According to Their Deeds

by Paul Robertson

  A fierce light flashed in Mr. White’s eyes. They were deep-set and dark-rimmed in his haggard face.

  “It was John Borchard who blackmailed me! John Borchard sent the papers to the Washington Post.”

  Now it was Charles who had frozen. “John Borchard was the blackmailer?”

  “Yes. Yes! Why don’t you understand?”

  “I . . . I’m sorry . . . I just got mixed up who you were talking about.”

  “Why do you think Derek Bastien was a blackmailer?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. I was just confused. Please. Keep going. John Borchard had papers about you from your law school, and he threatened that he would expose you. And then he did. How was Derek involved?”

  “I went to Derek for help. First, I went to get his help to stop Borchard. Then after Borchard told the newspaper, I went to Derek for help to get revenge. But Borchard found out and he killed Derek for talking to me.”

  “Why was he blackmailing you?”

  But Charles had to wait. Mr. White’s mental trips away from the physical world were becoming more frequent.

  “Do you believe me?” was the answer when it came.

  “I don’t know. How sure are you of all of this?”

  “Oh, I’m sure. I’m absolutely sure.”

  “John Borchard told you himself that he had this information and that he was going to use it?”

  “He didn’t tell me himself. But he made it obvious it was him. We both knew.”

  “All right, then. Did Derek know anything about it?”

  “Not until I told him.”

  “And how do you know John Borchard killed him?”

  “Who else would have? That’s obvious, too.”

  Charles tried another direction. “Have you told all this to the police?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “And they haven’t done anything about it?”

  “No. Nothing! Borchard’s got them in his pocket.”

  “I see. So why are you telling me?”

  This required another short trip away.

  “Karen Liu said you knew Derek, and you were talking to people he knew. I thought maybe you knew something.”

  “I didn’t know any of this that you’ve told me.”

  “Watch out for Borchard. That’s the first thing,” Mr. White said, oblivious to Charles’s answer. “He’s dangerous. But he might trust you. So see what you can find out. Maybe he’ll let something slip.”

  “Really, Mr. White. I don’t—”

  “Derek Bastien was murdered. Somebody has to do something.” And then, suddenly the conversation ended. Patrick White stood and dropped two twenty-dollar bills on the table. “Be careful,” he said.

  He left. Charles was left behind.

  “Mr. Beale,” Alice said. “You’ll never guess what we sold while you were gone.”

  Charles closed the front door behind him, a cloud of bewilderment still swirling around his head. “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “Moby-Dick.”

  He stopped in his tracks and the cloud vanished. “The first edition? From downstairs?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who bought it?”

  “One of our regular customers. Morgan has the order upstairs.”

  Charles climbed up to the office. “Did Alice tell you?” Dorothy said.

  “Yes! Who bought it?”

  “The same man who bought The Scarlet Letter two years ago.”

  “Oh—Abercrombie. In Arlington.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Does he want it delivered?”

  “Yes. He paid by credit card.”

  “Did we give him the regular discount?”

  “Ten percent off twenty-seven thousand.”

  “Moby-Dick.” Charles sank into his chair. “Oh my. He’s been here so long. Are you sure?”

  “Yes, dear.” Dorothy smiled. “You look thoroughly befuddled.”

  “I’ll go down to the basement and say goodbye.” The jubilant mood sank slowly beneath the waves. “Dorothy, I’ve just had lunch with Captain Ahab.”

  “Patrick White?”

  “I think he must be unbalanced. I hope he is.”

  “You hope he is unbalanced?”

  “Otherwise what he said would be true.”

  “What did he say?” Dorothy caught his mood and began sinking with him.

  “John Borchard is Moby-Dick.”

  “John Borchard is what?”

  “There is a superficial resemblance,” Charles said. “Dorothy, Patrick White is on a quest for revenge and Mr. Borchard is his target.”

  “Revenge? For what?”

  “In this case, Captain Ahab has lost his judicial career rather than his leg.”

  “But . . .” Dorothy frowned. “But didn’t . . .” She frowned more. “Charles, you have to tell me what you’re talking about.”

  “All right. I can do it. I’m just still regaining my own balance. Mr. White believes that it was John Borchard who exposed his law school scandal to the newspaper.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Mr. White did not elaborate. But beyond that, he says he went to Derek Bastien for help against John Borchard.”

  “Did Derek ever tell you anything about him?”

  “No. I’m sure he never mentioned Patrick Henry White to me. But, Dorothy, this is the culmination. Patrick White says that John Borchard killed Derek Bastien.”

  She was momentarily speechless. “He said that?”

  “Word for word. You look just like I must have.”

  “Killed him!”

  “Yes.”

  She got her mouth closed, then opened it again. “Did he?”

  “At this point, dear, I’m inclined to doubt it.”

  “I should hope so!”

  “I would desperately hope he did not.”

  She had recovered. “And who are you that Mr. White would tell you all of this?”

  “Me? Call me Ishmael.”

  “Hey, boss.”

  Charles rubbed his forehead. “Someday, Angelo, I will have a heart attack.”

  “You not feeling good, boss?”

  “I’m fine. How did it go?”

  “It was okay, that lady I didn’t see her in those places. You want I should look at the next place tomorrow?”

  “You have a delivery in the morning,” Charles said. “A very important one. I’d do it myself, but I have another appointment. We can see if any of the places on the list are in the same area as your delivery.”

  “Mr. Beale?” Alice’s voice from the stairs was panicked.

  “Yes? I’m coming,” he said, and Angelo followed.

  “There’s a man down here.”

  “Now who?” Charles stood and moved quickly. He reached the showroom.

  “Beale.”

  “Mr. Jones,” he said, as that was who it was.

  “Talk.”

  The look in Galen Jones’s eye was of an altogether different ferocity than Patrick White’s.

  Charles slid past the tall and centrally located Mr. Jones, and opened the front door. “We could step outside.”

  He pushed through the door and stopped on the front sidewalk. “You said you talked to the FBI?”

  “I’ve talked to Mr. Kelly,” Charles said. “I think I told you.”

  “What did you tell them about me?”

  “About you? Nothing. I hadn’t even met you.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I never said your name or anything about you.”

  Mr. Jones searched the sidewalk for listeners. “So have you talked to anybody about me?”

  “No. Well—Norman Highberg, and that was also before I’d met you. And my wife. What’s wrong?”

  “Kelly, the FBI, he came by my house this morning. He asked me about the desk. Just like you. Except he also wanted to know if anyone else was asking.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Then how—? Never mind.” Galen Jones was
very frustrated. “Look, don’t ever say my name to anyone. Ever.”

  “That’s a hard thing to promise. I will try not to say your name to anyone.”

  “Then if you do, tell me.”

  “I will. I think I can promise that. Did you tell Mr. Kelly I’d been asking about the desk?”

  “No way. I don’t answer questions like that.”

  “I think it would have been all right. He and I have discussed the desk.”

  “My name, and that desk, those don’t go together for anybody, okay? And I want to know how he ever got them together.”

  “Maybe from Norman. Norman told me that he’d recommended you to Derek. That’s how I found you.”

  Mr. Jones paused. “Maybe. Yeah, that’s it. But you’re up to something, Beale, and you better be real careful.”

  “I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

  “As if anyone ever knew what that was.”

  And that was all. Charles watched as Galen Jones’s long legs carried him swiftly away.

  “Who was that?” Dorothy asked.

  “Galen Jones. The matchmaker. Don’t tell anyone about him. I just promised we wouldn’t.” He dropped into his chair. “Mr. Kelly from the FBI was asking him about the desk.”

  “So he does have some connection with it?”

  “He didn’t say that. It’s more a question of why Mr. Kelly thinks he does.” He rubbed his eyes. “Dorothy, I am now officially very worried about what is going on.”

  “Only now?”

  “Only now officially and very. Who wanted so much to buy it? Two people were willing to pay a hundred thousand dollars for it.” And then he took a deep, slow breath. “And no one special tried to buy the books.”

  “Who else would want the books?”

  “John Borchard and Karen Liu, if they’d known what was in them.”

  “Maybe someone thought the papers were in the desk,” Dorothy said.

  “Exactly, dear. Why didn’t we think of that before? That would mean that two people knew about the papers, and thought they were in the desk. But why would anyone try to buy the desk at this point? The drawers would all have been emptied.”

  “What would have happened to everything in the desk?” Dorothy asked.

  “I think I’ll call Lucy Bastien. Cloverdale. Whatever her name is.”

  Dorothy watched. “What are you doing?”

  “Breathing.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Charles! I mean why are you just sitting there.”

  “I just want to be calm.” He took one more breath. “All right. I’m calm.” He picked up the telephone.

  “Mrs. Bastien. This is Charles Beale.”

  “Mr. Beale. The used-book salesman.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is that like a used-car salesman?”

  “Pretty much the same thing.”

  “It’s Cloverdale.”

  “Of course, I’m terribly sorry. Mrs. Cloverdale.”

  “That’s better. What can I do for you?”

  “I just wanted to ask you about Derek’s desk.”

  “His desk? His desk?! What is it about this desk?”

  “Oh? Have other people been asking?”

  “Too many.”

  “I just have a simple question.”

  “Sorry. I have exceeded the allotted number of answers on that subject. Try something else.”

  “All right—another subject—what about the papers that were in the desk? That’s a different subject.”

  “Barely, Charles. Just barely.”

  “Where are those papers? I doubt they were still in the desk when it was sold.”

  “How should I know? I didn’t check any drawers. I think the place called and asked if I wanted them and I said to send them to his boss at work.”

  “John Borchard?”

  “That’s the one. Since he wanted them, anyway.”

  “Oh—he had asked for them?”

  “He asked. It got real annoying, sort of like you. So I finally just told them to send him everything they found. Papers, paper clips, paper plates. Just send it all.”

  “I suppose we should be careful what we ask for.”

  “I never heard from him again so I guess it worked.”

  “Thank you, Lucy.”

  “Glad to help, Charles. Charles?”

  “Yes?”

  “I like it when I never hear from people again.”

  “You do?”

  “Don’t call back.”

  “Mr. John Borchard called while you were on the phone,” Alice said at the door. “He said to tell you he really is planning to come by some time.”

  “I like it when I hear from people again,” Charles said.

  EVENING

  They chose an aloof table far from the windows and outside light.

  The confusion of smells assailed them: sweet caramel, bitter coffee, lemon, chocolate, salty meats, vegetables, thick cheeses, wood, hot sun-heated air and cold shadow, and people.

  “There’s too much,” Charles said. “I don’t know how to sort it out.”

  “Should you do something?” Dorothy asked.

  “Dorothy, I don’t know what to do.”

  “You don’t know of anything to do, or you don’t know which thing to do?”

  “Which.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Or any.” They were silent, and their thoughts twined with the smells and sounds.

  “But you have to do something,” Dorothy said.

  “Yes. Now that I’m worried, officially. No more just following the wind, anyway. Tomorrow morning Frank Kelly will show me the report on Derek’s death.”

  “We keep hearing that it was just a burglary.”

  “The fifth in a series. Five different houses. It has to have been just an accidental tragedy. But it just couldn’t have been.”

  “Do you think you’ll see something that everyone else has missed?”

  “No. But it seemed like an opportunity not to miss.”

  “I know it’s all confusing, Charles, but I think that in the end, you’re just going to have to give the papers to the police. There really isn’t any other way.”

  “I keep hoping there is some other way. That’s what I’m looking for.” His fingers were drumming on the table, and he stopped them. Then he counted them off. “Six people. Karen Liu, John Borchard, Patrick White, and three more we don’t even know. I open the book, and there I have their terrible secrets. Their sins. Their sins that can pull them down and destroy them.” He looked at his open hands. “Am I being overly dramatic?”

  “Not by too much. You could take it all to the police.”

  “That is a decision itself.”

  “But otherwise it’s your decision, Charles, and I don’t think it should be. Patrick White’s secret is already exposed. We don’t really know what it would mean to Karen Liu and John Borchard. We don’t know if the other three are even secrets, or what they are.”

  “I think we can guess by the company they were keeping.”

  “And don’t we have a responsibility to tell the police? They might be real crimes.”

  “And people should get what they deserve,” Charles said. “The wages of sin is death.”

  “But the gift of Charles Beale is everlasting life?”

  “I don’t enjoy being in this position.”

  “I know that. And I understand why you don’t feel free to give it up, either.”

  “The problem, Dorothy, is that you’re right. I feel like I have godlike responsibility here, to deliver judgment that is true. It’s just that I don’t have wisdom, authority, omniscience or anything else. I’m not God.”

  “What happens if you don’t do anything?”

  “There will be some point where a decision is unavoidable. I just hope I can be ready when that comes.”

  “Maybe God will have delivered his own judgment by then.”


  Again they were silent, letting the coffee shop distract them.

  “Did you enjoy your conversations with Derek?” Dorothy asked.

  “Yes. They weren’t always comfortable. He liked to provoke me, and I would push back at him. But they were very thoughtful and stimulating.”

  “Would I have liked him?”

  “Only if he’d wanted you to.”

  “Where does evil come from, Charles?”

  “Derek! How in the world do you expect an answer to that?”

  “What is evil, then?”

  “Well, what is good?”

  “What we accept it to be, Charles. And evil, also.”

  “It’s all subjective, then?”

  “More or less. We’re selfish over our possessions, so we call stealing ‘evil.’ You said, ‘How in the world?’ That’s all we have, just ‘in the world.’ What is there outside of ourselves that we can measure against?”

  “No, Derek. I think there is an external standard.”

  “Created by whom?”

  “Let’s say, God.”

  “Then why isn’t this standard universally accepted? We both know it isn’t, and it certainly isn’t well enforced.”

  “If it were, Derek, I suppose there wouldn’t be room for evil.”

  “Are we being circular, Charles?”

  “Let’s say there is an objective moral standard, but that there is also free will to disregard it. Would that give us a definition of evil?”

  “That sounds like evil is built in.”

  “Or, Derek, what if the point of evil was to be an alternative to good?”

  “What in the world do you mean, Charles? Why should there be any alternative to good?”

  “So there could be something to forgive.”

  TUESDAY

  MORNING

  In a turbulent river of air, Charles struggled upstream. Trees held sturdily to their soil and tightly to their leaves; but with so many leaves, the trees couldn’t mind every one, and a few were overlooked and carried away.

  He caught the knob and steadied himself and then pulled.

  One step over the threshold and everything changed. This air couldn’t be the same substance as the muscular atmosphere outside. One swirl had come in with him, but the still wrestled it to the ground and pinned it.

  “Have we sold anything today, Alice?” Charles asked. Strange how the abundance of air outside had taken his breath away.

  “A Wind in the Willows.”