Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

“Why?”

Charles did deliberate. “It’s a very valuable book and I don’t know exactly what will happen. I might want help.”

“I will come.”

“We’ll leave in a couple of hours and we’ll be back tonight, late.”

“Angelo will come with me.”

“I know you can’t answer this,” Dorothy said, “but could you tell at all what he was thinking?”

“I had one clue. When I asked him to come, he asked me why. He’s never questioned me before.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I made it sound like it might be dangerous, and I might need help.”

“Will it be dangerous?” Dorothy said.

“I really don’t think so,” Charles said. “And while I’m up there, I think I will make one other stop. I wonder where I put Edmund Cane’s telephone number.”

“He was the man who bid on Derek’s desk?”

“Yes. I would really like to know who he was representing.”

“May I speak with Mr. Edmund Cane, please?”

“Who is calling?”

“This is Charles Beale, from Virginia. He and I have spoken before.”

“Just a moment, sir.”

Several moments passed.

“Mr. Beale?”

“Yes.”

“This is Edmund Cane. It is so nice to speak with you again. I hope you are calling to discuss the sale of Derek Bastien’s books?”

“Not on the telephone. I’m coming to New York on business, and I’d like to stop in for a moment if it’s convenient for you.”

“When would that be?”

“I’m leaving here by train in a few hours. I would be at your showroom about six. Is that too late?”

“We are open until nine. Would you prefer to meet later?”

“No, I have an evening meeting afterwards.”

“Very well, Mr. Beale. We are on Fortieth Street, near Seventh Avenue.”

“Good. I look forward to it.”

Charles set the telephone down. “I just thought of one other clue,” he said to Dorothy.

“About Mr. Cane?”

“About Angelo. One other clue about what he might be thinking. He didn’t call me boss.”

“I’m done,” Jacob said.

Charles stood beside the desk. “I’m glad you came.”

“Just an old man’s folly.”

“Your folly, Jacob, is beyond most men’s wisdom. If you hadn’t come, I might have taken it out to you.”

“Brought it to me?” An ember spurted a few sparks. “Brought it? Why didn’t you tell me? Would have saved me a trip.”

“You need the exercise. May I take you to your hotel?”

“I should get back home.”

“I think you should take the rest of the day off. I’d take you out to dinner tonight, but I’ll be in New York.”

“With your Mr. Smith?” His eyes glowed. “I’d like to meet him. But I’m not up to it.”

“You’d scare him off, anyway. But if you’re still here tomorrow, I can tell you about it.”

“That’s worth staying, then.” He closed the book but stayed in the chair. “And how’s your matchmaker? How’s that story coming?”

“That’s a good question,” Charles said. “May I ask your advice?”

“That’s what everyone wants. They think they know everything and then finally they ask someone who does.”

“I’m glad that you do. The main thing is that I’m stuck. I don’t know what to do. I won’t tell you the whole story because it’s too long and there are things that I shouldn’t say.”

“It won’t matter anyway,” Jacob said. “It’s the same advice I’ll tell you regardless.”

“And what is that, Jacob?”

“If you don’t know what to do, it’s because you do know what to do but you don’t want to do it.”

“There are other people involved.”

“There always are. That’s no excuse.”

Charles shook his head. “You don’t even know what this is about.”

“And I still know what you should do.”

“Exactly, Jacob. You really do know everything. Let me take you to your hotel while I think about what it means.”

“Jacob is settled,” Charles said, “cantankerous and fulminating as good as new.”

“He looked dreadful there,” Dorothy said.

“More than usual. But I think he’s revived. He really should get a rest. I hope he does.”

“Are you ready to leave, then?”

“Almost. I’m going to call John Borchard. Sometime we’ll need to finish our conversation.”

“There’s no answer at his house,” Charles said, “and his office says he’s not in today.”

“Did you think he would be?”

“Not really. I’ll have to wait until he’s ready. And I wish the police detective would call.”

“You could call him,” Dorothy said.

“I will tomorrow. They must think I was just a witness to the explosion. They wouldn’t know about the whole Derek Bastien story.”

“John Borchard would have told them.”

“Probably not.”

“Is there anything to do about Patrick White?” Dorothy asked. “It doesn’t seem right to just go on like nothing happened.”

“I don’t know what to do. The only thing I can think of is to talk to the police. But it will have to wait.”

“Are you taking anything to New York?”

“Just the book. I’m planning to travel very light.”

“Mr. Beale?” Morgan was at the office door. “I heard you’re going to New York? I’m swapping a dozen volumes with Briary Roberts. Would you like to take them with you?”

“I’m planning to travel very heavy,” Charles said to Dorothy.

“I could drive you to the train station?” Dorothy said.

“We’ll take the Metro. Angelo can carry the books.”

Angelo sat outside on the front steps, waiting.

“Be careful.” She kissed him on his cheek. “I’d miss you if you didn’t come back.” She tried to sound cheerful.

“In that case, I will come back,” Charles answered, trying more successfully. “Good bye, dear.”

“Good bye.”

“And don’t worry,” he said.

“I will.”

“We’ll be back tonight,” Charles said. Morgan handed him a heavy satchel. “Even if it looks like we’re staying until tomorrow.”

“I’ll meet you at the train station,” she said. “Two fifteen?”

“Two fifteen. I’m sorry it will be so late at night.” He opened the door. Angelo pulled himself upright.

“We are going now?” He took the large satchel, and in it the dozen books.

“Yes, finally.”

From the sidewalk, Charles blew the kiss back to Dorothy. He had just a small briefcase, and in it just the Odyssey.

Charles was in thought and not seeing the world, and Angelo was not seeming to see. They walked half the ten blocks to the Metro in silence.

“Who knows you are taking that?” Angelo said, suddenly.

“This?” Charles was startled. “The book?”

“That book.”

“Not anyone here, besides Morgan and Mrs. Beale.”

And then the silence resumed.

At the Metro station, Angelo paused at the bottom of the escalator. Charles waited for him at the top. A train had just arrived, its doors briefly open.

“We can catch this,” Charles said as Angelo reached the top.

“Wait.”

Charles stopped.

“What for?”

“The next train.”

The train doors closed. Angelo leaned against a pillar. Charles stood next to him. Five minutes passed before a new train opened its doors for them.

“Is this one all right?”

“It is okay.”

Charles took a seat and Angelo stood, one hand on a pole. An assorted dozen passengers were already sitting; no one else had come onto the car with them.

The doors closed and the train swayed. Angelo, erect, did not.

“What was wrong with the first train?” Charles asked.

“The train was not wrong.”