According to Their Deeds (23 page)

“For its age and condition and rarity, about six thousand dollars.”

“Amazing.” He handed it back to Charles. Then a new expression emerged on his Brobdingnagian face as the cheeks pushed against the eyes, and the chin pushed up and out, and other features drew together conspiratorially. “And you said that you had Derek’s books?”

“Yes. I bought them at the auction last week.”

Then a whisper, but with a doglike eagerness. “They would be down here?”

“Yes, they are.”

“All of them?”

“Well, actually, I’ve determined that one isn’t. I hadn’t realized at first, but one book that I’d sold him was not part of the set I bought back.”

Then another new expression appeared, less dog-eager and more cat-watchful.

“I wonder where it went.”

“I don’t know, of course,” Charles said. “He might have sold it. Or it might have been stolen the night he was killed.”

“The night he was killed.” John nodded at a chair. “May I?”

“Of course. Sit down.” Charles sat at the desk. “Not as nice as the chairs in your office.”

“But quite functional. The night he was killed . . .” John sighed, very deeply, but the cat eyes didn’t share the unhappiness. They were only alert. “I keep thinking about that night. Derek must have been very courageous to walk into that office. In the dark. By himself.”

“He was usually willing to take risks.”

“Yes, he was.” John seemed very satisfied with Charles’s answer. “I knew him to take a number of risks through the years.”

“You must have been very shocked the next morning.”

“I was shocked when I found out. It was actually two days later.”

“Two days?”

Now the eyes were veiled as the whole broad face went blank. “I was at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Not much cell phone coverage there.”

“The bottom of the Grand Canyon!” Charles said.

“My wife and I take a trip each year for our anniversary. Five days of rafting and camping.”

Charles allowed a smile, between friends. “I would never have guessed you did such things, John.”

“It wasn’t what you would call roughing it.” He matched Charles’s smile, and raised it by an eyebrow. “We had comfortable tents and beds, and excellent food. Just right for a sedentary bureaucrat to pretend he was having an adventure!”

“I’m sure it was an adventure. A real one. But I can see that you wouldn’t be getting much news from the outside world.”

“It was only as we came out that I received the messages from my staff. And then it absolutely was a shock.” John’s face metamorphosed into a thoughtful frown. “But coming back to Derek’s books. You say they’re here in this room?”

“They are.”

“May I see one?”

Charles smiled. “Of course.” He stood and turned to a shelf behind the desk. John Borchard’s eyes followed him exactly. “John Adams,
A Defence of the Constitutions of Government of the United States
.” He set the volume in the waiting hand.

“Like the other book, it isn’t a first edition, I assume.”

“No. But it was printed during Adams’s presidency.”

“Remarkable,” he remarked. “Absolutely remarkable.” He opened the book and shifted pages. “And it seems to be in good condition.”

“That one, yes,” Charles said. “Very good.”

John lingered over the yellowed pages. “Are there actual ratings?”

“There are generally accepted criteria. Poor, fair, good, very good, excellent. Most dealers would understand what each means.”

“And you would inspect a book to decide what condition it’s in?”

“Yes,” Charles said. “That’s fairly straightforward.”

John’s lips had become dry. He paused a moment to wet them.

“Did you inspect Derek’s books?” he asked.

Charles shrugged. “Having sold Derek the books in the first place, I already knew their condition. And of course he’d taken very good care of them. I knew they wouldn’t have deteriorated.”

“I’m sure he did take very good care of them,” John said. “Absolutely sure.”

Then Charles waited. John’s face had again rearranged, with the brow down and the eyes squinted and the lips jutting, all with words pent up behind them.

“Charles, was there anything unusual about Derek’s antique books?”

“He collected the standards of Enlightenment philosophy.”

“The books themselves. I mean their physical condition.”

“What do you mean, exactly, John?” Charles said.

John ran his finger along the line of his chin. “You know, Charles, I’m still not completely sure why you came last week to see me. Was it really just innocent curiosity?”

“I did want to meet you.”

“All these months had passed after Derek’s death, but it was only two days after the auction that you decided to call me. I think there is more to be said.”

Charles nodded. “I called because Karen Liu told me about you.”

John regrouped. “Oh, of course. You had just spoken with her.”

“And then, the day after I met with you, Patrick White came to see me. He actually mentioned your name, as well.”

“Yes. You mentioned that to me on the telephone.”

“He’s been back twice since.”

“Had you met him some other time before?” John was falling back in confusion. “I don’t understand how you would have known him.”

“Karen Liu gave him my name, I believe.”

For the first time, Charles saw the face demonstrate a shade of anger; in this case, annoyance. “The congresswoman is dropping quite a few names, isn’t she?”

“Mr. White did as well,” Charles said. “Or maybe I should say he flung them.”

Then irritation. “I can imagine.”

“I suppose you know what he is saying?”

Resentment. “I know quite well. I hope that you realize he is not in his right mind?”

“I believe I used the word
unbalanced
when I described him to my wife.”

“Unbalanced. Yes, that would do.” The anger had melted into longsuffering, but there was still a snap in the words. “I’ve been patient with Mr. White, overly so. He’s given me more than sufficient grounds for a slander suit. I’ve spoken with the police and I’ve consulted my lawyer.”

Charles held up his hand. “I understand completely. Of course, I haven’t taken anything he said seriously.”

“Please continue not to. I will even suggest you not listen to him at all.”

It was more than a snap. It was a command.

Charles smiled, very calm, very soothing. “I’m sure it’s been very difficult.”

“Very.” John paper-clipped his own calm back together. “It comes with the territory, I suppose. Washington is a bare knuckles town.”

“I would like to ask about one thing he said. He mentioned a Sentencing Reform bill.”

“Yes, that was the particular spark that inflamed the conflict. It was simple enough—just rationalizing the sentencing guidelines for Federal crimes. It was long overdue. Mr. White thought otherwise.”

“Did he feel the new guidelines were too harsh?”

“Oh, I don’t know what he felt!” The paper clips were falling out. “He had no business involving himself, anyway. He was a judge, and this was between the Justice Department and Congress.”

“Apparently, Karen Liu valued his opinion as a judge?”

“Apparently.” A full-face scowl was magnificent. “Karen may have not used the best judgment in listening to him. Her subcommittee was working with us with the usual high level of cooperation, until he barged in. I don’t think anyone realized at the time that he was already, as you said, off-balance. And my superior, the Principal Deputy, had given me the task of shepherding the bill through Congress as a very high priority. You can see how Mr. White and I developed quite a conflict.”

“From his comments,” Charles said, “he seems to consider it a very personal conflict.”

“And what exactly were his comments?” John asked. “I’m only guessing what he might have told you.”

“That you had sent the incriminating documents to the
Washington Post
.”

“Yes, that’s it. With absolutely no basis.”

“Absolutely,” Charles said. “I wonder who did send them.”

“I have no idea. I don’t want to know either.”

“But the bill was passed by Congress?”

“It is law, now,” John said. “It was a relief to get it over with.”

“I appreciate you telling me all of this.”

The conversation had recovered its balance. John’s face was merely placid, whatever was going on behind it. At least the thought of leaving was, because he put his hands down together on the desk and pushed himself up out of the chair.

“I don’t mind at all, Charles. I think I’ve taken enough of your valuable time.”

“I’m very honored that you came to visit.”

Together they climbed the stairs to the showroom.

Dorothy and Alice were still behind the counter in earnest conversation. But before John could even stretch any pleased look further than the corners of his mouth, every feature on his face fled backward in alarm.

“John,” Charles said quickly. “This is Angelo.”

“Who?”

John Borchard’s incoherence was understandable. Angelo was not at his best. But even with the immobility of his face, he matched John in silent, eloquent hostility.

“My employee,” Charles added. “Angelo, this is Mr. Borchard.”

“That pipe, it does not leak now,” Angelo said, his eyes still on John.

“Which pipe?” Charles said.

“In the sink upstairs,” Dorothy said. “I noticed it this morning and I asked Angelo to look at it.”

“Then thank you, Angelo,” Charles said. “And, John, thank you again for stopping in. It was very interesting.”

“My pleasure,” John said, but all his face was still broadcasting his opinion of Angelo.

“That man,” Angelo said, staring now at the door.

“Yes?”

“He came out from the building.”

“Oh—the auction last week? I suppose that makes sense.”

Angelo shrugged. “Do you want that I should go to a place on the list?”

“Yes. I guess you should just start picking them yourself.”

Angelo’s exit was his answer.

Dorothy was behind Charles as he ascended to the office.

“And what did you talk about with Mr. Borchard?” she asked.

“Books.” Charles dropped into his chair and turned to stare out the window. “How would you describe his demeanor when he first came in?”

“He would have failed my theater class in college.”

“What a good way to put it!” Charles spun his chair back toward her and laughed. “I’ve seldom seen such bad acting. He gave up on it once we got downstairs. He was too preoccupied with Derek’s books.”

“Does he know about Derek’s papers?”

“I would put it at one hundred percent. He tried to ask if I did without admitting that he did. It was awkward.”

“Did you tell him that you did?”

“No. I decided not to. But besides the papers, he also knows something about Derek’s books.”

“The John Locke?”

“Something. That’s why he was here.”

“Then what are you going to do? You’re going to have to do something if he knows you have those papers. He’ll do something first.”

“For the moment, I will escape,” Charles said. “I will go to the basement and call Jacob.”

AFTERNOON

The
Odyssey
was open on the basement desk. Charles drummed his fingers beside it. He picked up the telephone.

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

“Yes, Mr. Beale. I believe he’s right here.”

Charles prepared himself.

“Charles? What do you want?”

“The benefit of your immense experience and wisdom, Jacob.”

“That’s what everybody wants. Everybody thinks they know everything. Then when they get stuck, they call me.”

“I have a question, and I am stuck. And besides, I call mainly as a favor to your staff, to keep you busy so they can have a few minutes of peace to get anything done. Anyway, I have a book, and it’s a little odd.”

“Odd, you say?” His voice changed. “Those are the ones that are worth anything.”

“This is an
Odyssey
, the Pope translation, and it looks like it’s about 1830, nice leather—”

“Wait a minute, you.” Jacob’s volume went up a notch. “That was the one in Denver?”

“That’s right.”

“You got that? Whippersnapper! I put a bid on that.”

“How much?”

“Eight hundred dollars.”

“Then you were quite outclassed. I got it for almost eighteen. There were more than just you and I bidding.”

“What’s it like? The picture wasn’t worth anything.”

“The title page is cut out. There’s a volume title page. No half title.”

“You think it’s a part of a set?”

“I wonder if it’s a private printing.”

“Then you wasted your money. It won’t be worth a thing except for the leather and the age. Wait, you don’t know who owned it, do you?”

“I don’t know. I wonder if that was on the true title page.”

“It’s been cut out, you say? That might be, Charles. That might be. They were broken that way, back in the twenties and thirties.”

“It’s only one page.”

“But that was the fashion, about 1920 to 1935. People wanted that title page, nothing else out of it. Happened to a lot of books, mainly in England. And especially if the title page had something special about it. Have you collated the whole book?”

“I’ve been through every page, but I don’t have anything to compare it to. What do you know about early nineteenth century private collection printings?”

“There were the cheap ones then like they make now—all the popular classics in matching volumes by subscription.”

“No, it’s not one of those. The leather is very nice.” He paused for effect. “And Jacob, it’s vellum.”

“Vellum?” The telephone shook in Charles’s hand. “Vellum? Are you sure?”

“I think I can tell.”

“I suppose even you could,” Jacob said. “So, 1830s and vellum?”

“Have you ever seen anything like that?”

“Only once. Twenty years ago. It was an 1820 Gibbon, in four volumes, and it was printed for the Duke of Wellington.”

“Do you remember the publisher?”

“Padding and Brewster.”

“What about the title page?” Charles asked.

“Besides the city and date, there was the Duke’s name, the name of the collection, then the name of the volume.”