Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

“Well. All right,” Charles said. “I would appreciate it.”

“I would, too. Uh…” he was looking through his notebook. “Tomorrow morning. That work for you?”

“I’m sure it would.”

“Hey, boss.”

Even Frank Kelly was startled by the silent appearance.

“Yes, Angelo?”

“You want me to go to somebody on your list this morning?”

“Yes. I’ll talk to you just as soon as I’m finished here.”

Angelo nodded and silently disappeared.

“He works for you?” Mr. Kelly asked.

“Yes. It’s a long story. He’s my courier and night watchman.”

“Courier, huh?”

“It’s not really a necessity. When someone local buys one of the rare books, I send Angelo out to deliver it.”

“Really?” Mr. Kelly was still staring at the empty door. “He ever go to Bastien’s house?”

“I did take him once. Back when I was first training him.”

“So he was at the house?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Actually inside?”

“Yes. I took him in for just a while. Does that mean anything?”

“Huh? Oh, no.” Mr. Kelly seemed distracted, but then he shook it off. “Anyway. So, tomorrow, ten o’clock? D.C. Police headquarters, front lobby.”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Charles climbed to the third floor and knocked on the closed door.

Angelo opened it. His expression was a closed door.

“Let’s pick which agent you should visit this morning,” Charles said. He held up the list. “These two are close together.”

“You want me to go to those two?”

“Yes. Do those. You’ll have to take the Metro all the way to Maryland.

Can you get there?”

“I can get there. Hey, boss.”

“Yes?”

“That man,” Angelo said. “He came out the door.”

“Mr. Kelly? Where?”

“The auction door. He saw me waiting.”

“He was at the auction,” Charles said. “He’s trying to find who stole things from Derek Bastien’s house.”

“He’s police?”

“FBI. It’s like police.”

“They are all the same,” Angelo said. “What things were stolen?”

“Antiques. Little statues and things.”

“Oh. I remember. I see little things like that in people’s houses. Who wants those?”

“The people that have them.”

Apparently Angelo was feeling talkative. “To sell a thing like that, that’s not easy.”

“Exactly. It is Mr. Kelly’s special job to find them. Angelo, if you had stolen things like that, would you know how to sell them?”

“Who says I was stealing those things?”

“No one. I just wondered.”

“I don’t steal those things.”

“I know. Would you know how to sell them if you did?”

“I don’t know anything.”

“All right. I’m sorry. Never mind. I’ll be in the basement for the morning if you need me before you leave.”

Only the desk lamp was on. The computer was off. As still as the books, Charles leaned over the desk and just his eyes moved, and every few minutes his gloved hand as it turned a page with a silver spatula.

“There you are,” Dorothy said. “You’ve been down here for hours.”

“Time is much slower down here,” he said. “It’s like a horse pulling a cart. The books are so heavy they hold it back.”

“What are you reading?”

“Chekhov. And I think he must have been reading me.”

“There is someone here to see you.”

“Then the further study of human nature will have to wait.”

“Not necessarily,” Dorothy said. “It’s Patrick White.”

“Then let’s go up to say hello.”

“Mr. White.”

“Hello.”

There was nothing eerie about him in the noon sunlight. The fever brightness in the eyes was veiled and the voice calm.

“I’m so glad to see you again,” Charles said.

“You suggested lunch,” Mr. White said.

“Lunch? Oh, yes. Of course. I’d be glad to.”

“Let’s go.”

“Well-of course-I’ll be right with you. Just a moment.” He turned to Dorothy. “I’ll be out for lunch.”

“And perhaps we would do coffee afterwards?”

“Surely,” he said.

Charles moved to the door, but Mr. White was suddenly not in a hurry.

“Did you have any place in mind?” Charles asked. The man did not budge.

“No.”

Charles waited. “Is there anything you’d like to look at first?”

“No.” Whatever he was looking at, it was not in the room. But then he snapped into the moment. “You pick someplace.”

“Just down the street,” Charles said, and Patrick White passed through the door with him.

Ten minutes later Mr. White spoke again, his first words since they had left the bookshop.

“Ham sandwich and coffee.”

“Yes, sir,” the waitress answered, and departed.

“What did you really know about Derek Bastien?” Patrick White said to Charles, and the conversation lurched to life.

“Well,” Charles said. “I knew what his job was and I knew what his home was like and I knew what he liked to talk about.”

“What do you know about blackmail?”

“Blackmail? Not very much, Mr. White! And I don’t want to know more.”

“It doesn’t matter what you want.” The tone did not match the words. Mr. White was apparently talking to himself. “It happens whether you want it to or not.”

“What does that have to do with Derek?” Charles asked.

“You met John Borchard?”

“Well, yes, I did,” Charles said, re-orienting. “Mr. White, I feel like this conversation is rather one-sided.”

“I want to know where you are in this.”

“I don’t know where I am, and I don’t know what this is. Perhaps you could enlighten me?”

Mr. White was again not with him. Several minutes came and went; the food came and Charles’s went. The ham sandwich was not touched. Charles waited patiently.

Several tables cleared as the lunch crowd thinned. Charles watched passersby through the window. He shook off the waitress when she offered dessert. A group of motorcycles roared by on the street.

“Borchard killed Derek Bastien,” Patrick White said.

“John Borchard?” It was fortunate that Charles was finished eating.

“It was blackmail.”

“I don’t understand at all.”

“Borchard killed Derek over his blackmail.”

“Blackmailing whom?”

“Me. Why don’t you understand? He threatened me. And when I didn’t do what he wanted, he told the Post, just like he said he would.”

“He told them about you-about the law school?”

“He told them where to find the transcript of the honor court that found me guilty.”

Charles had to take a breath. “Were you guilty?”

“Does it matter?”

“Well, wouldn’t it?”

“It didn’t. Okay, yes, I cheated. So I failed the class and I was on probation and I started over. And it was over. But what does a newspaper care? They came after me like I was a war criminal. There was no way to fight back.”

“I see.”

“But I did fight back. Even if I was ruined, I could still get my revenge. But then John Borchard killed Derek.”

“Because he was blackmailing you?” Charles said.

“So now you understand.”

Charles nodded, relieved. “I think I do. But why would John Borchard kill Derek for blackmailing you?”

Patrick White had frozen again, but this time his focus was straight on Charles and the thaw was quick.

“What do you mean?”

Charles said it again. “If Derek was blackmailing you, why would John Borchard kill him?”

A fierce light flashed in Mr. White’s eyes. They were deep-set and dark-rimmed in his haggard face.

“It was John Borchard who blackmailed me! John Borchard sent the papers to the Washington Post.”