Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

“I assume it’s hollow.”

“Yes, it is. But I want you to see what is in it.”

“It was a shock, John, seeing the first one. I’m perhaps sentimental, but I don’t want to see another antique ruined.”

John shrugged. “I guessed what a hollowed book might mean, and when Derek’s bookseller came calling, I felt my guess was confirmed. I knew the papers had to be somewhere-especially Patrick White’s. So, Charles, I would like to see the papers you have.”

“I don’t have them with me, of course. I can tell you that Patrick White’s is just a title page copied from the University of Virginia Honor Court proceedings, with an interior page number written on it. A person would have to get those proceedings and look at that inside page to make any sense of it.”

“Hardly incriminating at all if someone found it,” John said. “But if a newspaper reporter received a copy and knew it was important, he would quickly get all the details.”

“Which is what happened,” Charles said.

“With the consequences that everyone in Washington knows.”

“And that brings me to the other reason I wanted to talk to you. Patrick White came to me this morning.”

“More of the same, I suppose?”

“More than the same. John, I need to warn you. I think he might try to take justice into his own hands.”

An odd new look came into John’s eyes. It was mostly anger tinged with fear.

“So it has gone too far,” John said. “What did he say?”

“It was vague, but it was very threatening. Last week he told me that you killed Derek.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that.”

“Today he said you were planning to kill again. He said he would stop you. He also said he had someone who would help him.”

“In that case,” John said, “I insist that you look inside that book.” He handed it to Charles.

Charles held it for a moment, feeling its weight and balance. The lettering on the spine was still legible: Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason.

Charles opened the book.

The hole cut was smaller than the John Locke, but deeper into the thick volume. Resting in it was the black plastic object, a rounded rectangle, with the two buttons. It also had a speaker grill.

“A recorder?” Charles said.

“A small Dictaphone. A fairly common thing for an administrator to keep in his pocket.”

Charles lifted it out of the book and pushed the Play button.

“Tell me about him,” it rumbled.

Charles jerked in surprise, dropping the device.

“It’s Derek,” he said.

“Yes,” John said. “Derek recorded a conversation. Go ahead. Listen to it.”

He pushed the button again.

“Tell me about him.”

“He called me last week.” It was Patrick White’s voice. “He read about me in the newspaper and he knew it had to be Borchard behind the scandal. He said Borchard’s been after him for a couple months, too.”

“After him? For what?”

“Something in the Justice Department. They’re rivals. It’s the same game-he’s gotten the letters, too.”

“What is this man’s name?”

“He won’t tell me. Maybe you could guess. You know everyone that Borchard does.”

“I don’t know who it would be,” Derek’s voice said.

“He says if he and I work together, we can bring Borchard down.”

“How?”

“That’s all we’ve said. He’ll help us, Derek.”

“I have to know what he’s going to do. I have to know who he is.”

“I’ll find out,” Patrick White said. “But he’s scared. He doesn’t want me to know who he is. But he wants to be part of anything we do.”

And then there was silence.

“That’s all there is,” John Borchard said.

“It must be the same person Patrick White has mentioned to me. Who could they be talking about?”

“That’s what I have to find out!” John said, suddenly vehement. “I have to know who it is. It isn’t just Patrick White. There’s someone else as well. It must be someone else that Derek was blackmailing.”

“Could it be any of these people?” Charles put his hand on the stack of folders.

“It isn’t. I’ve been through all of them. It must be one of the papers you have. That is why I have to see them.” He was standing, pacing in the narrow space of the office.

“Karen Liu?”

“It’s a man. White said he. And this man, he must know more than Patrick White does. He knew that the papers were in Derek’s desk. He’s the person who was bidding against me.”

“Maybe…” Charles said, “maybe I could get Mr. White to tell me.”

“Even if he doesn’t know, he might have some clue. Something that could help me guess. Maybe the man at the auction who did the bidding. He was from New York.”

“Edmund Cane.”

“He might know. But I need to see the papers you have. That might be enough.”

“I’ll show them to you,” Charles said. “And I’ll talk to Mr. White.”

“Do you know where he is?” John asked. “I haven’t been able to find where he’s living.”

“No, I don’t know where he liv-”

First, shaking.

Just afterward sound. Then the sorting of sounds-glass shattering, heavier objects falling. A percussion of air and then heat.

“Get down,” Charles said. John collapsed to the floor.

But there was no more of the sound or motion. Charles stood enough to see out the window. John didn’t move.

The neighboring house was buried in smoke. Charles watched in shock as the gray cleared. An upstairs window was gone, and also most of the wall that had held it, and the hole was black edged and jagged. Flames wavered inside.

“Call the police,” Charles said, but John was immobile. Charles grabbed the telephone and pushed three digits.

“There’s been an explosion,” he said. “The house behind us-what is the address here?”

John didn’t answer.

“I don’t know the address. Whatever this phone number is.”

“Who is calling?” the voice said.

“Charles Beale. I’m at the home of John Borchard in McLean. I don’t know the address.”

“We have your address. What happened?”

“Behind us. The house exploded-something in it-there’s fire and smoke. It was a big explosion.”

“We have help on the way. Has anyone been injured?”

“I don’t know. I think-” The window that had looked directly down on John Borchard’s office was destroyed. “I think someone must have been.”

“Do you see anyone injured?”

“No. I’m calling from the neighbor’s house. No one here was hurt.”

“Mr. Beale, we have help on the way. Stay clear of the fire. Don’t try to go into the house.”

“I won’t. We won’t.”

“That’s all we need now. You can hang up.”

Charles set the telephone down. “John. Are you all right?”

John Borchard was still not moving or speaking. He was on his knees, his mouth was open, his face was paper white, shining with sweat, his breath jerking, his eyes wide.

“John!”

Charles took his shoulder and shook it. The blank eyes suddenly moved.

“It was meant for me,” he said, finally speaking.

“Who lives in that house?”

“Where?”

“The house right behind you!”

“They’re gone. They’ve been gone.”

Charles bent down, face-to-face with John Borchard. “Are you all right?”

John’s face was a sagging ruin. “It was for me! They want to kill me!”

“You’re fine,” Charles said. “Sit up here.”

John heaved himself up into his chair. His face was regaining color and his breath was becoming normal.

“The police!” he said.

“I called them.”

“They’ll see the files.” John staggered to his feet. He pushed aside a small table and groped at the wood paneling behind it. The panel clicked open, uncovering the gray front of a safe.