Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

“But why did he tell the story at all?”

“If I do have a paper about it, he wants to justify his actions to me. He wants to give me his side of the story. On the other hand, if I don’t have the paper, I won’t know what he is talking about.”

“That seems improbable,” Dorothy said.

“You admit it. You threatened me with the English language. Well, live by the pen, die by the pen.”

“It is still the most probable, even if it is improbable.”

“Just the type of nicety John Borchard would have ignored, and now it is haunting him. In my scenario he had to guess what Derek might have had on him, and that was it.”

“Then he guessed right.”

“I’m guessing what he is guessing that I am guessing.”

“I never liked those.”

“No, but that’s how the game is played.”

“What game?”

“Whatever game we’re in,” Charles said. “Derek’s game. The game he played all the time. We have three papers worked out, I think. Karen Liu’s checks, John Borchard’s prosecutions, and Patrick White’s cheating. There are three to go: The drug arrests, the woman who killed her husband, and the list of numbers and dates.”

No light but the desk lamp, and the computer off. No one else but three thousand books. No sound but the rustling of papers.

The maimed volume was open on the desk, its card box removed, and Charles bent over a single sheet of paper.

He read it again:

Drug Bust in Fairfax – Fairfax County police arrested more than a dozen members of an alleged drug importing ring. The early morning raids on five residences were the result of a three-month investigation. Drug-sniffing dogs uncovered over seventy pounds of cocaine hidden in furniture in one apartment.

He picked up the telephone.

“Hello?” It was the same woman’s voice, worn and plaintive.

“I’d like to speak with Galen Jones, please. This is Charles Beale.”

“Just a minute.”

And then, only a few seconds later, “Beale. What do you want?”

“I think I’ve found a new tree to bark up. I have a question.”

“I don’t care if you ask.”

“Did you build a secret drawer into Derek’s desk?”

Much longer pause. “That’s one of those questions that I don’t answer.”

“One more, then. Have you put secret places in other furniture?”

“I never did like telephones, Beale.”

“Those are real questions, Mr. Jones. I’m not trying to trap you. I hope there’s some way you could answer them-but I don’t like telephones either, to tell the truth.”

“I’m hanging this one up.”

And he did.

“Will you be busy this afternoon?” Dorothy asked as Charles settled into his desk.

“I’m not sure. I may have made an appointment.”

“Who would you be meeting with?”

“Our matchmaker. In the meantime, I would like to take a break from my detective work. Are we still doing a fall catalog, dear?”

“I’m still hoping to.”

“Good! Let me at it!”

“Mr. Beale?”

“Yes, Alice?”

“You have a telephone call. Mr. Anthony Prescott from Sotheby’s in London.”

“Thank you for your half hour,” Dorothy said. “Back to work?”

“Not quite. This is actually bookstore business, so it will still count as play.” He lifted his telephone. “Hello, this is Charles Beale.”

“Mr. Beale, this is Anthony Prescott from Sotheby’s in London. We spoke earlier today?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for calling back, Mr. Prescott. It must be rather late for you. I hope you have some news for me?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Beale. I can’t give you any information about your book.”

“What-nothing?”

“My apologies, sir, that we can’t help you.”

“Do you mean that you don’t have any information, or that you can’t give it to me?”

“I’m very sorry, sir. That’s all I can say.”

“Oh. Well, thank you very much, Mr. Prescott.”

“Yes, sir. Have a pleasant day.”

Charles set the telephone down and stared across the room at Dorothy.

“You look like someone just ran over your dog,” she said.

“Yes, poor Argos. I’d finally landed on Ithaca,” he said. “And the car that squashed him was Penelope running off with the mailman.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It is.” He frowned. “Except that it’s seven o’clock in London.”

“He must have been working late.”

“And on Friday. Odd. Oh, well-that’s what I get for hoping.”

“I’m sorry, dear,” Dorothy said.

“Not at all. Something might turn up. And besides, if someone wanted to buy Odysseus, I would have to sell him.”

“And if you did, I might have to spend the money paying these bills.”

“Pesky bills! Very well. Speaking of selling books, I need to pick a few more for the catalog. I think I’ll look at the shelves downstairs.”

Alice’s smile was a passable antidepressant and the rows of books even more. Charles browsed them for a while, slipping past literature and travel and into sports.

“Mr. Beale?”

“Yes, Morgan?”

He was sitting on the stairs in his usual pose. “Mrs. Beale said Sothe-by’s stiffed you?”

“Yes. They did. Very politely.”

“Shall I keep looking?”

“You can. Jacob mentioned Padding and Brewster as possible publishers. I know they’ve been out of business for a century, but there might be some trace still.”

“Yes, sir. Didn’t Sotheby’s have any records of the auction?”

“He wouldn’t say. He wouldn’t say anything. It must have been some kind of secret.”

The front door opened. “Hey, boss.”

“Hello, Angelo. How was today’s expedition?”

Angelo crossed the room. “I did not see that lady.”

“I didn’t find what I was looking for today either. How many places have you visited so far?”

He was already two steps up, but he stopped to pay attention. “I have seen ten places.”

“Good. Have you done the same thing in each one, where you ask about picking up a package?”

“Every one is the same.”

“Have you had any trouble in any of them?”

“No trouble.”

“Have any of them treated you nicely?”

Angelo shrugged. “I talk and they talk.”

“Do you treat them nicely?”

“I am always nice.”

“We need to be sure we have a good definition for that word,”

Charles said.

The front door opened again.

“Beale.”

Charles answered. “Mr. Jones. Good afternoon.”

Mr. Jones only said, “Downstairs.”

“Of course. This way.”

Charles led, barely keeping ahead of the long, fast legs. Alice watched with wide eyes, and Angelo with narrowed ones.

Whump, the bag of coat hangers landed in the chair. Whupp, the long legs shot out.

“Okay, Beale, talk.”

“I really just have the questions I asked on the telephone.”

The chair leaned backward as Mr. Jones became straight, heel to head, at a thirty-degree angle to the floor. His arms crossed behind his head.

“I don’t feel like answering them. Think of something else.”

“All right. Let’s try the auction. You were there, you saw how at least two people desperately wanted Derek Bastien’s desk. They bid it up to a hundred thousand dollars. You bid on it, too.”

“It’s a nice desk.”

“It is. But it’s worth twenty-five thousand dollars, not a hundred thousand. There’s some other reason those two people wanted it so badly.”

“I’ll tell you this, Beale. I don’t know anything about it that’s worth that much money.”

“But you do know something, and that brings me back to my first question about a secret drawer. Do you put hidden compartments in furniture? Have you ever?”