According to Their Deeds

by Paul Robertson

  “About Mr. Cane?”

  “About Angelo. One other clue about what he might be thinking. He didn’t call me boss.”

  “I’m done,” Jacob said.

  Charles stood beside the desk. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Just an old man’s folly.”

  “Your folly, Jacob, is beyond most men’s wisdom. If you hadn’t come, I might have taken it out to you.”

  “Brought it to me?” An ember spurted a few sparks. “Brought it? Why didn’t you tell me? Would have saved me a trip.”

  “You need the exercise. May I take you to your hotel?”

  “I should get back home.”

  “I think you should take the rest of the day off. I’d take you out to dinner tonight, but I’ll be in New York.”

  “With your Mr. Smith?” His eyes glowed. “I’d like to meet him. But I’m not up to it.”

  “You’d scare him off, anyway. But if you’re still here tomorrow, I can tell you about it.”

  “That’s worth staying, then.” He closed the book but stayed in the chair. “And how’s your matchmaker? How’s that story coming?”

  “That’s a good question,” Charles said. “May I ask your advice?”

  “That’s what everyone wants. They think they know everything and then finally they ask someone who does.”

  “I’m glad that you do. The main thing is that I’m stuck. I don’t know what to do. I won’t tell you the whole story because it’s too long and there are things that I shouldn’t say.”

  “It won’t matter anyway,” Jacob said. “It’s the same advice I’ll tell you regardless.”

  “And what is that, Jacob?”

  “If you don’t know what to do, it’s because you do know what to do but you don’t want to do it.”

  “There are other people involved.”

  “There always are. That’s no excuse.”

  Charles shook his head. “You don’t even know what this is about.”

  “And I still know what you should do.”

  “Exactly, Jacob. You really do know everything. Let me take you to your hotel while I think about what it means.”

  “Jacob is settled,” Charles said, “cantankerous and fulminating as good as new.”

  “He looked dreadful there,” Dorothy said.

  “More than usual. But I think he’s revived. He really should get a rest. I hope he does.”

  “Are you ready to leave, then?”

  “Almost. I’m going to call John Borchard. Sometime we’ll need to finish our conversation.”

  “There’s no answer at his house,” Charles said, “and his office says he’s not in today.”

  “Did you think he would be?”

  “Not really. I’ll have to wait until he’s ready. And I wish the police detective would call.”

  “You could call him,” Dorothy said.

  “I will tomorrow. They must think I was just a witness to the explosion. They wouldn’t know about the whole Derek Bastien story.”

  “John Borchard would have told them.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Is there anything to do about Patrick White?” Dorothy asked. “It doesn’t seem right to just go on like nothing happened.”

  “I don’t know what to do. The only thing I can think of is to talk to the police. But it will have to wait.”

  “Are you taking anything to New York?”

  “Just the book. I’m planning to travel very light.”

  “Mr. Beale?” Morgan was at the office door. “I heard you’re going to New York? I’m swapping a dozen volumes with Briary Roberts. Would you like to take them with you?”

  “I’m planning to travel very heavy,” Charles said to Dorothy.

  “I could drive you to the train station?” Dorothy said.

  “We’ll take the Metro. Angelo can carry the books.”

  AFTERNOON

  Angelo sat outside on the front steps, waiting.

  “Be careful.” She kissed him on his cheek. “I’d miss you if you didn’t come back.” She tried to sound cheerful.

  “In that case, I will come back,” Charles answered, trying more successfully. “Good bye, dear.”

  “Good bye.”

  “And don’t worry,” he said.

  “I will.”

  “We’ll be back tonight,” Charles said. Morgan handed him a heavy satchel. “Even if it looks like we’re staying until tomorrow.”

  “I’ll meet you at the train station,” she said. “Two fifteen?”

  “Two fifteen. I’m sorry it will be so late at night.” He opened the door. Angelo pulled himself upright.

  “We are going now?” He took the large satchel, and in it the dozen books.

  “Yes, finally.”

  From the sidewalk, Charles blew the kiss back to Dorothy. He had just a small briefcase, and in it just the Odyssey.

  Charles was in thought and not seeing the world, and Angelo was not seeming to see. They walked half the ten blocks to the Metro in silence.

  “Who knows you are taking that?” Angelo said, suddenly.

  “This?” Charles was startled. “The book?”

  “That book.”

  “Not anyone here, besides Morgan and Mrs. Beale.”

  And then the silence resumed.

  At the Metro station, Angelo paused at the bottom of the escalator. Charles waited for him at the top. A train had just arrived, its doors briefly open.

  “We can catch this,” Charles said as Angelo reached the top.

  “Wait.”

  Charles stopped.

  “What for?”

  “The next train.”

  The train doors closed. Angelo leaned against a pillar. Charles stood next to him. Five minutes passed before a new train opened its doors for them.

  “Is this one all right?”

  “It is okay.”

  Charles took a seat and Angelo stood, one hand on a pole. An assorted dozen passengers were already sitting; no one else had come onto the car with them.

  The doors closed and the train swayed. Angelo, erect, did not.

  “What was wrong with the first train?” Charles asked.

  “The train was not wrong.”

  “What was?”

  “That man.”

  Charles looked through the car again. “You saw someone?”

  “He is two cars back. He waited when we waited.”

  “He followed us from the shop?”

  “I saw him the first time when I asked you.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “He wears blue jeans and a sweatshirt that is dark green. He has a baseball cap and he has a beard.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me when you saw him?”

  “Then you would look around to see him.” Angelo opened his eyes wide and jerked his head side to side, for just a moment animated. “Like that,” he said, mocking. “And then he knows I have seen him.”

  “Well. I probably would have.”

  “Do not look when we get out. I will tell you when to look.”

  “All right. What if he doesn’t get out when we do?”

  “Then we do not see him.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Not old like you.”

  The train slid into the next station. Charles tightened his grip on the briefcase.

  Twenty minutes later, they approached the Gallery Place station.

  “We’ll switch to the Red Line to Union Station,” Charles said.

  The train had become crowded, and when they exited, the platform had at least a hundred people. Charles tried not to look around.

  They switched to the other platform, even as a train was coming in.

  “He is in the car behind us,” Angelo said as that train left the station.

  Union Station was the second stop. They left the train, and Charles set a leisurely pace up through the halls and escalators. They left the Metro platforms and followed the signs and crowds.

  “Make a
look back now,” Angelo said, “and then look away.”

  Charles turned. There was a large clock on the wall and he stared at it for a few seconds. Then he turned forward again.

  “I don’t recognize him,” he said. “I’d remember that beard.”

  They approached the Amtrak ticket booths, where Charles stopped to look at the schedule board.

  “We can take the train that’s in fifteen minutes. You stay here while I get the tickets.”

  He bought two tickets and ambled back.

  “He is watching from there,” Angelo said. “He did not buy any ticket.”

  They waited five minutes and then climbed onto the train. It was crowded and they went through two cars before they found two seats together.

  And finally it started moving. “I did not see him come on,” Angelo said. “That man, do you know why he followed us?”

  “Not specifically,” Charles said.

  “He is watching that book?”

  “This? No one knows I have it.”

  “The man you will see. He has friends watching you to see that you are coming for the deal.”

  “I don’t think it’s that kind of people.”

  “We’ll have two other errands besides our meeting at nine o’clock,” Charles said. They had ridden in silence for an hour. “The first is an antiques showroom where I just need to talk to a man for a few minutes. Then we will go to a very large bookstore called Briary Roberts. I need to give them the books in your bag.”

  “You do lots of deals,” Angelo said.

  “I sell lots of books. I buy lots of books. Would you want to learn more about books, Angelo?”

  “No.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  Angelo’s shoulders might have lifted a tenth of an inch and dropped, or he might not have moved at all.

  “You can do whatever you want,” Charles said.

  Angelo didn’t move at all.

  EVENING

  The train came to a final stop. Charles exited and wandered toward an exit with his briefcase, Angelo a few steps behind with the satchel of books.

  “Penn Station,” Charles said, and they walked up the stairs and to the central hall.

  “It is big.”

  “Have you seen anyone?”

  “I don’t see anyone.”

  “It’s probably hard to tell here. There are so many people.”

  “Too many,” Angelo said.

  “First we’re going to Horton’s on Fortieth.”

  Angelo’s face lifted as they left the station.

  “It is tall,” he said. He was not impressed.

  “Yes. Most people notice. We have about a half mile to walk.”

  “Do they have a Metro?”

  “The Subway. But I’d rather walk, I think.”

  They crossed to Seventh Avenue and turned left. The sidewalks were crammed and people moved much faster than in Alexandria. No one’s eyes met theirs.

  “I cannot see if anyone is watching us,” Angelo said after a while.

  “I don’t know what we’d do if someone was.”

  “This is Horton’s.” It was.

  “I will stay here.” Angelo stopped outside the door.

  “No, come in.”

  Angelo obeyed. He stepped over the threshold, and then stopped.

  Six of Norman Highberg’s shop could have fit inside; and besides antiques, Horton’s did furniture. The display tables and cases were works of art by themselves. Thousands of pieces were ranged around them: Byzantine, Baroque, Beaux Arts, Bauhaus; porcelain, pewter, paintings. Not much of human history or geography was not represented.

  “Do you remember Derek Bastien’s house? The man who was killed.”

  “I remember.”

  “He had lots of things like these.”

  “I never touched them.”

  Charles paused. “I know you didn’t. Here,” he picked up a candlestick from a display of silver in the front aisle, “hold it for a moment.”

  Angelo took it, turned it from one side to another, and handed it back.

  Charles replaced it on the table. “Angelo, I don’t believe you’ve ever touched a valuable antique before in your life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Just the way you held it.”

  “Mr. Beale. I am Edmund Cane.”

  Charles turned and extended his hand. “Mr. Cane. Thank you so much for seeing me.”

  “So good to see you again.”

  “Thank you. Although we’ve only barely seen each other before.”

  “I do remember,” Mr. Cane said. “You were in the back row?”

  “Yes, I was. I came in during the bidding for the desk.”

  “Of course. I believe I said that I’m no longer interested in the desk.”

  “Yes, you did say that.”

  “I am, however, interested in the books you purchased at the auction. The thirteen volumes mentioned in the catalog.”

  “As it turns out, there were actually fourteen,” Charles said.

  “The catalog was incorrect?” Mr. Cane’s enunciation was as stiff as his white hair was riotous. “I believe it said thirteen volumes?”

  “There were thirteen volumes at the auction. Derek Bastien had fourteen, but one had been separated from the others.”

  “I would want them all.”

  “Yes. I don’t have that particular one in my possession.”

  “I would take the ones you do have.”

  Charles nodded. “I think I would like to know who is actually trying to buy them.”

  Edmund Cane’s speech had been robotic. Now he seemed to have blown out his transistors. He froze, jerked slightly, and finally computed an answer.

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Beale, but of course I can’t give you that information.”

  “That’s too bad,” Charles said. “It is quite a mystery, isn’t it? First the desk, and now the books.”

  “I really can’t comment.”

  “There’s a lot of mystery surrounding the whole Bastien estate. I’ve been told that a few of the pieces stolen from the house have been recovered by the FBI.”

  “I am currently only interested in the books.”

  “Yes,” Charles said. “I only deal in books, but the FBI actually questioned me concerning the other pieces.”

  “I suppose they would be interested in the stolen antiques.”

  “Yes, exactly. Did any of them come from here?”

  “Here?”

  “I wondered if Derek Bastien had bought anything from Horton’s. Did the FBI ask you about them?”

  Mr. Cane wasn’t sure of any reason not to answer. “No one from the FBI has been here about anything stolen from the Derek Bastien estate. I don’t believe he had purchased any of them or any pieces at all from us.” At about two syllables per second, the sentence took a long time.

  “No one at all? You’re quite a large dealer in antiques.”

  “We do cooperate with the FBI. It is our normal procedure to compare our pieces with their lists. But no one has been here in specific reference to the Bastien estate.”

  “I see. I suppose you deal with their New York office?”

  “Of course.”

  “I wish you could tell me who you were representing,” Charles said.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Beale, that I can’t help you. I would still want to purchase the thirteen volumes you have.”

  “I am sorry, Mr. Cane, that I can’t help you.”

  “I see.” Mr. Cane dealt with the sorrow. “Then I hope your trip hasn’t been wasted. What else are you doing in the city, Mr. Beale?”

  “As I said, I have a meeting at nine. Just book business. And no, stopping in hasn’t been a waste.”

  The next walk was twenty minutes.

  “This is Briary Roberts,” Charles said. “It’s a very old antique bookstore. It’s been here more than a hundred and fifty years.”

  “I will stay out.”

  “You cou
ld at least bring those books in.”

  So again Angelo followed Charles over a threshold. At the counter, Charles said, “Is Mr. Peake in?”

  The Alice-ish young woman said, “May I tell him who is asking?”

  “Charles Beale. I have some books for him, and I also want to ask him a question.”

  “I’ll see if he can come down. Just a moment.”

  Charles used the moment to stroll. Angelo stood beside the counter, the book satchel at his side.

  “Come look at this,” Charles said.

  Angelo came.

  “It’s just a book of photographs,” Charles said. “These are New York tenements a hundred years ago. They would have hundreds of people in a building like this. There would be six or eight people in a room the size of yours, but no window.”

  The page held Angelo’s interest. “Where do they come from?”

  “They’re immigrants. They came from Italy and Poland and other countries in Europe.”

  “People still live in these buildings?”

  “There are new immigrants there, but it isn’t nearly this bad. These people”—he touched some of the faces on the pages—“their great-grandchildren live in houses out in the suburbs, all over the country. They have jobs and families. That was why these people came, so that their children could live better lives.”

  Angelo turned a page. “What are these people?”

  “That’s Ellis Island. They are just arriving in America, maybe that very day. They’ve left everything they know behind to come to a place they’ve never seen. They don’t speak any English. They have hope, but here, I think they are mostly afraid. When you came to our shop the first day, it was something like that.”

  “I was not afraid.”

  “Oh no, I didn’t mean it that way. I know you weren’t.”

  “Charles!”

  A teapot of a man, short and stout, came bubbling and whistling toward them.

  “Ah, Mervyn, here you are. Here, I’d like you to take a quick look at something. Angelo, they have some books to trade for the ones in your bag. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “What do you think?” Charles said. Mervyn Peake was bent as much as he could be over the Odyssey.

  “The quality’s good. The title page, or whatever you call it, doesn’t look good. Where’d you get it?”

  “Off eBay. Just someone clearing out their attic.”

  He gave it one more critical look. “Seven hundred.”

  “I paid seventeen.”