“You’ve been snookered, then.” He gave Charles a critical look. “What do you think’s so funny?”
“I’m not laughing!”
“You’re rolling in the aisles. What’s the hook?”
“Mervyn, have you ever heard of a man called Mr. Smith?”
“Are you kidding me? Half the people who want to sell me books are Mr. Smith.”
“This Mr. Smith wants to buy a book. This book. He’s British, and I’m meeting him this evening at a restaurant called Rusterman’s.”
“On Twenty-eighth? I’ve been there.”
“Did you meet a Mr. Smith there?”
“No Smith. We had a dinner there once when the manager of our London branch came over.”
“Any particular reason you had the dinner there?”
“The British Consul in New York came, too. He picked it. He had some connection with the owner. It didn’t have anything to do with books.”
“We’re ready,” Charles said to Angelo. “Did you get the books?”
“I have those books from the lady.”
“Very good. It looks like we have plenty of time to get to Twenty-eighth Street.”
The sky was finally black, what little could be seen beyond the high walls and lights. The windows of Rusterman’s were bright but only looked into the lobby. The dining room was hidden.
“I will stay here,” Angelo said for the third time that evening.
“You are completely respectable, Angelo,” Charles said, “and it would be fine for you to come in. But Mr. Smith is expecting me alone.”
“That man, he knows I am here, he is watching. He doesn’t show up if I come in. I will wait outside and watch.”
“That’s fine. I don’t think he’s watching us, but maybe he is. I don’t know how long I will be.”
“Thirty minutes and I will look in there for you,” Angelo said.
“Charles Beale.”
“Yes, sir,” the maitre d’ said. “Please come this way.”
Through the foyer, but they did not turn into the dining room. Farther back in the hall, the master opened a door and stood back. Charles entered.
The room was comfortably sized for the single table, and at the table, very comfortably, sat a middle-aged man. He was impeccably dressed in a dark suit and silk tie.
“Thank you,” he said, and the maitre d’ bowed and slid out. “Mr. Beale. Please sit down.”
“Thank you. Mr. Smith?”
“Mr. Smith, yes.” His tone left no doubt that he was not. “I trust you had a pleasant trip.”
“Very pleasant.”
“Good. We won’t take extra time this evening. May I see the book?”
“Of course.” There was no place setting or food on the table, just a large flat envelope and a brick-shaped wrapped bundle. Charles opened his briefcase and set the paper package in the center. The man waited and didn’t move.
Charles took his white gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. He pulled the paper apart and lifted the book from its cushioning and held it forward.
Mr. Smith took a magnifying glass from his pocket and inspected the cover. “Please open it to the signature.”
Gently, he did.
The signature was considered.
“Turn the page, please.”
Charles turned to the half title. The imperturbable Mr. Smith tensed slightly.
“The full title page has been removed,” Charles said. “Evidently long ago.”
Mr. Smith took the large flat envelope from the table, and from it extracted a clear plastic sheaf enclosing a single, yellowed book page.
“Oh my,” Charles said.
Her Royal Highness
Princess Victoria
History of the War of Troy and the Greeks
The Odyssey
Padding & Brewster, London, 1827
“There is a slight notch from the cutting,” Mr. Smith said. “I’d like to see that it matches.”
Charles held the book while the man compared his page to it.
Then the man leaned back. “I accept that it is authentic.” A tiny charge of excitement made the convivial smile he’d had from the beginning tremble, just a little.
Then Mr. Smith returned to his perfect poise. Pleasantly, he said, “I propose one hundred thousand dollars for the book.”
Charles paused. “It’s a very rare book, of course, but I wouldn’t have asked that much.”
“I have made inquiries into your business, Mr. Beale, and I don’t feel that negotiations are necessary.”
“But—”
“And this is the only offer that I’m authorized to make.”
Charles gestured with his empty hands. “Then by all means. I accept, very gratefully.”
He re-wrapped the book and held it out.
Mr. Smith received it, and in return handed him the brick-shaped package. “I hope you find that in order.”
Charles opened the end. “This is cash!” He recovered. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t expected it.”
“It is one hundred thousand dollars.”
“Mr. Smith, I’m very sorry—a cash transaction of this size, I would need some idea of who you are—”
“I hope you can deal with the formalities. I would prefer that there is no idea of who I am.”
“I see.” Charles smiled. “Yes, I can deal with the formalities. And please tell me, do you have the other volumes in the set? I suppose there would be an Iliad and an Aeneid?”
“They will all be together. Thank you, Mr. Beale. It has been a pleasure.”
“Thank you very much,” Charles said. “And please give Her Majesty my regards.”
Mr. Smith chortled as only an Englishman of his bearing could.
“What a romantic thought. But if I ever were to see her, I will.”
Charles stopped ten feet out from the front door. He still had the package in his hand.
“The deal is good?” Angelo appeared from the empty air.
“Um, yes, I think so.”
“That is the cash?”
“Yes, it is. How did you know it would be cash?”
“A deal is always cash. Did you count it?”
“I didn’t. It would have taken too long.”
Angelo’s eyes were on the package, but he managed a brief look of scorn at Charles.
“You don’t even count it?”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
“Don’t carry it out in your hand.”
Charles opened his empty briefcase and put the package inside. “All right. We’ll just go back to the train station, then, and head home.”
Angelo swept the street with a quick glance and then fixed again on the briefcase in Charles’s hand.
Dorothy was parked in front of the deserted train station. The sky was moonless black.
“Hello, dear,” Charles said. He took the driver’s seat. “We did make it home.” Angelo slid silently into the back.
“Thank you,” she said. “Did you sell your book?”
“I did. It was all very interesting.”
It was 2:30 a.m. as they crossed the Potomac and ten minutes later when they stopped in front of the bookstore.
“Here we are,” Charles said to Dorothy. The street and the shop were as dark and empty as they could be. “I’ll only be a minute.”
“I’ll come in.”
Angelo followed with the book satchel. Charles turned on the light and put his code into the alarm.
“Thank you for coming, Angelo,” he said. “I’ll put those books down in the basement for Morgan.”
“Good night,” Dorothy said as Angelo disappeared.
The desk was empty except for its computer and one volume that hadn’t been returned to its shelf. Charles set the book satchel next to them. Then he opened the briefcase and took the package out and unwrapped it. There were ten banded stacks. It took over a minute to count one stack of one hundred hundred-dollar bills.
He didn’t count the others. He wra
pped the stacks back together and set the package on a shelf behind a row of books.
He looked closer at the volume on the desk. It was the Dante; he opened it and read a few lines at random.
For all the gold that is beneath the moon,
Or ever has been, of these weary souls
Could never make a single one respose.
Then he put it up on the same shelf as the package of money.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes, it’s fine.” Charles turned the alarm on and the light off. He and Dorothy walked out into the night. The streetlamp sent their shadows flying.
Charles stretched his fingers as he opened Dorothy’s car door. “I’ve been carrying that briefcase all day. It’s nice to have my hands free.”
On the third floor, Angelo’s light turned off.
“One hundred thousand?” Dorothy was shocked.
“It was the only offer he was authorized to make.”
“Who was he?”
“Just Mr. Smith.”
“That’s how he signed the check?”
“No check, dear. Just hundred-dollar bills. A thousand of them.”
Dorothy was very shocked.
“Where is it?”
“In the basement at the store.”
They reached their house. Charles parked on the street in front.
“Does Angelo know?”
“Know what?”
“That there is a hundred thousand dollars of cash just downstairs from him.”
“Um, not necessarily.”
“Why didn’t you bring it home?”
“I thought it would be safer locked in the basement of the store.”
“Is it just lying out?”
“It’s not lying. It’s telling the truth.”
“Charles.”
“It’s on the shelf behind the Dante.”
They were finally settling into bed at three o’clock in the morning.
“You could sleep late tomorrow,” Dorothy said.
“Maybe I will. I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“You always will be, dear.”
“I’m too tired to think what that means. The only thing I have to do tomorrow is to call the police detective.”
“Did you see Mr. Horton?”
“Cane. Edmund Cane. Of Horton’s. Yes.”
“Did he tell you anything about the desk?”
“No, except that he never told the FBI anything about it. But someone must have.”
“Told them what?”
“I’m too tired to think what that means either. Oh, Dorothy, what was Derek doing? What was going on?”
“Someone must know.”
“I keep thinking about the conversations I had with him. Especially the last one.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Just a game we had started. It was about how we lived our lives, but it was mostly just an exercise in repartee. That’s what I thought, but suddenly I wonder what he really meant.” He turned off the light. “How I wish I could have one more talk with him.”
“So, Charles, how do you like the game now?”
“I don’t, Derek. It’s quite unfair that you’ve put me up to it. I’d rather not be playing.”
“I think you need to be. We’ll see if the principles you’ve spouted all these years will stand up to a real test.”
“Is that the point, Derek? Is that why you put the papers in the book? To embroil me in all of this?”
“It seems to have worked.”
“But surely you didn’t expect to be killed. Was it just a common burglary, or was it one of your victims?”
“You’re only imagining me, Charles. You know I can’t answer that.”
“Were you really a blackmailer, Derek? Was that the game you were playing, and your ‘situation’ at the office?”
“You don’t sound content, Charles. You must be losing our game.”
“But you’re dead, Derek, so I don’t think you’ve won it.”
“No. It isn’t pleasant here. The circles go deeper and deeper and I still haven’t found my depth.”
“Who killed you, Derek?”
“Have I passed that circle yet? I believe I have. The murderers. Yes, that was one or two back. I hope I’m not headed to the ninth circle, to the circle of traitors.”
“Who was the other person you were blackmailing? The person who tried to buy your desk? The person Patrick White had helping him. Who was it, Derek? Was that who killed you?”
“Patrick White? Yes, he’s down here now, too. I don’t know where they’ll put him. There’s a circle for everyone. I hope I’m not in for the traitors, the betrayers. That’s the worst judgment of all, way down at the very bottom of the Inferno. Am I a traitor? Did I betray you, Charles? Is that why I’m still going down?”
“No, Derek. You’re no traitor. I forgive you.”
THURSDAY
MORNING
“Charles.”
“The Inferno.”
“Charles!”
“What?”
The room was dark. Dorothy was beside him. He sat up awake.
“You were dreaming. You were saying something.”
The clock said 3:40.
“I know who it is,” Charles said.
“What?”
“I know who killed Derek.”
The telephone rang.
Or was it sirens? He was still disoriented. He found the screaming telephone.
“Hello?”
“Is this Charles Beale?” the voice said.
“Yes, it is.”
“This is Alexandria Emergency Services. We have a call that your building on South Fairfax street has a fire.”
“In the building?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve dispatched trucks.”
“Fire?”
Dorothy gasped.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be right there.”
“Mr. Beale, the Fire Department trucks are just leaving now. They’ll be there in two minutes. Stay away from the building.”
“Yes, yes. But I have to go.”
He put down the telephone. Dorothy was up from the bed getting dressed very quickly.
They did hear sirens.
He ran. The streets were empty and black. He didn’t even think of driving until he was already on the sidewalk running, panting, then walking, then running and coughing and pushing.
The streets were black and red and blue and white. The colors flickered ahead. An infernal world was before him and he raced to it as fast as his slow, uncooperative legs could.
He turned the last corner and it was all before him, bright and screaming.
The grinding lights filled everything and they were still coming.
There was sound, sirens as demonic as the lights.
He was close and he didn’t know how to stop running. But he was halted by a wall of smoke and everything else was unreal; the smoke was real. And the smoke was born of burning.
The smell told him what was burning, not just bitter and choking but horrible with the taste of forest and of old linen. He stumbled closer.
He was stopped by arms and voices, and then he couldn’t move at all but was made stone by the smoke and red light that was inside.
Dorothy stood beside him.
The white spotlight glare made the beautiful old building grotesque and drowned the red light inside. There was only smoke. He choked on the smoke.
It was gray and poured out in an upended waterfall, gushing from windows and streaming from everywhere else. Terrible smoke, full of fragments of pages; they were tiny glittering sparks, scattering everywhere. Scattering everything. Everything that they were.
All of the books.
The men were breaking open the front door. The flames in the window flared and forced out huge planets of smoke. The whole street was smoke.
Water poured in, but the flames were unquenchable. All the windows were full of flames, every story of
the building was in flame. Every story in every book was in flame.
The top floor was in flame. Angelo’s window was filled with smoke.
Men with hoses pushed through the smoke at the front door.
Something central inside surrendered and broke apart and fell, and waves of heat and smoke and fire crashed against everything. The men fell back from the door.
Now the whole building was a chimney, pulling in oxygen at the base and feeding itself to the inferno. The flames were insatiable.
Something central inside Charles surrendered and broke apart and fell.
Rivers of water rained in, and how could the fire still burn?
Despair crashed against everything and minutes or years passed.
The flames faltered under the onslaught, finally, or because everything was consumed. The men renewed their attack on the door. There were shouts above the siren howling. There was nothing but smoke; everything was only smoke now. Everything that had been was only smoke now.
More men were in the front door. Why would so many go in? There was no end of the smoke. Charles could smell every book in it, and everything else that was in it. What else was in the smoke?
The men came back out. They were carrying something. It took three of them.
Charles could move again, but he was stopped, held back.
“Who is it?”
The men carrying didn’t hurry once they were out from the smoke. They carried to an ambulance. They laid on a stretcher, slowly, and covered with a sheet and set up into the open doors and the ambulance drove off.
All of the men had come out of the building. Water still rained down on it. There was no flame, only smoke.
“There’s a basement,” Charles said. “It’s a fireproof room.”
“It’s too dangerous,” they said. “We have to wait.”
It was 4:30 in the morning.
Dorothy stayed with him. He stood and waited.
The hoses stopped. The smoke only oozed now, swamp-like. The street cleared. Only a few men stayed.
A police car arrived and a grim man from it came to him. The man wore a jacket, and Charles shivered. It had been so hot before.
“Mr. Beale?”
“I’m Charles Beale. I own the building.”
“Yes, sir.” The man spoke with the weight of death. “Detective Mondelli. We recovered a body from the fire.” The man wasn’t weighed down by it, though. He was doing his job.
“I saw them,” Charles said.
According to Their Deeds Page 30
