According to Their Deeds

by Paul Robertson

  “While he studied yours?”

  Charles laughed. “Wheels within wheels. I think I agree with John Borchard. He just referred to all of us as Derek Bastien’s collected works. Himself, me, Karen Liu. All of Derek’s friends.”

  “Mr. Beale?” said Alice, abruptly appearing. “You have a phone call. Mr. John Borchard.”

  Charles looked at Dorothy. “Speak of the devil.”

  “John. This is Charles.”

  “Good morning, Charles!” None of his rich baritone was lost through the telephone connection. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

  “I’m at your service.”

  “Well! What an opportunity! I shouldn’t waste it.”

  “Please don’t,” Charles said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I said that I wanted to drop in to your shop, there, but I just haven’t had time.”

  “It was only two days ago that you said that.”

  “I am still very interested. And I was wondering, also, who else of Derek’s friends you’d met.”

  “I have met a few more. His wife, Lucy, for one. I realized how odd it was that I’d never met her.”

  “I have only briefly myself! What did you think of her?”

  “I might sound judgmental if I said anything.”

  “And that says quite a bit itself! I understand. Not precisely the grieving widow, I expect.”

  “Not precisely.”

  “And, I wonder,” Charles said, “if you’ve ever heard of Patrick White?”

  “Patrick White . . .” There was a long pause. “I should have guessed. Of course!” John said, bouncing back to life. “Very sad!”

  “So you know him?”

  “Oh yes, we’ve met. In fact, it’s a bit of a long story, even before his present troubles. Well, that’s interesting. Quite a path you’re following!”

  “I just take one step and the next one presents itself.”

  “And all from selling a few books. I doubt you had any idea where it would lead when he first came through your door!”

  “I certainly didn’t.”

  “I wonder where those books are now.”

  “I don’t wonder that at all,” Charles said.

  Another pause. “You aren’t curious?”

  “I know where they are. I bought them back at the auction.”

  “Of course!” Jubilation! “Of course you would! Absolutely! So you have them?”

  “I certainly do.”

  “That’s very interesting to know!” The celebration died down. “All of them?”

  “The thirteen offered at the auction.”

  “There weren’t any missing?”

  “No, I believe that was all.”

  “Well, I should have guessed. Do you plan to sell them?”

  “I expect so. I haven’t listed them yet.”

  “You haven’t listed them.” There was a feel of gathering for a leap. “When you do, let me know. I might be interested myself.”

  “I’ll let you know,” Charles said.

  “Then I won’t bother you anymore for now.” Back to happiness and friendship. “Keep in touch, Charles! And remember, if there is anything at all I can do for you, let me know.”

  Piercing blue eyes were upon him as he hung up.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Yes?” Dorothy said in reply.

  “I should really think of something he can do for me.”

  “You could ask him about the papers in the book.”

  “I don’t think I will,” Charles said. “But I will look at them now myself.”

  “Give me a brief description of yesterday,” she said.

  “Of course. It keeps getting put off, doesn’t it? I visited Lucy.” The last shreds of his own happiness withered. “Did I say the auction was bad? This was much worse.”

  “Seeing the house.”

  “Wiped clean. I will never go back. Everything of Derek was purged, burnt with fire, consumed. Except that instead of black, it’s all yellow, the one color he didn’t like.”

  “And her?”

  “She gave every appearance of cynical enjoyment at her new freedom and money. I wasn’t there long enough to dig very deeply, but I don’t think I would have found different emotions below that surface. This is her second widowhood. She didn’t say what happened to her first husband. Anyway, then I met Galen Jones.”

  “Where did you find him?”

  “Between Norman Highberg and Jacob Leatherman, I have pieced together that he is a maker of replica antiques, that he did some work for Derek, and that he tried to buy Derek’s desk at the auction. I asked him if Derek’s desk was actually a fake, and he declined to answer.”

  Dorothy was confused. “Where did you get that idea?”

  “It was just a guess, and I won’t even begin to work out what it might imply.”

  “As I have said,” Dorothy said, “I think the police should be involved. However, as you have declined, I will admit that I am curious what it all means.”

  “Then I will find out and tell you. And, I have a project for Angelo, which I also need to tell you about. Will you be busy again this afternoon with the banquet?”

  “I am afraid so. I will be putting out centerpieces and dealing with a catering crisis.”

  “What crisis?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m just assuming there will be one.”

  “Then, until we meet again,” he said. “Will you be finished by this evening?”

  “I should be.”

  “Good. Perhaps we could spend it together.”

  “Alice? Have we sold anything this morning?

  “A Jules Verne. Journey to the Center of the Earth. ”

  Charles paused at the basement steps. “It is,” he said. And down he went.

  He stopped at the basement door to adjust to a proper attitude.

  He crossed the threshold and locked the door behind him.

  Without hesitation he went to the specific shelf, the specific, worn, unremarkable spine.

  He set it on the desk and pulled on the white gloves. They weren’t necessary—but it wasn’t the book’s fault what had been done to it.

  Then he did hesitate.

  And finally, when he did open the book, the crimes had not been erased. The book was still murdered and the box was still thrust deep into its ribs.

  He pulled the box out.

  He opened it again for this the second time. The papers hadn’t dissolved or escaped. They were still there, and he removed them, and smoothed them open on the desk.

  Six pages.

  The first. The list of codes and dates. GJ, 9/12/05, 2250; EF, 2/5/2003 1800; RM, 4/11/06, 750. There was no order. The page was full, and half the back, with more than fifty entries.

  The second. The four checks payable to Karen Liu, dated to her first campaign for Congress. The total was five hundred thousand dollars. They were cashier’s checks with no indication of where the money had come from.

  The third. The newspaper article. Man Killed, Police Search County for Wife. It was terrible, but at least brief, written in a small-town style.

  A grisly scene met police yesterday morning when they were called to a house on Washington Street. A man had been stabbed repeatedly by a large kitchen knife. Police are not yet releasing the name of the victim, but neighbors say it was the owner of the house.

  Neighbors described a history of arguments and violence at the house, and said there had been many visits from the police during the year and a half the couple had lived in the neighborhood.

  A neighbor across the street from the house described the couple to this reporter: “They were so in love when they came,” she said. “They were such nice newlyweds. Then over a few months it changed. There was screaming and fighting at all hours.”

  The wife has not been seen since last night. Police have said the investigation is only getting started. They said they will make a statement after they finish their search of the house.

&n
bsp; The fourth paper. This was another article, very short. Drug Bust in Fairfax—Fairfax County police arrested more than a dozen members of an alleged drug importing ring. The early morning raids on five residences were the result of a three-month investigation. Drug-sniffing dogs uncovered over seventy pounds of cocaine hidden in furniture in one apartment.

  The fifth. The page was titled at the top, Court Order, Fifth Circuit Court of Kansas, then a typewritten list of names and numbers, Howard Elias Finney, 2445993, plus seven others, and below them, To be released immediately, then signed by Quentin Osley, Judge, and dated. The date was nearly twenty years old. There were several other case numbers and designations on the page.

  The sixth paper, and last. It was a cover page of a report. University of Virginia Honor Court Proceedings, 1974. Beneath was a handwritten Page 65.

  This last page, the emptiest, he stared at the longest.

  Then he wrote a few notes in a small notebook and replaced the papers in the box, and the box in the book, and the book on the shelf.

  AFTERNOON

  “Morgan.”

  “Yes, Mr. Beale?”

  “I have a couple little jobs for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The pale face beneath the sandy red hair looked up at him through dense glasses.

  “Do you need more sunlight, Morgan?”

  “I get sunburn.”

  “Do you even get enough air?”

  “I’m still breathing, sir.”

  “I suppose you are. First, here is an article about some drug arrests. Can you find out when it’s from?” He put the handwritten copy in Morgan’s long, thin fingers.

  “Let’s see.” He entered a sentence from the article. “Looks like the Washington Post, March 20th, 2002.”

  “Thank you! That was easy.”

  “That one was.”

  “Hey, boss.”

  Charles turned. Angelo stood in the door, ragged and menacing.

  “Yes?”

  “You want us to go out now?”

  “Yes, I’ll be a few minutes. You’ll need to look nice.”

  “What is that for drugs and arrests you are doing?”

  “It’s not me,” Charles said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be down soon.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Charles looked back to Morgan. “Here is another article.”

  Morgan read the words. “I hope these aren’t anyone you know,” he said.

  “No. It’s complicated. I’m trying to find out about a book.”

  “Yes, sir. I know how that can go off in all different directions. Let’s see.” He typed, then typed again, then a few other times. “That one isn’t coming up.”

  “It isn’t there?” Charles asked.

  “I can’t find it. It might be too old, or from some newspaper that doesn’t have their back issues online, or they’re hidden.”

  “Never mind, then. Next—this is the number and date of a court order from the Fifth Circuit Court of Kansas. Can you find anything about it?”

  “That’s probably online. Let me see.”

  There was more typing and clicking and passing of minutes, but finally Morgan nodded. “Right. It’s some grand jury thing about, um, prosecutorial misconduct. Eight prisoners were released. Their trials had been overturned because the prosecutor had, um, whatever . . . I think it means he’d suppressed evidence . . . overzealous . . . jury tampering . . . Wow.” His nose got closer and closer to the screen. “Hardcore ruthless. This guy would prosecute his own mother.” He looked up at Charles. “Sir.”

  “That’s good enough,” Charles said. “Does it say who the prosecutor was?”

  “No. Not here. But it does say no charges would be brought against him, apparently because of some technicality.”

  “All right, then, one more. There is a man in the news recently, Patrick Henry White. He was a judge, but he had to resign when someone told the newspaper that he’d cheated on some tests back in law school. I wonder if you can tell me where and when he was in school.”

  “Let’s see.” Morgan’s fingers spoke with the computer and soon it answered. “It was in a Washington Post article six months ago. University of Virginia, 1972 to 1976.”

  “Thank you.” He sighed. “I think that’s all.” He took the papers back. “And where is Odysseus?”

  “Still sailing.”

  “Very well.”

  Charles walked slowly back to his own office. He took a porcelain soap dish from the bathroom, set his handwritten notes on it, lit them with a match, and slid the ashes into the wastebasket.

  “Alice?”

  “Yes, Mr. Beale?”

  “Here is a list of books I would like you to pull for me.”

  “Did someone order them?”

  “No, I’m just borrowing them. I’ll need them in a couple hours and I’ll have them back tomorrow.”

  “Hey, boss.”

  Charles regained his composure. “You must learn to make some sound when you come into a room, Angelo.”

  “I said, ‘Hey, boss.’ Are you ready for us to go?”

  “Yes you did, and yes I am, and you look quite presentable. And have we sold anything else, Alice?”

  “A volume of George Bernard Shaw’s plays.”

  “Pygmalion. Well, Professor Higgins is taking Miss Doolittle to the ball.”

  “This is a jeweler,” Charles said. “Very fancy. I doubt we’ll find our lady here, so it will just be practice.”

  “People here don’t talk to me,” Angelo said.

  “You look completely respectable,” Charles said. “Come on.” He pushed open the door.

  Angelo stopped on the threshold. Even he was overwhelmed, his eyes wide open until he regained his blank, narrow stare.

  Four pedestals interrupted the expansive royal blueness of the carpet, magnificent dark wood stands smothered in glittering sparkling dazzling flashing spot-lit jewels. Around the three walls facing them ran a blinding necklace of other crystalline displays.

  Charles gave him time.

  A velvet voice floated toward them. “May I help you?” The source, a crystalline young woman, had come from a side office door.

  “I hope so,” Charles said. “My name is Charles Beale, and I’m here with Mr. Acevedo.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Beale and Mr. Acevedo.”

  “Hey,” Angelo said, still slightly blinded.

  “We were given your name by Capital Auction.”

  “Yes?” the woman said.

  “Mr. Acevedo is interested in acquiring some pieces that will be up for auction, but he would prefer to have someone more familiar with jewelry, and with bidding at auction, to represent him.”

  Angelo stood with his hands in his pockets, his eyes shifting side to side.

  “I see.” The woman smiled. “You would want to speak with Mr. Needham.”

  “Does he usually attend the auction himself, or does someone else?”

  “That depends on the type of pieces, but he would work with you personally to begin with.”

  “I see. Is he in?”

  “I believe he is engaged at the moment.”

  Charles smiled. “Perhaps we’ll stop in later.”

  “Yes, sir. It would be good to call ahead of time.”

  “We will. Thank you.”

  “What do you think?” Charles asked.

  “Hey, boss, that is the way you do it.”

  “What would you do?”

  “You got another place to try?”

  “Let’s see . . . there is an office on the list that’s close.” He looked at the paper. “About three blocks.”

  “I will do that one.”

  “All right. Let’s try it.”

  Three blocks was not far at Angelo’s pace. Charles was the one gasping as they reached the solid gray stone slab within sight of Union Station.

  “This is an office, not a retail store,” he said. “You don’t just wander in.”

  They rode an elevator to
the third floor. When he wasn’t moving, Angelo was very still, but when the doors opened he was moving before Charles had a chance to speak.

  The door said Gallwood Imports. “You stay here,” Angelo said.

  He opened the door without knocking. Charles watched from the hall.

  It was a small, crowded, untidy room with one occupied desk and two unoccupied. The occupant was a very thin man with dark hair and a beaklike nose.

  “Yes?” he said.

  Angelo waited.

  “Yes? What do you want?” the man said.

  “I am here for that package,” Angelo said.

  “What package?”

  “That lady, she said to come get that package.”

  “What package? What are you talking about?”

  “That lady said.” Angelo was bored and impatient.

  “What lady?”

  “That lady, she called and said come get that package.”

  “Who?” the man said, confused but not yet annoyed.

  “You got a lady who works here?”

  “Ayala! There’s a guy out here to pick up a package.”

  A woman looked in from a doorway, from under a pile of jet-black hair. “What?”

  “Do you have something for this guy to pick up?”

  “I don’t have anything,” she said.

  Angelo stepped back to look at the name on the main door. “This is Gallwood, right?”

  “Who called you? Where did you come from?” the man said.

  “You got a package or you don’t?”

  “We don’t have any package.”

  Angelo shrugged and turned and left. He closed the door and started down the hall.

  “Wait,” Charles said, and he stopped. “That was very good, Angelo.”

  “Thanks, boss.”

  “Can you do the rest of the list?”

  “I can do that list.”

  They started walking again. In the elevator, Charles said, “Remember a few things. If someone starts getting mad, don’t get into a fight.”

  “I won’t fight.”

  “And don’t make anyone suspicious. In a store they might think you are trying to shoplift.”

  “I know all that, boss.”

  “I suppose you do.” The elevator door opened. “Angelo, do you know that I trust you?”

  He shrugged. “You want I should go to the next place now?”

  “No. We’ll go back to the shop. You should just do a couple a day. The important thing is for you to practice talking to people.”