Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

“Put flowers in it,” she said.

“You could,” he said, nodding. “Or peppermints. But you don’t sell it to Mario the Fence in the back of the Italian restaurant like you do if it was jewelry or an iPod.”

“How do you sell it?” Charles asked.

“There’s ways. Fifty-fifty chance something’ll turn up on eBay in a month or two. I’ve put the list in the database, and if anything shows up, we’ll know right away.”

“Surely the burglar would be smarter than that?”

“You’d think, right? But no. You’d be surprised how stupid some of these guys are. We get the piece, we get some fingerprints or DNA off it, and then we get him.”

“I suppose you’d know.”

“Yeah, break-ins like this, they happen all the time. Except how it went wrong with Bastien.”

“Very wrong.” Charles looked away from Mr. Kelly, and the room. The street was bright with light and life. Green leaves, breezes, people. “What about Derek himself? Are you investigating his death?”

“No. That’s D.C. police. But, sure, if we find the burglar, they want him, too.”

“How can I help you?” Charles asked. “I don’t see how I can.”

“Two ways. You deal in antiques, even if it isn’t the right kind, so if you hear anything, let me know. And you knew the victim, so if you think of anything from that angle, let me know. Anything. Then I just follow the leads, it’s my job. Anything you can think of now? Anything strange?”

“What about the desk?”

Mr. Kelly frowned. “That hundred-grand bidding war? Yeah, I don’t know what that was about.”

“You know about the bidding?”

“Sure, I was at the auction. Just keeping my eyes open. But I don’t think the desk has anything to do with the break-in. You know, how could it? Somebody knew something special about the desk. The burglaries were all just smash and grabs. What, you know something about the guy who bought it?”

“No. The man who lost the bidding called me to try to find who won.”

“If it really is to do with the burglaries, I can find out who bought the desk,” Mr. Kelly said. “Who called you?”

“Edmund Cane. He is with Horton’s on Fortieth in New York.”

“Why’d he call you?”

“Apparently, just because I was there.”

“Yeah. He’s just following leads. I know all about it, that’s my life. But that desk.” He nodded, thinking. “That’s a good point. I really don’t think it has anything to do with the break-in, but I suppose it is kind of interesting. I might follow that. So you don’t know anything about it?”

“Not the buyer. I know about the desk.”

“I guess it was antique, right?”

“The desk was 1875; it was owned by President Taft’s father.”

“Right… and probably hard for a burglar to throw into his bag and run off with. But somebody did want it.” He shrugged. “But you don’t know why.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay. It’s a lead.”

“Who else have you talked to?” Charles asked. “Or may I ask?”

“Sure, I’ll tell you. I talked to dealers I know, to tell them to be on the watch for the stuff. I talked to a couple lowlifes that let me know things sometimes. I talked to the neighbors who had break-ins so they’d feel like someone cared, and his wife, too, so she’d feel like someone cared. None of that means anything; it’s just for their feelings. It’ll all come up on the Internet if it comes up anywhere. That’s what’ll actually mean anything. Or maybe we find the stuff somewhere, or else maybe we’ll never see any of it again.”

“You spoke with Derek’s wife?”

“Lucy Bastien. I figured she’d like to know that someone cares, but she doesn’t care. She could care less.”

“I never met her.”

“She’s there in the house. Anyway, here’s my card. Call my cell phone if you do think of anything.”

“I certainly will.”

“Anyway-thank you. Ma’am.” He lifted his hand to tip his hat and it wasn’t there. He grabbed it off his lap where he’d set it. Then he stopped, and looked at her again. “Do you mind if I ask? That’s a real nice silver in your hair. It’s natural, isn’t it?”

“I don’t color it,” Dorothy said, somewhere between indignant and flattered.

“You see, I have this theory,” Mr. Kelly said. “About that shade of silver. Not just any gray, but that real bright silver, I’ve seen that passed down mother to daughter. It’s like blue eyes. Did your mother have that same silver hair? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Charles coughed.

Dorothy smiled, thinly.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Kelly said. “You do mind. I shouldn’t ask personal questions.”

“I never met my mother,” Dorothy said.

“Oh. Okay, I’m sorry. Never mind, shouldn’t have asked. Anyway, I’ll find my way out.”

“I’m going down,” Charles said. He held open the office door and followed the broad shoulders down the stairs, and he and Alice received one more tip of the hat as the front door closed.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” Dorothy said as Charles returned to his desk.

“Notice what?”

“You didn’t tell him what you found in the John Locke.”

“He didn’t ask.”

“Charles, that’s ridiculous. All right, what if he had asked?”

“I don’t answer rhetorical questions. And, I doubt the papers have anything to do with his burglaries.”

“They have to do with something. I think you’re making a mistake.”

“I’m trying not to make a mistake. And I couldn’t help but notice,” Charles said.

“Notice what?”

“How he noticed you.”

“Oh… well…” Dorothy’s cheeks blushed a delicate pink.

“Anyone would, of course. It’s quite understandable.”

“Don’t be silly, Charles.”

“When I am with you, it is everything else that seems silly. But I will try to attend to prosaic life.”

Dorothy already had. “And what will that be?”

“I think I know another doorknob to try my key in.” He found his telephone book.

“Who are you pestering now?”

“The wind is blowing toward Lucy Bastien.”

“You should not pester her, Charles.”

“I don’t believe I will be. Apparently, she could care less.”

“You know I have never liked that expression,” Dorothy said.

“You know that I haven’t either. Why is it supposed to mean the exact opposite of what it means?” He pushed buttons.

“It is a symptom of the hopeless state of our nation.”

“Exactly.” He waited as the telephone rang.

“Lucy,” a voice said.

“Charles,” he said.

“Charles?” The voice sounded puzzled, but amused. “What do you want?”

“To come see you.”

“You do? Why?”

“I thought it would be interesting.”

That was enough. “It sounds like it might be. Who are you, anyway?”

“Charles Beale. I knew Derek Bastien.”

“Then maybe I’m not interested. I’m not going to buy anything. What do you sell?”

“Books. Antique books.”

“Right. I hate antiques, and I don’t like books either.”

“I paid you twenty-seven thousand dollars for thirteen antique books last Monday. Isn’t that worth letting me in?”

“Maybe. Okay, come on, I don’t care.”

“Thank you. Would this morning be all right?”

“Anytime you want. If I’m here, I’ll answer the door.”

“Thank you. Very much.”

Charles looked at Dorothy.

“Just go,” she said. “I will not discuss it.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Except that I can’t believe you would say such things on the telephone to someone you’ve never met. Angelo isn’t the one who needs to learn manners.”