Paul Robertson: According to Their Deeds

The phone was silent as Einstein contemplated an equation or two. “Yes, I do. I see you remember me.”

“I certainly do, Mr. Cane. It was very dramatic.”

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted the desk?”

“Well, you did,” Charles said.

Time passed slowly, at least at Charles’s end of the phone. Morgan slipped the green label in the front of the Trollope and started wrapping it in brown paper. “Anyone else?” Mr. Cane finally said.

“I am sorry. You might try Norman Highberg. He has a showroom in Georgetown, and he knows the general antiques market much better than I. I only do books.”

“Actually, your name was among those given me by Mr. Highberg.”

“Hey boss, do you have the box for me?”

They both turned toward the door. In dark pants, dark shirt and dark tie, Angelo was transformed.

“Yes,” Charles said. “You’re always quiet coming into a room.”

“Everything is so always quiet here.” There was no transformation of his voice, or his eyes.

“Mr. Cane?” Charles said into the telephone. “I’m sorry, I’ll be just a moment.”

Morgan sealed the cardboard package. “I’m done.” He handed it to Angelo.

“Be very nice to the customer when you see him,” Charles said.

“Oh, I am always nice.”

“Do they think that you’re being nice?”

“I don’t know what they think.”

“I should ask them. You have the receipt for them to sign?”

“I have that.”

“Then we’ll see you when you get back. Thank you, Angelo.”

“Yes, boss.” And then he was gone.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said again to the telephone. “Is there anything else I can do to help you?”

“I would like to identify the young woman who bid against me. Do you know anything about her?”

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“You have never seen her before?”

“Not that I remember.”

“How unfortunate.”

“Actually, Mr. Cane, I did just think of something. I don’t think it would be much use. But an employee of mine was waiting outside the building. He might have seen her leave.”

“Could you ask him?”

“He just left for the afternoon. I’ll ask him this evening. But I doubt it would be much help.”

“That could be a great help.”

“I guess it’s all relative,” Charles said.

“Good day, Mr. Beale.”

“Good day, Mr. Cane.”

Morgan was looking at the books on the desk. “Those are the Derek Bastien books?”

“Yes. It doesn’t look like they’ve been touched since we sold them. They all still have their green labels in them.”

Morgan picked up one of the glass jars. “Was something loose?”

“Not particularly. The Gibbon had a little spot on the spine. I remember gluing it back when Derek first bought it, but it must not have dried all the way.”

“There are fourteen of them?”

“No, thirteen.”

“Maybe the computer’s wrong. Should I put them on the website?”

“Not yet. I’ll tell you when. I think they need a little rest first.”

The room was silent again. The invaders had all been repulsed.

Charles took the next book, the fifth, out of the box.

They were all books of law, government and human rights, by John Locke, Edmund Burke, Adam Smith, John Adams, David Hume; Rousseau, Voltaire, Montesquieu, de Tocqueville and more; man’s nature and man’s hopes of overcoming it, or at least containing it.

He held the wrapped book, staring at it. He slowly raised and lowered it, feeling its weight.

His eyes darkened and his brow lowered in anger.

He removed the paper, very slowly.

It was John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. The first page was as it should have been, but there was no green paper square. The back cover was normal.

Even as he held it, though, his fingers tensed. He stopped until they had relaxed and he was ready.

Reluctantly, he put his finger against the pages. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. He opened the volume near the middle.

“No!”

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, it was still the same.

“Alice?” he called up the stairs, when he could, trying to sound normal. “Could you ask Mrs. Beale to come down here, please?”

“Look,” he demanded, even as she was still in the doorway.

It was still on the desk where he’d set it. Defiled.

“What is it, Charles?” Her voice was the stillness that smoothed the waves, and her presence was the water’s depths untouched by the storms above.

He touched it. “The pages are cut.”

She came close, and she saw it, and his shock and grief was mirrored in her eyes. He waited for her to pass through the sorrow, as he had.

“What is that?”

He touched it, nestled in the hollow space, just a plain box of playing cards. The book had been hollowed for it.

“A card box.”

“Which book is it?”

He sighed. “John Locke.”

“Why?”

He could only stare. “I don’t know.”

Together, they could only stare. Then Dorothy asked the first practical question.

“Would Derek have done it?”

“Who else?” He shuddered. “It must have been.” The book lay open, embarrassed, on its spine. The cut was exactly sized to fit the box; only a very sharp knife could have cut so cleanly. Charles shivered. “But I can’t believe he would have.”

“How are the other books?”

“I haven’t finished them.”

“You should.” Encouraging, empathic, and a little stern, all together.

“I’ll dread opening each one.”

“I know. That’s why you need to get through them.”

“Just stay down here a little while, won’t you?”

“I will,” Dorothy said. The book was lying on its brown paper, and she closed it and pulled the whole thing to the side of the desk.

Charles lifted the next package from the cardboard box, took a breath, and opened it.

“That was the only one,” Charles said, with the last of the other twelve books safely on their shelves.

“We’ll have to do something with it,” Dorothy said.

“We can’t leave it here.” He pulled the paper back to the center of the desk. “I don’t know what to do. Just throw it away? I couldn’t bear to.”

“It’s completely ruined.”

“Thoroughly, through and through. I’ve never had to deal with such a thing. I can salvage the boards, and maybe we’d use them.”

“I suppose we could just put it on the shelf.”

“That would be as bad as throwing it away,” Charles said, “and I’d see it every time I came down here.”

“Then throw it away. I’ll do it for you.”

“Let’s wait.”

Dorothy had finished with sentiment. “The longer you wait, the harder it will be.”

“But not today.” Charles put his hand on the closed book. “I suppose we should see if anything is in the little box.” He opened the book. The box of cards hadn’t moved.

“What if there is?”

He looked at it bitterly. “Then I’ll propose a couple rounds of poker.” He put his fingers on the edges of the box. “It isn’t even period.” He worked it free and weighed it in his hand. “Not cards, anyway.”

“I hope it wouldn’t be.” Her voice was always musical; now it had a note of curiosity.

“It’s too light,” he said, and opened the top flap. “No jewels, no money, no ancient treasures. Just some papers.”

Dorothy moved closer to see. “They must be important.”

“They’d better be.” Several white sheets were folded together, and he opened the first. “I don’t even know what this is. A list.” Fifty or more handwritten lines, each two letters, a date, and a number. He showed it to Dorothy.