Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

“That’s right. Good. You understand.”

“So for why do I say I’m asking them?”

“We’ll think of something. We’ll try the first one together tomorrow.”

“Mr. Beale?” Angelo’s door had just closed. “You have a telephone call. A Mr. Galen Jones.”

“Oh, good! Thank you, Alice. I’ll be right there.”

He hurried back down to the office. “Yes, hello, this is Charles Beale.”

“Right.” A deep voice, gravelly, but it didn’t sound like a big person. “I got a message you called?”

“Yes, I did. Thank you for calling back. Mr. Jones, I was a friend of a man named Derek Bastien. I’ve heard you may have known him?”

Charles waited.

“What do you want?” the voice asked.

“Well, to talk. Either on the phone, or to meet with you.”

“Right.” Another wait. “Who are you?”

“I sell books. Antique books. I sold some to Derek. That’s really all. And I heard your name, and a little more than that about you, and I wanted to talk.”

“Talk about what? Look, do you want some work done?”

“No. I just want to talk. About Derek Bastien.”

A long wait. “Okay, I’ll talk. I’ll come see you. Where are you?”

“At my shop right now. In Alexandria. I’ll give you the address.”

“I’ll be there this afternoon.”

Charles had only set the telephone down when it rang again. By reflex, he picked it up again, without waiting for Alice to get it.

“Alexandria Rare Books, this is Charles Beale.”

“Answering your own phone?”

“Oh, hello, Jacob. How are you?”

The rusted, squeaking hinge of a voice answered, “Better than you are if you’ve lost all your help there.”

“I haven’t. I just had a feeling who it was, and I didn’t want to inflict them with you.”

“Someday you’ll learn respect for your elders.”

“You’re about the only one, Jacob. What can I do for you?”

“It’s what I can’t do for you. I’m not going to that auction here, so you’ll have to do your own bidding if you want anything.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Charles said. “There wasn’t anything I wanted.”

“So you would have had me go for nothing?”

“You’re not going.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not.”

“I would have told you. But I do have another question.”

“Go ahead,” Jacob said. “Run up my telephone bill.”

“Thank you, I will. It is about the man at the auction Monday, who you saw bidding on that desk.”

“What about him? I don’t know anything but what I saw.”

“I’ve found out that man’s name. It’s Galen Jones.”

“Never heard of him.”

“I’m not surprised. Even you, Jacob, have not heard of every person.”

“Just most.”

“Just most. This man, Galen Jones, is a maker of replica antique furniture.”

“Oh, is he?” A conspiratorial tone entered Jacob Leatherman’s voice. “Matchmaker? Bidding on the desk?”

“Exactly. Now, this is what I’ve pieced together. He was sitting in the back row. Norman Highberg came in and sat next to him. Norman is an antiques dealer and knows Mr. Jones. Then, when the bidding on the desk began, Mr. Jones went to where Norman wouldn’t see him bid. And then, when the bidding escalated, Mr. Jones gave up and left. Would you say that was accurate by what you saw?”

“That’s just what I saw, Charles.” Jacob chuckled. “Are you after something?”

“I am, a little bit. I’m not sure what, it’s actually rather complicated. But I just wanted to compare my guesses with what you saw.”

“Now you tell me the whole story when you know it.”

“Are you intrigued?”

“I’m young and foolish,” Jacob said.

“Young, anyway,” Charles said. “And you like puzzles, and so do I. I’ll let you know.”

He glanced across the room to Dorothy’s empty desk, and then he opened his newspaper.

The newspaper was wrinkled and in the wastebasket. Charles was in his chair, pensively watching the street below his window.

He stood for a better view and hurried down the stairs to the showroom.

The front door opened and a long, drooping, gray mustache looked in. A long gray ponytail followed, and long wiry arms with long hands, and long, worn blue jeans, and a loose gray flannel shirt. And very sharp eyes.

“Mr. Jones?” Charles said.

“You’re Beale?”

“I am.”

“Right.” The eyes swept the room. “Where do you want to talk?”

“Down here. Just follow me.”

Galen Jones showed no hesitation, but loped right on behind Charles. But Charles hesitated. “Alice? Could you have Angelo come down to the basement for a moment?”

“Yes, Mr. Beale.”

Then they went down the stairs.

Mr. Jones dropped into a chair like a bag of coat hangers.

“So, what can I do for you, Mr. Beale?”

Charles sat across the desk from him. “I really just have some questions.”

“Okay. Go ahead.”

“Of course. I think you must have some interesting customers, Mr. Jones?”

The eyes were power drills. “Once in a while. Most of them are pretty normal.”

Charles nodded. “And you must have some interesting requests.”

“So, Beale, where are we going with this?”

“Nowhere, Mr. Jones.” Charles smiled, very openly. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I think I know what you do-you’re a very skilled craftsman and you’ve made some beautiful things.”

“That’s what I tell people. You have a job you want done? We could skip all the talking.”

“No, just questions.”

“Hey, boss?”

Jones didn’t move, but no one could have heard Angelo on the stairs.

“Oh, yes, Angelo.”

“You wanted me?”

“Actually, not. I changed my mind.”

“So you don’t want anything.”

“No, I’m sorry. Never mind.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Get on with it,” Mr. Jones said, when Angelo was gone. “I don’t like lots of questions.”

“I was wondering about Derek Bastien’s desk.”

No reaction. “What are you wondering about it?”

“I wonder… if maybe there was something questionable about it.”

Galen Jones shifted his position in the chair; he seemed to have hinges rather than joints. “Now, you think I’d answer a question like that?”

“I have been thinking about how you would answer it, Mr. Jones. You might not. But Derek is dead, and whoever owns the desk now may not even know about you.”

“It doesn’t matter to me who knows what.”

“Did you know Derek at all?”

For the first time, the sharp eyes dulled. “I got to, a little.”

“I knew him, too.”

“So what are you saying?”

Charles sighed. “You tried to buy the desk at the auction Monday.”

“You know a lot.”

“I was there.”

“It was a nice desk,” Galen Jones said. “I liked it.”

“I’m sure. You even moved away from Norman Highberg so he wouldn’t see you bid on it.”

“He talks too much.”

“He does, but he didn’t see anything, and he didn’t say anything to me.”

“I didn’t get it, anyway.”

“It went for over a hundred thousand dollars,” Charles said.

“A lot more than I could pay for it.”

“I think it was quite a surprise. Do you have any idea, Mr. Jones, why anyone might have been bidding so much for that desk? Was it a real antique? Or was it a clever copy? And if it was, I’d wonder what happened to the real desk. I assume there was a real desk. Do you know?”

“Now you’re trying to be tricky, Beale.”

“I’m not trying to be. I’m sorry.”

“Well, you’re barking up the wrong tree, anyway. So forget about the desk. There’s nothing I have to say to you about it.”