Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

“What was?”

“That man.”

Charles looked through the car again. “You saw someone?”

“He is two cars back. He waited when we waited.”

“He followed us from the shop?”

“I saw him the first time when I asked you.”

“What does he look like?”

“He wears blue jeans and a sweatshirt that is dark green. He has a baseball cap and he has a beard.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when you saw him?”

“Then you would look around to see him.” Angelo opened his eyes wide and jerked his head side to side, for just a moment animated. “Like that,” he said, mocking. “And then he knows I have seen him.”

“Well. I probably would have.”

“Do not look when we get out. I will tell you when to look.”

“All right. What if he doesn’t get out when we do?”

“Then we do not see him.”

“How old is he?”

“Not old like you.”

The train slid into the next station. Charles tightened his grip on the briefcase.

Twenty minutes later, they approached the Gallery Place station.

“We’ll switch to the Red Line to Union Station,” Charles said.

The train had become crowded, and when they exited, the platform had at least a hundred people. Charles tried not to look around.

They switched to the other platform, even as a train was coming in.

“He is in the car behind us,” Angelo said as that train left the station.

Union Station was the second stop. They left the train, and Charles set a leisurely pace up through the halls and escalators. They left the Metro platforms and followed the signs and crowds.

“Make a look back now,” Angelo said, “and then look away.”

Charles turned. There was a large clock on the wall and he stared at it for a few seconds. Then he turned forward again.

“I don’t recognize him,” he said. “I’d remember that beard.”

They approached the Amtrak ticket booths, where Charles stopped to look at the schedule board.

“We can take the train that’s in fifteen minutes. You stay here while I get the tickets.”

He bought two tickets and ambled back.

“He is watching from there,” Angelo said. “He did not buy any ticket.”

They waited five minutes and then climbed onto the train. It was crowded and they went through two cars before they found two seats together.

And finally it started moving. “I did not see him come on,” Angelo said. “That man, do you know why he followed us?”

“Not specifically,” Charles said.

“He is watching that book?”

“This? No one knows I have it.”

“The man you will see. He has friends watching you to see that you are coming for the deal.”

“I don’t think it’s that kind of people.”

“We’ll have two other errands besides our meeting at nine o’clock,” Charles said. They had ridden in silence for an hour. “The first is an antiques showroom where I just need to talk to a man for a few minutes. Then we will go to a very large bookstore called Briary Roberts. I need to give them the books in your bag.”

“You do lots of deals,” Angelo said.

“I sell lots of books. I buy lots of books. Would you want to learn more about books, Angelo?”

“No.”

“What do you want to do?”

Angelo’s shoulders might have lifted a tenth of an inch and dropped, or he might not have moved at all.

“You can do whatever you want,” Charles said.

Angelo didn’t move at all.

The train came to a final stop. Charles exited and wandered toward an exit with his briefcase, Angelo a few steps behind with the satchel of books.

“Penn Station,” Charles said, and they walked up the stairs and to the central hall.

“It is big.”

“Have you seen anyone?”

“I don’t see anyone.”

“It’s probably hard to tell here. There are so many people.”

“Too many,” Angelo said.

“First we’re going to Horton’s on Fortieth.”

Angelo’s face lifted as they left the station.

“It is tall,” he said. He was not impressed.

“Yes. Most people notice. We have about a half mile to walk.”

“Do they have a Metro?”

“The Subway. But I’d rather walk, I think.”

They crossed to Seventh Avenue and turned left. The sidewalks were crammed and people moved much faster than in Alexandria. No one’s eyes met theirs.

“I cannot see if anyone is watching us,” Angelo said after a while.

“I don’t know what we’d do if someone was.”

“This is Horton’s.” It was.

“I will stay here.” Angelo stopped outside the door.

“No, come in.”

Angelo obeyed. He stepped over the threshold, and then stopped.

Six of Norman Highberg’s shop could have fit inside; and besides antiques, Horton’s did furniture. The display tables and cases were works of art by themselves. Thousands of pieces were ranged around them: Byzantine, Baroque, Beaux Arts, Bauhaus; porcelain, pewter, paintings. Not much of human history or geography was not represented.

“Do you remember Derek Bastien’s house? The man who was killed.”

“I remember.”

“He had lots of things like these.”

“I never touched them.”

Charles paused. “I know you didn’t. Here,” he picked up a candlestick from a display of silver in the front aisle, “hold it for a moment.”

Angelo took it, turned it from one side to another, and handed it back.

Charles replaced it on the table. “Angelo, I don’t believe you’ve ever touched a valuable antique before in your life.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Just the way you held it.”

“Mr. Beale. I am Edmund Cane.”

Charles turned and extended his hand. “Mr. Cane. Thank you so much for seeing me.”

“So good to see you again.”

“Thank you. Although we’ve only barely seen each other before.”

“I do remember,” Mr. Cane said. “You were in the back row?”

“Yes, I was. I came in during the bidding for the desk.”

“Of course. I believe I said that I’m no longer interested in the desk.”

“Yes, you did say that.”

“I am, however, interested in the books you purchased at the auction. The thirteen volumes mentioned in the catalog.”

“As it turns out, there were actually fourteen,” Charles said.

“The catalog was incorrect?” Mr. Cane’s enunciation was as stiff as his white hair was riotous. “I believe it said thirteen volumes?”

“There were thirteen volumes at the auction. Derek Bastien had fourteen, but one had been separated from the others.”

“I would want them all.”

“Yes. I don’t have that particular one in my possession.”

“I would take the ones you do have.”

Charles nodded. “I think I would like to know who is actually trying to buy them.”

Edmund Cane’s speech had been robotic. Now he seemed to have blown out his transistors. He froze, jerked slightly, and finally computed an answer.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Beale, but of course I can’t give you that information.”

“That’s too bad,” Charles said. “It is quite a mystery, isn’t it? First the desk, and now the books.”

“I really can’t comment.”

“There’s a lot of mystery surrounding the whole Bastien estate. I’ve been told that a few of the pieces stolen from the house have been recovered by the FBI.”

“I am currently only interested in the books.”

“Yes,” Charles said. “I only deal in books, but the FBI actually questioned me concerning the other pieces.”

“I suppose they would be interested in the stolen antiques.”

“Yes, exactly. Did any of them come from here?”

“Here?”