Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

“And Voltaire was exiled from Paris.”

“I would have preferred Hobbes’s position, Charles. Yes, I suppose many of them did pay some price for their ideas.”

“Derek, do you have any theories or ideals for which you would risk your life?”

“Not at all. Power and control aren’t theories. What about you, Charles?”

“I do, Derek. Though I rather hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Good morning, Alice. A new week.”

“Yes, Mr. Beale! And a man called a few minutes ago for you. I told him you’d be in about now.”

“Who was it?”

“He didn’t say, but he was British.”

The telephone on the counter rang.

“Alexandria Rare Books,” Alice said, and then she nodded. “It’s him,” she said.

“I’ll get it up in the office.”

Dorothy was at her desk. Charles popped over to his own and blew her a kiss.

“This is Charles Beale.”

“Mr. Beale.” The voice was very British. “My name is Mr. Smith.”

“Good morning, Mr. Smith. Or afternoon?”

“Morning, and a very good morning to you.” It wasn’t clipped, nasal, competent British; it was unhurried, assured, very competent British. It wasn’t British at all; it was English. “Mr. Beale, I think you might have something of interest to me.”

“I hope I do. What would that be?”

“An Alexander Pope Homer.”

Charles waved to get Dorothy’s attention.

“The Odyssey?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

He had her attention.

“I do have a Pope Odyssey. I hadn’t listed it for sale yet.”

“All the better, Mr. Beale. Please don’t. I’d rather discuss a private purchase.”

“Well, certainly, Mr… Smith. We can discuss that. I expect you’d like to see it?”

“I would very much.”

“Do you know where we are in Alexandria?” Charles asked.

“Please allow me to suggest a different location.”

The grammar was of a very polite request, but the tone, while also very polite, was not a request.

“Of course,” Charles said. “Where would you like to meet?”

“I will be at Rusterman’s on Twenty-eighth Street in Manhattan on Wednesday evening at nine o’clock.”

Charles wrote quickly on a notepad. “Nine o’clock. Rusterman’s. Yes, I’ll be there. Is there any way to reach you, Mr. Smith, if I need to?”

“I’m sure there will be no need, Mr. Beale. I’m also sure there will be no need to mention this to anyone else.”

“Certainly.”

“Very good. Then, until Wednesday.”

“I look forward to meeting you,” Charles said.

“What is Rusterman’s?” Dorothy asked.

“Apparently, a restaurant in New York.”

“You’re going to New York?”

“Apparently. On Wednesday. How interesting!”

“Did he say how he heard we had the book?”

“No. He was English, and said his name was Smith. Although he didn’t sound like a Smith.”

“What did he sound like?”

“Oh, a Hampton-Smythe, or a Bolingbroke or something like that. Or

…” Charles stared back toward the telephone. “Or maybe a Saxe-Coburg-Gotha.”

“A what?”

“Just a thought. Never mind. Anyway, did we ever finish the fall catalog?”

“Yes, dear,” Dorothy said. “It is at the printer.”

“Thank you, dear.”

“And Angelo’s meeting starts in thirty minutes.”

“Mr. Beale?” Alice was smiling in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“You have a telephone call. Mr. Edmund Cane.”

“New York again!” Charles said. “I wonder if he’s still looking for the woman who bought Derek’s desk?”

“Mr. Cane! Good morning! This is Charles Beale.”

“Good morning, Mr. Beale.” The syllables were as distinct and unconnected as ever.

“What can I do for you? Are you still looking for your desk?”

“No, Mr. Beale. I am afraid the Honaker desk is rather a dead subject at this point.”

“A dead subject-not literally, I hope?”

Pause. “No. I didn’t mean that literally.”

“Of course. Anyway, what can I do for you?”

“I believe you purchased some books at that auction?”

“Yes,” Charles said. “I did.”

“I would like to purchase those from you.”

“All of them?”

“I believe it was thirteen volumes? Yes, I would want all of them.”

“Mr. Cane-I’m sorry, but they aren’t for sale.”

“I see. I hope they haven’t been purchased by someone else?”

“No. I have them.”

“Are they committed to someone else?” Mr. Cane said, inexorably.

“No.”

“I am prepared to offer above market price.”

“You certainly did for the desk.”

Another confused pause. “Is price important to you?”

“No. Price is not the issue.”

“Then may I ask what is?”

“It is simply that they aren’t currently for sale,” Charles said.

“I see. In that case, I hope you will let me know when they are. The offer would stand.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cane. May I ask what your interest in them is? I suppose you have a client?”

“I won’t comment on that.”

“Well, then, I think we’ve run out of things to say.”

“I will try again later, Mr. Beale.”

“Please do.”

“What was that?” Dorothy asked.

“Mr. Cane wants Derek’s books.”

“Charles-what does that mean?”

“It means too much to think about. However, it’s time for me to leave.”

And on cue, Angelo was standing in the doorway.

Charles checked his watch. Angelo stood beside him, patiently silent.

“It’s time,” Charles said. He opened the heavy door, and they passed from the sunlight into the courthouse lobby. The guard eyed them.

“Your knife?” Charles asked.

“I do not have any knife here.”

Charles emptied his pockets to go through the metal detector; keys, wallet, change, his magnifying glass. Angelo had nothing.

Then corridors, up and down, left and right, back and forth, to and through the door that said Probation Services, into its small lobby, and sitting to wait.

“Angelo Acevedo.”

They stood and passed through the open door into the cheap, plain little office, and closed the door behind them.

“Good morning, Angelo.”

“Good morning, Mr. Conway.”

Mr. Conway wasn’t old, but he was shiny bald with a fringe of black. “And, Mr. Beale.”

“Yes, good morning,” Charles said.

Mr. Conway had an open folder on his desk. He read with his finger, which moved across the paper in front of him, line by line, inching down to the bottom. “How is everything?”

“It is good,” Angelo said.

“Good. Mr. Beale?”

“Everything is going quite well, Mr. Conway.”

“Did anything happen this month?”

Charles answered. “Angelo has been conscientious at his job, as usual. This last week I’ve had him out on business calls by himself and I believe he’s been doing very well at that.”

“Have there been any problems? Contacts with previous associates?”

“I really don’t think so,” Charles said.

“Okay.” Mr. Conway closed the folder; his finger got out just in time. He looked up at them with a bureaucratic smile. “Then I think-”

And the door opened.

Everything plain and routine about the meeting collapsed. Mr. Conway’s mouth dropped open and Angelo hardened into pure rock.

Charles blinked, and partly smiled, and said, “Congresswoman Liu! What a surprise!”

Karen Liu took in the room in a deliberate glance and planted herself directly behind Angelo.

“Good morning, Mr. Beale,” she said.

“Mr. Conway,” Charles said, almost up to normal conversational speed. “Allow me to introduce Congresswoman Karen Liu. This is Mr. Conway, our probation officer.”