Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

“Like the other book, it isn’t a first edition, I assume.”

“No. But it was printed during Adams’s presidency.”

“Remarkable,” he remarked. “Absolutely remarkable.” He opened the book and shifted pages. “And it seems to be in good condition.”

“That one, yes,” Charles said. “Very good.”

John lingered over the yellowed pages. “Are there actual ratings?”

“There are generally accepted criteria. Poor, fair, good, very good, excellent. Most dealers would understand what each means.”

“And you would inspect a book to decide what condition it’s in?”

“Yes,” Charles said. “That’s fairly straightforward.”

John’s lips had become dry. He paused a moment to wet them.

“Did you inspect Derek’s books?” he asked.

Charles shrugged. “Having sold Derek the books in the first place, I already knew their condition. And of course he’d taken very good care of them. I knew they wouldn’t have deteriorated.”

“I’m sure he did take very good care of them,” John said. “Absolutely sure.”

Then Charles waited. John’s face had again rearranged, with the brow down and the eyes squinted and the lips jutting, all with words pent up behind them.

“Charles, was there anything unusual about Derek’s antique books?”

“He collected the standards of Enlightenment philosophy.”

“The books themselves. I mean their physical condition.”

“What do you mean, exactly, John?” Charles said.

John ran his finger along the line of his chin. “You know, Charles, I’m still not completely sure why you came last week to see me. Was it really just innocent curiosity?”

“I did want to meet you.”

“All these months had passed after Derek’s death, but it was only two days after the auction that you decided to call me. I think there is more to be said.”

Charles nodded. “I called because Karen Liu told me about you.”

John regrouped. “Oh, of course. You had just spoken with her.”

“And then, the day after I met with you, Patrick White came to see me. He actually mentioned your name, as well.”

“Yes. You mentioned that to me on the telephone.”

“He’s been back twice since.”

“Had you met him some other time before?” John was falling back in confusion. “I don’t understand how you would have known him.”

“Karen Liu gave him my name, I believe.”

For the first time, Charles saw the face demonstrate a shade of anger; in this case, annoyance. “The congresswoman is dropping quite a few names, isn’t she?”

“Mr. White did as well,” Charles said. “Or maybe I should say he flung them.”

Then irritation. “I can imagine.”

“I suppose you know what he is saying?”

Resentment. “I know quite well. I hope that you realize he is not in his right mind?”

“I believe I used the word unbalanced when I described him to my wife.”

“Unbalanced. Yes, that would do.” The anger had melted into longsuffering, but there was still a snap in the words. “I’ve been patient with Mr. White, overly so. He’s given me more than sufficient grounds for a slander suit. I’ve spoken with the police and I’ve consulted my lawyer.”

Charles held up his hand. “I understand completely. Of course, I haven’t taken anything he said seriously.”

“Please continue not to. I will even suggest you not listen to him at all.”

It was more than a snap. It was a command.

Charles smiled, very calm, very soothing. “I’m sure it’s been very difficult.”

“Very.” John paper-clipped his own calm back together. “It comes with the territory, I suppose. Washington is a bare knuckles town.”

“I would like to ask about one thing he said. He mentioned a Sentencing Reform bill.”

“Yes, that was the particular spark that inflamed the conflict. It was simple enough-just rationalizing the sentencing guidelines for Federal crimes. It was long overdue. Mr. White thought otherwise.”

“Did he feel the new guidelines were too harsh?”

“Oh, I don’t know what he felt!” The paper clips were falling out. “He had no business involving himself, anyway. He was a judge, and this was between the Justice Department and Congress.”

“Apparently, Karen Liu valued his opinion as a judge?”

“Apparently.” A full-face scowl was magnificent. “Karen may have not used the best judgment in listening to him. Her subcommittee was working with us with the usual high level of cooperation, until he barged in. I don’t think anyone realized at the time that he was already, as you said, off-balance. And my superior, the Principal Deputy, had given me the task of shepherding the bill through Congress as a very high priority. You can see how Mr. White and I developed quite a conflict.”

“From his comments,” Charles said, “he seems to consider it a very personal conflict.”

“And what exactly were his comments?” John asked. “I’m only guessing what he might have told you.”

“That you had sent the incriminating documents to the Washington Post.”

“Yes, that’s it. With absolutely no basis.”

“Absolutely,” Charles said. “I wonder who did send them.”

“I have no idea. I don’t want to know either.”

“But the bill was passed by Congress?”

“It is law, now,” John said. “It was a relief to get it over with.”

“I appreciate you telling me all of this.”

The conversation had recovered its balance. John’s face was merely placid, whatever was going on behind it. At least the thought of leaving was, because he put his hands down together on the desk and pushed himself up out of the chair.

“I don’t mind at all, Charles. I think I’ve taken enough of your valuable time.”

“I’m very honored that you came to visit.”

Together they climbed the stairs to the showroom.

Dorothy and Alice were still behind the counter in earnest conversation. But before John could even stretch any pleased look further than the corners of his mouth, every feature on his face fled backward in alarm.

“John,” Charles said quickly. “This is Angelo.”

“Who?”

John Borchard’s incoherence was understandable. Angelo was not at his best. But even with the immobility of his face, he matched John in silent, eloquent hostility.

“My employee,” Charles added. “Angelo, this is Mr. Borchard.”

“That pipe, it does not leak now,” Angelo said, his eyes still on John.

“Which pipe?” Charles said.

“In the sink upstairs,” Dorothy said. “I noticed it this morning and I asked Angelo to look at it.”

“Then thank you, Angelo,” Charles said. “And, John, thank you again for stopping in. It was very interesting.”

“My pleasure,” John said, but all his face was still broadcasting his opinion of Angelo.

“That man,” Angelo said, staring now at the door.

“Yes?”

“He came out from the building.”

“Oh-the auction last week? I suppose that makes sense.”

Angelo shrugged. “Do you want that I should go to a place on the list?”

“Yes. I guess you should just start picking them yourself.”

Angelo’s exit was his answer.

Dorothy was behind Charles as he ascended to the office.

“And what did you talk about with Mr. Borchard?” she asked.

“Books.” Charles dropped into his chair and turned to stare out the window. “How would you describe his demeanor when he first came in?”

“He would have failed my theater class in college.”

“What a good way to put it!” Charles spun his chair back toward her and laughed. “I’ve seldom seen such bad acting. He gave up on it once we got downstairs. He was too preoccupied with Derek’s books.”