According to Their Deeds

by Paul Robertson

  There was another quiet here; not books, not words at all; but here there was also stone.

  A slight chill wind attended them. They walked a gravel path around the brow of a low hill and through the shadow of a single old tree, then a few steps over emerald grass bursting with spring life, and stopped at a headstone among others. It said William Beale and Our Dearly Beloved Son.

  EVENING

  “Of all the books, I wonder why that one?” Charles said. He had a fire put up in the fireplace for the last cool evening of spring.

  “What, dear?”

  “Derek. Of all the books, why he would . . .” Charles couldn’t help but smile. “Why did he pick the Locke?”

  Dorothy closed the book she was reading. “I know that you and the employees do that, but I do not allow puns in this house.”

  “It was unavoidable.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Anyway.” He cleared his throat. “Why did he select the John Locke? He had hundreds of books just in his office. He didn’t have to mangle an antique.”

  “Which antique books did he own?”

  “Well let me see. I could look at the computer at the store. But I think I can remember from opening them last Monday.”

  “There were thirteen?”

  “Yes. Write them down to make sure I remember them all. The first one was Adam Smith, Wealth of Nations. Then Gibbon, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Thomas Paine, Common Sense, the Rights of Man and Age of Reason.”

  “One volume?”

  “Yes, all in one volume. John Adams, A Defence of the Constitutions of Government of the United States. And then there was John Locke, of course, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. That was the fifth one I opened.”

  “Then I was with you after that.”

  “And I was paying even closer attention. The next one was Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan. Then Montesquieu, The Spirit of Laws. Edmund Burke, Reflections on the Revolution in France. Voltaire’s Philosophical Dictionary. Hume’s A Treatise of Human Nature. Rousseau’s The Social Contract, and de Tocqueville’s Democracy in America. And The Federalist Papers.”

  “That was the last one?”

  “Yes. How many was that?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Wait. That can’t be all. That was thirteen?”

  “That was thirteen. Is something missing?”

  “Yes! It’s obvious.”

  “What?”

  “Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason. The de Tocqueville is an extra—we were starting on the nineteenth century—but the rest are all the standards of the Enlightenment. It wouldn’t be complete without the Kant. Morgan thought it was fourteen, and Lucy Bastien said fourteen, too, but I knew I’d only bought thirteen at the auction. I didn’t think that one would have been missing.”

  “Did you sell him a Kant?” Dorothy asked.

  “Oh yes, I remember it now, and even the conversation we had about it. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t notice it wasn’t with the others. I would have realized it right at the time as I was opening the books, but I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “Why wouldn’t it have been with the others?”

  “I don’t know. It should have been. I wonder where it is.”

  “Just more questions.”

  “More questions,” he said. “And I told Mr. Kelly that no books were stolen.” He fished through his wallet and pulled out a business card. “I suppose I should call him.”

  “On Sunday?”

  “Just to leave a message.” He pushed the buttons on the telephone.

  “Frank Kelly of the FBI. Please leave a message.”

  “Mr. Kelly, this is Charles Beale of Alexandria Rare Books. You came by my shop Thursday morning. I said at the time that I had all of Derek Bastien’s antique books, but I’ve realized I don’t, that one is missing. I don’t know if that’s important but I wanted to correct the statement I made to you.”

  “Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. One German. He seems rather alone among the French and British, Charles.”

  “You could give him Goethe as company.”

  “I don’t like Faust. For a government employee, it cuts too close to home.”

  “Have you been making any deals lately, then, Derek?”

  “Always, but not for my soul. It’s usually just removing paragraph C from section Two in return for three more votes in the committee.”

  “I suppose it depends on what paragraph C says.”

  “Nothing, Charles. It was only put there in the first place so we could make a deal later on.”

  “That Reason doesn’t seem very Pure, Derek.”

  “Kant would not approve? Germans are too logical for such nonsense, or at least they think they are. They always take their philosophy one step too far.”

  “The Germans dive deeper—and come up muddier. I believe it was Henry Steeds who said that.”

  “Quite. I prefer the mud of practical deal-making to the mud of philosophy, Charles.”

  “Is that what you do, mainly, Derek? Make deals?”

  “Mainly. Twist arms, give a little and take a little.”

  “Do you usually get what you want?”

  “Most of the time, Charles, most of the time.”

  “But what do they want in return?

  “They give me their souls, and I give them unending life.”

  “You’re joking, of course, Derek.”

  “Yes, of course, Charles. I’m joking.”

  MONDAY

  MORNING

  “Mr. Kelly!”

  He was standing on the sidewalk outside the shop.

  “Oh, good morning,” he said, and stepped out of the way as Charles put his key in the doorknob. “I wasn’t sure when you’d open.”

  “Not for a little while,” Charles said. “But please come in.”

  “Thanks. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.”

  Charles crossed the showroom to the counter, turned on the lights and turned off the alarm. “You must have gotten my message.”

  “Yeah, last night. I would have just called you back, but I decided to drop in.” He gave the room a swinging stare. “I love this place.”

  “Of course. Drop in anytime.”

  “I might. So, you said one of your books was missing?”

  “Not exactly. One of the books I sold Derek Bastien is missing.”

  “From here?”

  “No. It wasn’t in the set I bought at the auction.”

  “Oh. I get it.” He slid his little notebook from its little pocket. “And it should have been?”

  “Well, I suppose so. Unless Mrs. Bastien kept it. It wasn’t auctioned.”

  “So . . .” Mr. Kelly gave due consideration. “So maybe it was stolen the night he was killed?”

  “I wouldn’t know that at all, of course, but it might have been,” Charles said. “Or Derek might have sold it himself sometime earlier. But I doubt that.”

  “What book was it?”

  “Critique of Pure Reason by Kant. An 1830 edition and in reasonable shape.”

  “What’s the market value?”

  “Nine hundred.”

  “Okay. Unaccounted for. I’ll check the inventory and see if it should have been there.”

  “That is the inventory that Derek kept?”

  “Right. Real useful. That’s the only way we knew about any of the other stuff that was stolen. The police looked at what he had on his inventory list, and they looked at what was left in the house, and whatever was missing got put on the list of stolen goods.”

  Charles nodded. “Actually, Lucy Bastien said she thought there were fourteen books on that list, and I only bought thirteen at the auction.”

  “There was a lot of stuff on that list. So, is that all you have to tell me?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Okay. Yeah, could be it was taken. That’s how it was—just stuff. Whatever fit in the bag, I guess.”

 
The door opened and Alice was with them, sliding off her jacket and beaming sweetness. “Good morning, Mr. Beale!”

  “Good Monday morning,” he said. “This is Mr. Kelly.”

  “I remember from last week!”

  For a few moments, Alice was busy with morning chores. Frank Kelly gravitated to the mystery shelf, and Charles watched.

  “Mr. Kelly?”

  “Yeah?”

  Charles took a slow breath. “Could you come up to the office for just a moment?”

  Mr. Kelly caught the tone in Charles’s voice. “Yeah, sure.”

  They climbed the stairs and Charles settled Mr. Kelly into the chair he’d had before.

  Then he sat at his own desk.

  Then he chewed his lip and Mr. Kelly waited.

  “What do you know about the night Derek was killed?”

  “What do I know?” The broad shoulders shrugged and the heavy brow crinkled. “Just what’s in D.C. Homicide’s report.”

  “I wondered. The newspaper said he was hit on the head.”

  “I think so. Burglary gone bad.” Mr. Kelly waited.

  “It really was a burglary?” Charles said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just wondered. It seems so random.”

  Mr. Kelly’s shoulders rose and dropped again, but his eyes didn’t move. “Hey, it happens. You think it wasn’t?”

  “Oh, not specifically. I don’t really know anything. It just doesn’t seem appropriate for someone like Derek Bastien.”

  “Tell you what,” Mr. Kelly said, his stare still unmoving on Charles. “You want to look at the report?”

  “Look at it?”

  “Sure. You can’t officially. But I could get you a look, if you wanted.”

  “Well . . . I don’t know . . .”

  Mr. Kelly leaned back, suddenly more relaxed. “Let me take you. It’s no problem.”

  “I’m sure you’re too busy.”

  “It’s part of my job. Look, you were in his house enough. You knew him. Maybe you might see something in the report. I’m not just doing it to be nice; I think it’s worth an hour because you might help me out.”

  “Well. All right,” Charles said. “I would appreciate it.”

  “I would, too. Uh . . .” he was looking through his notebook. “Tomorrow morning. That work for you?”

  “I’m sure it would.”

  “Hey, boss.”

  Even Frank Kelly was startled by the silent appearance.

  “Yes, Angelo?”

  “You want me to go to somebody on your list this morning?”

  “Yes. I’ll talk to you just as soon as I’m finished here.”

  Angelo nodded and silently disappeared.

  “He works for you?” Mr. Kelly asked.

  “Yes. It’s a long story. He’s my courier and night watchman.”

  “Courier, huh?”

  “It’s not really a necessity. When someone local buys one of the rare books, I send Angelo out to deliver it.”

  “Really?” Mr. Kelly was still staring at the empty door. “He ever go to Bastien’s house?”

  “I did take him once. Back when I was first training him.”

  “So he was at the house?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Actually inside?”

  “Yes. I took him in for just a while. Does that mean anything?”

  “Huh? Oh, no.” Mr. Kelly seemed distracted, but then he shook it off. “Anyway. So, tomorrow, ten o’clock? D.C. Police headquarters, front lobby.”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  Charles climbed to the third floor and knocked on the closed door.

  Angelo opened it. His expression was a closed door.

  “Let’s pick which agent you should visit this morning,” Charles said. He held up the list. “These two are close together.”

  “You want me to go to those two?”

  “Yes. Do those. You’ll have to take the Metro all the way to Maryland.

  Can you get there?”

  “I can get there. Hey, boss.”

  “Yes?”

  “That man,” Angelo said. “He came out the door.”

  “Mr. Kelly? Where?”

  “The auction door. He saw me waiting.”

  “He was at the auction,” Charles said. “He’s trying to find who stole things from Derek Bastien’s house.”

  “He’s police?”

  “FBI. It’s like police.”

  “They are all the same,” Angelo said. “What things were stolen?”

  “Antiques. Little statues and things.”

  “Oh. I remember. I see little things like that in people’s houses. Who wants those?”

  “The people that have them.”

  Apparently Angelo was feeling talkative. “To sell a thing like that, that’s not easy.”

  “Exactly. It is Mr. Kelly’s special job to find them. Angelo, if you had stolen things like that, would you know how to sell them?”

  “Who says I was stealing those things?”

  “No one. I just wondered.”

  “I don’t steal those things.”

  “I know. Would you know how to sell them if you did?”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “All right. I’m sorry. Never mind. I’ll be in the basement for the morning if you need me before you leave.”

  AFTERNOON

  Only the desk lamp was on. The computer was off. As still as the books, Charles leaned over the desk and just his eyes moved, and every few minutes his gloved hand as it turned a page with a silver spatula.

  “There you are,” Dorothy said. “You’ve been down here for hours.”

  “Time is much slower down here,” he said. “It’s like a horse pulling a cart. The books are so heavy they hold it back.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “Chekhov. And I think he must have been reading me.”

  “There is someone here to see you.”

  “Then the further study of human nature will have to wait.”

  “Not necessarily,” Dorothy said. “It’s Patrick White.”

  “Then let’s go up to say hello.”

  “Mr. White.”

  “Hello.”

  There was nothing eerie about him in the noon sunlight. The fever brightness in the eyes was veiled and the voice calm.

  “I’m so glad to see you again,” Charles said.

  “You suggested lunch,” Mr. White said.

  “Lunch? Oh, yes. Of course. I’d be glad to.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Well—of course—I’ll be right with you. Just a moment.” He turned to Dorothy. “I’ll be out for lunch.”

  “And perhaps we would do coffee afterwards?”

  “Surely,” he said.

  Charles moved to the door, but Mr. White was suddenly not in a hurry.

  “Did you have any place in mind?” Charles asked. The man did not budge.

  “No.”

  Charles waited. “Is there anything you’d like to look at first?”

  “No.” Whatever he was looking at, it was not in the room. But then he snapped into the moment. “You pick someplace.”

  “Just down the street,” Charles said, and Patrick White passed through the door with him.

  Ten minutes later Mr. White spoke again, his first words since they had left the bookshop.

  “Ham sandwich and coffee.”

  “Yes, sir,” the waitress answered, and departed.

  “What did you really know about Derek Bastien?” Patrick White said to Charles, and the conversation lurched to life.

  “Well,” Charles said. “I knew what his job was and I knew what his home was like and I knew what he liked to talk about.”

  “What do you know about blackmail?”

  “Blackmail? Not very much, Mr. White! And I don’t want to know more.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you want.” The tone did not match the words. Mr. White was apparently talking to himself
. “It happens whether you want it to or not.”

  “What does that have to do with Derek?” Charles asked.

  “You met John Borchard?”

  “Well, yes, I did,” Charles said, re-orienting. “Mr. White, I feel like this conversation is rather one-sided.”

  “I want to know where you are in this.”

  “I don’t know where I am, and I don’t know what this is. Perhaps you could enlighten me?”

  Mr. White was again not with him. Several minutes came and went; the food came and Charles’s went. The ham sandwich was not touched. Charles waited patiently.

  Several tables cleared as the lunch crowd thinned. Charles watched passersby through the window. He shook off the waitress when she offered dessert. A group of motorcycles roared by on the street.

  “Borchard killed Derek Bastien,” Patrick White said.

  “John Borchard?” It was fortunate that Charles was finished eating.

  “It was blackmail.”

  “I don’t understand at all.”

  “Borchard killed Derek over his blackmail.”

  “Blackmailing whom?”

  “Me. Why don’t you understand? He threatened me. And when I didn’t do what he wanted, he told the Post, just like he said he would.”

  “He told them about you—about the law school?”

  “He told them where to find the transcript of the honor court that found me guilty.”

  Charles had to take a breath. “Were you guilty?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Well, wouldn’t it?”

  “It didn’t. Okay, yes, I cheated. So I failed the class and I was on probation and I started over. And it was over. But what does a newspaper care? They came after me like I was a war criminal. There was no way to fight back.”

  “I see.”

  “But I did fight back. Even if I was ruined, I could still get my revenge. But then John Borchard killed Derek.”

  “Because he was blackmailing you?” Charles said.

  “So now you understand.”

  Charles nodded, relieved. “I think I do. But why would John Borchard kill Derek for blackmailing you?”

  Patrick White had frozen again, but this time his focus was straight on Charles and the thaw was quick.

  “What do you mean?”

  Charles said it again. “If Derek was blackmailing you, why would John Borchard kill him?”