Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

“I am.”

“Why are you doing this, Charles?”

“I’m wandering.”

“You’ll get lost.”

“But I haven’t come to a stopping place, yet.”

She sighed. “Then just tell me when I should tell you to give up.”

“I will.” He found the telephone book under the magazines on his desk. “Or else you won’t need to. I’m sure I’ll hit a dead end with this very high-ranking official. It would be foolishness for him to waste his time speaking to me.”

“Then why are you calling?”

“Just in case it isn’t.”

Dorothy turned back to her own desk while Charles found Justice Department under the government listing, and flamboyantly ignored him.

“I would like to speak with John Borchard,” he said to the voice that answered, and he waited through clicks and beeps until another voice said, “Office of Legislative Affairs.”

“I would like to speak with John Borchard,” he said again, and this time waited through beeps and clicks until another voice said, “Mr. Borchard’s office.”

“I would like to speak with John Borchard,” he said.

“Who is calling?”

“My name is Charles Beale.”

“Thank you. What is your position, Mr. Beale?”

“I’m a bookseller.”

For the first time in the whole smooth process, the gears clanked.

“Excuse me?”

“I sell antique books.”

“Do you have business with Mr. Borchard?”

“Not really. I only wanted to speak with him.”

“What about, Mr. Beale?” The gears were preparing to spin in the opposite direction, hard. Dorothy smirked.

“I used to do business with Derek Bastien.”

“Just a moment.”

All motion was brought to a halt. Charles waited. Dorothy did also, watching him over the top of her glasses.

“I am anticipating your rejection,” she said.

The telephone spoke. “Mr. Beale, could you come to Mr. Borchard’s office this afternoon at two thirty?”

He raised his left eyebrow right at her. “Two thirty,” he said. “I will be there.”

In Dorothy’s eyes, even indignation was beautiful.

“Charles. Why are you pestering these people, and why are they letting you?”

“I can’t guess their motives.”

“Or even your own.”

“Or yours. Why are you affronted?”

“It is embarrassing.”

“You feel embarrassed?”

“No! You should. And even worse, it is a waste of time.”

“Ah.” Charles smiled. “The ultimate crime.”

“It is. Go ahead, have your fun, and don’t come running to me when they throw you in prison.”

“I wouldn’t be able to.” He was suddenly startled. “Angelo. I didn’t see you.”

From the doorway, Angelo frowned. “Hey, boss. What do you do, that you go in a prison?”

“Impersonating an adult,” Dorothy said.

“Oh.” Angelo shrugged. “I am going out.”

“All right,” Charles said. “Thank you.”

“How do you do that?”

“What?”

“What she said. Impersonating.”

“You do things she does not approve of,” Charles said.

Angelo jerked his head in disbelief. “And you go to jail?”

“Yes. She is a woman not to be trifled with, Angelo, and I know it well.”

“I’ll be out for the afternoon,” Charles said to Alice as he passed through the showroom. “Have we sold anything?”

“That big, illustrated 1940 Wizard of Oz.”

“That’s who I’m off to see.”

Behind was the bright yellow-brick road, and ahead was the Emerald City with its imposing sign: Department of Justice.

Charles stepped through the portal. “My name is Charles Beale. I’m here to see John Borchard. I have an appointment.”

The woman and the counter both were wooden and imposing. “Just a moment, Mr. Beale.”

It was a long, slow, wooden moment. Official ladies and gentlemen with badges and serious faces passed by.

“Someone will be down in a moment, Mr. Beale.”

“Thank you.”

“Please sign in. This is your badge.”

“Thank you.”

Another moment. The moments were very long here in the shadows.

“Please follow me, Mr. Beale.”

He followed through dim corridors. Justice was indeed blind; anyone in these dark halls would be.

Then a doorway-from gray farmhouse into bright-colored Munchkinland.

“Just a moment, Mr. Beale.”

He was in another of the building’s many places to wait; but this bright-lit moment was brief.

An enormous bald head appeared. “How do you do? I’m John Borchard.”

“Charles Beale.”

There was a normal body beneath John Borchard’s large head, clothed in a dark, serious suit. The face spread across the front of the head was serious, too, but capable of many emotions in only a few seconds. Even as Charles lifted his hand, the seriousness shifted through interest and anticipation to pleasure.

“I am so glad you called,” he said. “Please come into my office.”

The office was larger than the head. Charles was set on a supple, wine-red leather couch, beneath historic American paintings that needed as large a room as this in which to be properly displayed. Yards away, it seemed, was an immense desk, capable of properly displaying a Deputy Assistant Attorney General.

John Borchard chose a matching chair closer to Charles.

“Thank you so much for seeing me,” Charles said.

“It’s a pleasure.” The voice was of bassoons and cellos. “So you knew Derek?” The head tilted at that profound thought. “What a tragedy.”

“Certainly,” Charles said. His own voice was rather reedy and oboe-ish.

“And you are an antiquarian?”

“I deal in antique books. I met Derek through his collecting.”

“Yes, his collecting.” Each phrase was a plaque in sound, dark wood with the words engraved in brass. “He was quite a collector. In many ways. But what can I do for you today, Mr. Beale-Charles?”

“Well… not really anything. I only wanted to meet you. As someone who knew Derek.”

Mr. Borchard-John?-nodded. “I understand. Absolutely. An odd thing, isn’t it? Yet I think anyone who knew him would understand. It was the quality of the man.”

“There was a quality.”

“There was. I can’t tell you how much he is missed here. He’d been with me for over ten years.”

“I’d known him about six years.”

“How well?” One eyebrow climbed high. “Had you been his guest, even?”

“I did get in the front door a few times,” Charles said.

The other eyebrow rose up to its fellow. “Ah. A game or two of chess?”

“A game or two.”

A grand smile stretched the lower part of the face while the eyebrows expanded the upper. “He was quite good, wasn’t he?”

“He was very good.”

“Yes, I learned my lesson early on, that some battles are hopeless.” What a big smile he had. “And I declined further contests. So you were quite into the inner circle, then.”

“It was a large circle.”

“Very, but close in, nonetheless. And your entree was books.”

“He purchased a dozen or so through the years.”

“Did you supply all his books?”

“Only the antique volumes.”

“I remember them on his shelves. Did he buy from anyone else?”

Charles smiled. “Not that he told me.”

“Nor would he have! Would he? He wouldn’t have told you. So we don’t really know.”

“I never saw any others.”

“Then we’ll say he didn’t. He wasn’t usually so loyal with his dealers.”

“It would have been fine, of course,” Charles said. “Most collectors cultivate a network of suppliers.”

“And he certainly cultivated his suppliers. He was absolutely a collector.”