europe nearly twenty years to rid itself of Napoleon. It’s all about power, Charles. However it starts—even whatever ‘it’ is—it always ends in the hands of the ruthless and powerful.”
“Not always.”
“You’re referring to George Washington? He’s underrated. He understood power, and it did end up in his hands.”
“For the good of the country.”
“Remarkably. But, Charles, he is an example. He had great power, founded on his prestige and success, and used it to good.”
“And then gave it up.”
“When he had accomplished his purpose. I appreciate his example. Rule by power is necessary and it could be used to good purpose even today.”
“Are you a monarchist, Derek?”
“I guess we can’t go that far. But within my own small sphere, it is an example I find very useful.”
THURSDAY
MORNING
“Mr. Beale?”
“Good morning, Morgan.”
“Good morning, sir.” His red hair was really too bright to be growing in a place so hidden from the sun. “I have an answer back from the person on eBay selling the Odyssey.”
“Yes, the hypothetical autographed first edition. What does he say?”
“He is moving and getting rid of stuff, and it was in a box.”
“So he found Attica in his attic. Does he know where the box came from?”
“It was his grandfather’s, who got it from an aunt in England as a present in the nineteen twenties, and she bought it for him at a bookstore.”
“That’s more than we usually get.”
“There’s a handwritten inscription to his grandfather inside the cover.”
“Oh. Oh, dear. That’s too bad. What about the title page?”
“Here’s a picture he took of it.”
Charles put his nose right up to the screen. “Hmm.”
“Does that tell you anything?”
“It’s not a proper title page.”
“What is it?” Morgan asked.
Charles shrugged. “Some kind of half title page. It does have the title: Homer’s Odyssey; Translated by Alexander Pope. But there’s no publisher or city or date. Why does he say it’s a first edition?”
“ ‘I believe it is a first edition because it is so old, and because the author signed it.’ End quote.”
“Of course.”
“This picture is the inside front cover, with the inscription to his grandfather and the author signatur
e.”
“That?” A very faded smudge crawled along the top of the paper.
“I can make out sort of an A and sort of a P,” Morgan said.
“I’m sure the book is nineteenth century, so Pope would have been dead a hundred years or so.”
“Maybe that’s why his signature is so shaky.”
“Mine would be, too. Well, obviously it’s not a first edition of anything. It’s some other printing. Get the picture of the cover again.”
Morgan quickly did so.
“But it’s still interesting,” Charles said. “I haven’t seen anything just like that. It looks like very nice leather. How much longer on the auction?”
“Four and a half days. Until Monday afternoon.”
“And where is the bidding?”
“Four hundred.”
“Yes. The dealers all know it’s not specifically valuable, and they’re waiting.”
“What is it worth if it isn’t specifically valuable?”
“Three or four hundred, up to maybe fifteen if it’s sort of specific. But it all depends. I’d have to actually see the book.”
“You could fly to Denver. He wouldn’t mail it here while it’s under auction.”
Charles stared at the book on the screen. “Morgan, I’m on an odyssey of my own at the moment. So I think I’ll take a chance.”
“Yes, sir. How much of a chance?”
“Fifteen hundred. I’m young and idealistic. Or foolish, I don’t remember which. Make it two thousand.”
“Yes, sir.”
Charles watched the fingers flit. “It all still amazes me.”
“I could show you how to do this.”
“I know my limitations, Morgan.”
“It isn’t hard, sir.”
“I mean that I’m already not very disciplined. If I were to start poking around eBay and all those other places, I would never escape. I’ll just use my computer for email and leave the rest to you.”
He slid around the corner to the main office. “Is Angelo’s next probation meeting this Monday or the next Monday?”
Dorothy looked at her calendar. “A week from this Monday.”
“I would like for him to learn better manners in dealing with people.”
“I don’t think we could have him wait on customers.”
“No. I’ll have to think about it.”
The morning had progressed. Charles strolled down the stairs and wandered over to the front window to inspect a newly empty space on the shelf beside it. Outside the window a man on the sidewalk was inspecting the front of the building.
A brown tweed jacket draped the man’s broad shoulders, and a fedora shaded his strong jaw and heavy forehead. He straightened his tie and strode up the steps.
The door opened. Charles still had his eye on the vacancy.
“Good morning,” the man said, coming to a stop at the counter.
“Good morning,” Alice said, accommodating as a traffic light turning green.
The conversation slowly accelerated. “Nice place you got here.”
“Thank you, sir. May I help you with anything?”
“I’m actually looking for the owner.”
Charles turned and merged in. “That would be me.”
Blue eyes beneath the hat brim smiled. “Then that would make you Charles Beale. I’m Frank Kelly. How do you do, Mr. Beale?”
“I’m quite well, thank you, Mr. Kelly.”
“Glad to hear it. I’m . . . um . . .” The blue eyes had focused on the wall behind Charles. “Well look at that!” He leaned closer to the shelves, and Charles moved aside. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” Mr. Kelly stared at the books, his eyes darting side to side, up and down. Then he gingerly put his hand to one and slid it out.
Charles waited attentively. Mr. Kelly’s square jaw slipped slowly ajar; his broad forehead wrinkled.
“This is real Raymond Chandler?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Golly. First edition?”
“That one is.”
“Well, get a load of that.” He turned his intense blue stare back to Charles, and then to the shelves. “Are all of these—?”
“Not all first editions.”
“Okay.” He replaced the Chandler and pulled out a Ross Mac-Donald. “You know, I’ve seen these on the Internet. But I never really looked at one.”
“Are you familiar with antique books, Mr. Kelly?”
“Oh, sure. All kinds of antiques.” He shook his head wistfully as he put the book back. “It’s my job. Say, you got a place where we could talk?”
“What about?”
“Well . . .” Mr. Kelly glanced around the room. Only Alice was with them, crisply. “It’s business.”
“Please, come with me.”
Charles led him upstairs to the office.
“Mr. Kelly, this is my wife. Dorothy, this is Mr. Frank Kelly.”
Their guest doffed his hat and held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Dorothy said. Bravely, she put her graceful hand into his.
“Great.” He held it for a minute, scrutinizing her, especially studying her face and hair. Then he released her hand without any damage.
“I guess I can talk with you both?”
“You might as well,” Charles said.
“Then here goes.” Faster than sight, he had a thin leather case in his hand. “I’m from the FBI,” he said, flicking the case open to show his badge.
“How interesting!” Charles said.
“Man, is it!” Mr. Kelly grinned. “You wouldn’t believe what comes up in this job.”
“I couldn’t even guess.”
“It gets pretty strange sometimes.” He shook his head. “But this isn’t.
I’ve got you on a list of dealers that Derek Bastien bought from.”
“I see. Yes, Derek bought a number of books from me.”
“That’s it. I’m with the Artifacts and Antiquities division and I’m checking up on the stuff that got stolen from Bastien’s house.”
Charles frowned. “The FBI?”
“You see, we’ve got likely interstate commerce in stolen goods, plus those being antique objects. D.C. police reported it to us so I’ve got to ask around and fill in a report.” He shrugged. “It’s just my job.”
“I only deal in books, Mr. Kelly. I wouldn’t know much about any of the items that were stolen.”
“Sure. Can I ask you some questions anyway?”
“Of course.”
“Were you ever in his house?”
“Yes. A number of times.”
“Did you talk about the things he owned? His collection.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“That’s what I want to know about.” Suddenly, Mr. Kelly realized he still had his hat on. He snatched it off, and nodded to Dorothy. “Sorry about that.”
She smiled.
“Did you ever get the feeling someone was after any of his stuff?”
“Well . . . no,” Charles said. “Not at all.”
“Because we got a break-in where the intruder snags a French baroque ivory dolphin, a colonial pewter candlestick and matching snuffer, an 1856 Italian mother-of-pearl dueling pistol, non-operational, et cetera, et cetera. It’s stuff that’s not easy to pawn, so the guy must either have a channel or a customer, see?”
“I don’t quite. Do you, dear?”
She smiled. “I’m afraid not.”
Frank Kelly provided light. “Either he has somebody he can fence that kind of stuff to, or he already has a customer who really wants a pewter candlestick. With a snuffer.”
“He stole the porpoise on purpose, you mean,” Charles said. “That sounds unlikely.”
“Yeah. Except there’s a difference between a dolphin and a porpoise. A porpoise in the French Baroque is for Greek myths, and a dolphin is a symbol for the French crown prince.” Mr. Kelly sneezed. “Sorr
y. Dust. You’d figure, you spend all your time with antiques, you should be used to dust. Anyway, it’s obvious the guy has a channel. There were four other break-ins in the neighborhood in three weeks. A rash. Most all antiques. So he has a channel. I mean, what do you do with a Limoges vase?” He had turned back to Dorothy.
“Put flowers in it,” she said.
“You could,” he said, nodding. “Or peppermints. But you don’t sell it to Mario the Fence in the back of the Italian restaurant like you do if it was jewelry or an iPod.”
“How do you sell it?” Charles asked.
“There’s ways. Fifty-fifty chance something’ll turn up on eBay in a month or two. I’ve put the list in the database, and if anything shows up, we’ll know right away.”
“Surely the burglar would be smarter than that?”
“You’d think, right? But no. You’d be surprised how stupid some of these guys are. We get the piece, we get some fingerprints or DNA off it, and then we get him.”
“I suppose you’d know.”
“Yeah, break-ins like this, they happen all the time. Except how it went wrong with Bastien.”
“Very wrong.” Charles looked away from Mr. Kelly, and the room. The street was bright with light and life. Green leaves, breezes, people. “What about Derek himself? Are you investigating his death?”
“No. That’s D.C. police. But, sure, if we find the burglar, they want him, too.”
“How can I help you?” Charles asked. “I don’t see how I can.”
“Two ways. You deal in antiques, even if it isn’t the right kind, so if you hear anything, let me know. And you knew the victim, so if you think of anything from that angle, let me know. Anything. Then I just follow the leads, it’s my job. Anything you can think of now? Anything strange?”
“What about the desk?”
Mr. Kelly frowned. “That hundred-grand bidding war? Yeah, I don’t know what that was about.”
“You know about the bidding?”
“Sure, I was at the auction. Just keeping my eyes open. But I don’t think the desk has anything to do with the break-in. You know, how could it? Somebody knew something special about the desk. The burglaries were all just smash and grabs. What, you know something about the guy who bought it?”
“No. The man who lost the bidding called me to try to find who won.”
“If it really is to do with the burglaries, I can find out who bought the desk,” Mr. Kelly said. “Who called you?”
According to Their Deeds Page 7
