Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

“I wondered if Derek Bastien had bought anything from Horton’s. Did the FBI ask you about them?”

Mr. Cane wasn’t sure of any reason not to answer. “No one from the FBI has been here about anything stolen from the Derek Bastien estate. I don’t believe he had purchased any of them or any pieces at all from us.” At about two syllables per second, the sentence took a long time.

“No one at all? You’re quite a large dealer in antiques.”

“We do cooperate with the FBI. It is our normal procedure to compare our pieces with their lists. But no one has been here in specific reference to the Bastien estate.”

“I see. I suppose you deal with their New York office?”

“Of course.”

“I wish you could tell me who you were representing,” Charles said.

“I am sorry, Mr. Beale, that I can’t help you. I would still want to purchase the thirteen volumes you have.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Cane, that I can’t help you.”

“I see.” Mr. Cane dealt with the sorrow. “Then I hope your trip hasn’t been wasted. What else are you doing in the city, Mr. Beale?”

“As I said, I have a meeting at nine. Just book business. And no, stopping in hasn’t been a waste.”

The next walk was twenty minutes.

“This is Briary Roberts,” Charles said. “It’s a very old antique bookstore. It’s been here more than a hundred and fifty years.”

“I will stay out.”

“You could at least bring those books in.”

So again Angelo followed Charles over a threshold. At the counter, Charles said, “Is Mr. Peake in?”

The Alice-ish young woman said, “May I tell him who is asking?”

“Charles Beale. I have some books for him, and I also want to ask him a question.”

“I’ll see if he can come down. Just a moment.”

Charles used the moment to stroll. Angelo stood beside the counter, the book satchel at his side.

“Come look at this,” Charles said.

Angelo came.

“It’s just a book of photographs,” Charles said. “These are New York tenements a hundred years ago. They would have hundreds of people in a building like this. There would be six or eight people in a room the size of yours, but no window.”

The page held Angelo’s interest. “Where do they come from?”

“They’re immigrants. They came from Italy and Poland and other countries in Europe.”

“People still live in these buildings?”

“There are new immigrants there, but it isn’t nearly this bad. These people”-he touched some of the faces on the pages-“their great-grandchildren live in houses out in the suburbs, all over the country. They have jobs and families. That was why these people came, so that their children could live better lives.”

Angelo turned a page. “What are these people?”

“That’s Ellis Island. They are just arriving in America, maybe that very day. They’ve left everything they know behind to come to a place they’ve never seen. They don’t speak any English. They have hope, but here, I think they are mostly afraid. When you came to our shop the first day, it was something like that.”

“I was not afraid.”

“Oh no, I didn’t mean it that way. I know you weren’t.”

“Charles!”

A teapot of a man, short and stout, came bubbling and whistling toward them.

“Ah, Mervyn, here you are. Here, I’d like you to take a quick look at something. Angelo, they have some books to trade for the ones in your bag. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“What do you think?” Charles said. Mervyn Peake was bent as much as he could be over the Odyssey.

“The quality’s good. The title page, or whatever you call it, doesn’t look good. Where’d you get it?”

“Off eBay. Just someone clearing out their attic.”

He gave it one more critical look. “Seven hundred.”

“I paid seventeen.”

“You’ve been snookered, then.” He gave Charles a critical look. “What do you think’s so funny?”

“I’m not laughing!”

“You’re rolling in the aisles. What’s the hook?”

“Mervyn, have you ever heard of a man called Mr. Smith?”

“Are you kidding me? Half the people who want to sell me books are Mr. Smith.”

“This Mr. Smith wants to buy a book. This book. He’s British, and I’m meeting him this evening at a restaurant called Rusterman’s.”

“On Twenty-eighth? I’ve been there.”

“Did you meet a Mr. Smith there?”

“No Smith. We had a dinner there once when the manager of our London branch came over.”

“Any particular reason you had the dinner there?”

“The British Consul in New York came, too. He picked it. He had some connection with the owner. It didn’t have anything to do with books.”

“We’re ready,” Charles said to Angelo. “Did you get the books?”

“I have those books from the lady.”

“Very good. It looks like we have plenty of time to get to Twenty-eighth Street.”

The sky was finally black, what little could be seen beyond the high walls and lights. The windows of Rusterman’s were bright but only looked into the lobby. The dining room was hidden.

“I will stay here,” Angelo said for the third time that evening.

“You are completely respectable, Angelo,” Charles said, “and it would be fine for you to come in. But Mr. Smith is expecting me alone.”

“That man, he knows I am here, he is watching. He doesn’t show up if I come in. I will wait outside and watch.”

“That’s fine. I don’t think he’s watching us, but maybe he is. I don’t know how long I will be.”

“Thirty minutes and I will look in there for you,” Angelo said.

“Charles Beale.”

“Yes, sir,” the maitre d’ said. “Please come this way.”

Through the foyer, but they did not turn into the dining room. Farther back in the hall, the master opened a door and stood back. Charles entered.

The room was comfortably sized for the single table, and at the table, very comfortably, sat a middle-aged man. He was impeccably dressed in a dark suit and silk tie.

“Thank you,” he said, and the maitre d’ bowed and slid out. “Mr. Beale. Please sit down.”

“Thank you. Mr. Smith?”

“Mr. Smith, yes.” His tone left no doubt that he was not. “I trust you had a pleasant trip.”

“Very pleasant.”

“Good. We won’t take extra time this evening. May I see the book?”

“Of course.” There was no place setting or food on the table, just a large flat envelope and a brick-shaped wrapped bundle. Charles opened his briefcase and set the paper package in the center. The man waited and didn’t move.

Charles took his white gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. He pulled the paper apart and lifted the book from its cushioning and held it forward.

Mr. Smith took a magnifying glass from his pocket and inspected the cover. “Please open it to the signature.”

Gently, he did.

The signature was considered.

“Turn the page, please.”

Charles turned to the half title. The imperturbable Mr. Smith tensed slightly.

“The full title page has been removed,” Charles said. “Evidently long ago.”

Mr. Smith took the large flat envelope from the table, and from it extracted a clear plastic sheaf enclosing a single, yellowed book page.

“Oh my,” Charles said. Her Royal Highness

Princess Victoria

History of the War of Troy and the Greeks

The Odyssey

Padding amp; Brewster, London, 1827

“There is a slight notch from the cutting,” Mr. Smith said. “I’d like to see that it matches.”

Charles held the book while the man compared his page to it.

Then the man leaned back. “I accept that it is authentic.” A tiny charge of excitement made the convivial smile he’d had from the beginning tremble, just a little.