Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

“Oh. It’s from all the burglaries. I think Bastien was the fifth one. Some guy going through the neighborhood.”

“Norman-does it mean anything to you?”

“What, the list? It’s stuff that got stolen.”

“Yes,” Charles said. “But the things that were stolen-do they say anything about who would have stolen them?”

“Huh? It’s all kinds of stuff. A little French statue, a mahogany letter file, an ivory dolphin-that was a nice one, I sold him that one.”

“They’re all antiques.”

“So the burglar’s got good taste. And they’re all small and valuable. He breaks in, grabs stuff, and runs. That neighborhood up there in Foxhall, every house is piled high with stuff.”

“I have several customers up there,” Charles said.

“Great place for a burglar. Except when Derek Bastien walks in on him right in the middle of his haul. Too bad. Wrong place, wrong time, and the guy panics. Grabs a marble statue and wham, wham, wham! You read about it, right?”

“I didn’t read the details.”

“I sold him that statue. I bet it weighed thirty pounds, at least. One whack would have been plenty, but the guy’s panicked I guess. Blood everywhere. You know, I wonder if that’s why the desk sold so high. But they wouldn’t sell it with all the blood, would they? They’d clean it off.

But you have to be careful cleaning those old finishes-”

“Thank you, Norman. It’s been so nice to see you.”

The return from Georgetown had been about the same as the trip to it.

“Mr. Beale,” Alice said as he paused in the showroom, “there was a telephone call for you. Mrs. Beale has the message.”

“Thank you. Have we sold anything this morning?”

“A Dickens. The Olde Curiosity Shoppe.”

“There are shops where curiosity is a dangerous thing,” he said.

“Hello, dear.”

“Well, well,” she said, with a lemon meringue tartness.

“Well what?”

“Congresswoman Karen Liu’s office called and she would be pleased to see you tomorrow, Wednesday, at 7:30 in the morning.”

“Tomorrow morning?” he said.

“Yes, and please call back to confirm.”

“I will. How unexpected.”

“Charles.” The lemon had some sour. “What are you going to say to her?”

“I have until tomorrow to think of something.”

“I still don’t know why you are even going.”

“I am going to look at her and tell if she’s the real thing.”

“The real what?”

“The real thing.”

“How will you tell?”

He tapped his finger beside his eye. “I can see it.”

“And did Norman Highberg answer any of your questions?”

“Some of them more than I wanted. Dorothy, I have some odd things to think about.”

“It is because you are looking in odd places.”

“Yes. And now, I think, bookstores in California should be open.”

“Mr. Leatherman, please. This is Charles Beale.”

He waited.

“Charles? Is that you?”

“Yes, Jacob. It is.”

“Have you come to your senses? I’ll give you twenty-three, and not a penny more.”

“Did you have a nice trip home?”

“Of course not. If you’re not calling about those books, what are you calling about?”

“I saw there was an auction in San Francisco next month.”

“What about it? You’re not coming out here, are you?”

“No. But I might want a few things from it, and I wondered if you were going.”

“I might be. I might not be. I haven’t looked at the list yet, but I don’t think I want anything from it.”

“Then if there is anything I want, and if you do go or send someone, and if you aren’t bidding on the same things that I want, would you bid on them for me?”

“If, and if, and if, then I might.”

“Thank you. I’ll look at the list again and decide.”

“Or I might just decide that whatever you want, I want it, too.”

“I would expect no less of you, Jacob.”

“And don’t tell me you weren’t the one who had that Edmund Cane call me this morning.”

“I wasn’t, actually. He called me, too. It was Norman Highberg that gave him my name, and probably yours.”

“Who’s that?”

“Just an antiques dealer who was at the auction. You should meet him sometime, you’d get along famously. Mr. Cane was asking you about the woman and the desk?”

“How would I know who she was? Do you think I know everybody in the country? If she’s fool enough to pay a hundred thousand for a desk, she shouldn’t be hard to find.”

“It was intriguing,” Charles said.

“It was a commotion and I hate commotions.”

“You, Jacob? I don’t believe it.”

“I don’t mind causing one myself; I just hate anyone else making one.”

“I don’t believe that either. I bet you were as intrigued as I was.”

“Then you might be even more if you saw what I did.”

“What did you see?”

Jacob chuckled. “When you’ve been around as long as I have, you learn to keep your eyes open.”

“Then I would have a long time to go,” Charles said.

“And you probably won’t make it anyway. So I’ll tell you what I saw. That chair you sat in?”

“Yes. It was the only one open.”

“It hadn’t been for long. There was a man in it, with long hair tied up. I don’t know why they let him in, the way he looked, except they let anyone in any more.”

“What about him?”

“He was bidding on the desk, too.”

“But he’d left when I came in.”

“Oh, you think so? You think you know everything, don’t you?”

“Well-the chair was empty.”

“He was still there. I saw him. He slid over to the side of the room, where you couldn’t see him, and he tried bidding a couple times. He gave up, though.”

“I didn’t notice. You’re right, Jacob, there are still plenty of things I miss.”

“At least you admit it. That means you might learn someday.”

“And that’s all very intriguing, Jacob. I do wonder what it means.”

“You wonder because you’re still young and foolish.”

“Idealistic,” Charles said.

“Same thing.”

“And I’m fifty-five.”

“That’s all? You look older than that.”

“I only feel older. And you wonder, too, what it means, and you’re certainly not young or foolish. Did you tell Mr. Cane?”

“Of course not. He didn’t ask, and I didn’t feel like telling him.”

“Well thank you for telling me.”

“I don’t know why I’d take the time.”

“I won’t take any more of your time.”

“I don’t have that much left.”

“Then goodbye, Jacob. Talk to you later.”

“If I live that long.”

Charles set the phone down very gently. “It takes a special person.”

“To be friends with Jacob Leatherman?” Dorothy asked.

“To be Jacob Leatherman. It must require a tremendous amount of effort.”

“Are you getting everything done?”

“Getting what done?”

“All those things you had to do,” Dorothy said.

“The list is getting longer, and going to strange and stranger places.”

“Where does it go next?”

“Upstairs.”

Up the steps from the office to the third floor, which was three doors facing a tiny landing. Charles knocked on the one that faced him.

“What?” The door opened and Angelo was framed in its opening. He was not in his nice clothes. “Hey, boss.”

“I have a question for you.”

“What question?”

But Charles had to stop and stare. “Why do I feel like I’m about to get knifed?”

Something flickered deep in Angelo’s eyes-maybe humor, maybe not. “Hey, you know, boss, I don’t know why you feel some way, maybe it was something you ate.” His voice was sibilant and low, like a lullaby through his smiling white teeth that were not smiling.