According to Their Deeds (18 page)

“Not necessarily,” Dorothy said. “It’s Patrick White.”

“Then let’s go up to say hello.”

“Mr. White.”

“Hello.”

There was nothing eerie about him in the noon sunlight. The fever brightness in the eyes was veiled and the voice calm.

“I’m so glad to see you again,” Charles said.

“You suggested lunch,” Mr. White said.

“Lunch? Oh, yes. Of course. I’d be glad to.”

“Let’s go.”

“Well—of course—I’ll be right with you. Just a moment.” He turned to Dorothy. “I’ll be out for lunch.”

“And perhaps we would do coffee afterwards?”

“Surely,” he said.

Charles moved to the door, but Mr. White was suddenly not in a hurry.

“Did you have any place in mind?” Charles asked. The man did not budge.

“No.”

Charles waited. “Is there anything you’d like to look at first?”

“No.” Whatever he was looking at, it was not in the room. But then he snapped into the moment. “You pick someplace.”

“Just down the street,” Charles said, and Patrick White passed through the door with him.

Ten minutes later Mr. White spoke again, his first words since they had left the bookshop.

“Ham sandwich and coffee.”

“Yes, sir,” the waitress answered, and departed.

“What did you really know about Derek Bastien?” Patrick White said to Charles, and the conversation lurched to life.

“Well,” Charles said. “I knew what his job was and I knew what his home was like and I knew what he liked to talk about.”

“What do you know about blackmail?”

“Blackmail? Not very much, Mr. White! And I don’t want to know more.”

“It doesn’t matter what you want.” The tone did not match the words. Mr. White was apparently talking to himself. “It happens whether you want it to or not.”

“What does that have to do with Derek?” Charles asked.

“You met John Borchard?”

“Well, yes, I did,” Charles said, re-orienting. “Mr. White, I feel like this conversation is rather one-sided.”

“I want to know where you are in this.”

“I don’t know where I am, and I don’t know what
this
is. Perhaps you could enlighten me?”

Mr. White was again not with him. Several minutes came and went; the food came and Charles’s went. The ham sandwich was not touched. Charles waited patiently.

Several tables cleared as the lunch crowd thinned. Charles watched passersby through the window. He shook off the waitress when she offered dessert. A group of motorcycles roared by on the street.

“Borchard killed Derek Bastien,” Patrick White said.

“John Borchard?” It was fortunate that Charles was finished eating.

“It was blackmail.”

“I don’t understand at all.”

“Borchard killed Derek over his blackmail.”

“Blackmailing whom?”

“Me. Why don’t you understand? He threatened me. And when I didn’t do what he wanted, he told the
Post
, just like he said he would.”

“He told them about you—about the law school?”

“He told them where to find the transcript of the honor court that found me guilty.”

Charles had to take a breath. “Were you guilty?”

“Does it matter?”

“Well, wouldn’t it?”

“It didn’t. Okay, yes, I cheated. So I failed the class and I was on probation and I started over. And it
was
over. But what does a newspaper care? They came after me like I was a war criminal. There was no way to fight back.”

“I see.”

“But I did fight back. Even if I was ruined, I could still get my revenge. But then John Borchard killed Derek.”

“Because he was blackmailing you?” Charles said.

“So now you understand.”

Charles nodded, relieved. “I think I do. But why would John Borchard kill Derek for blackmailing you?”

Patrick White had frozen again, but this time his focus was straight on Charles and the thaw was quick.

“What do you mean?”

Charles said it again. “If Derek was blackmailing you, why would John Borchard kill him?”

A fierce light flashed in Mr. White’s eyes. They were deep-set and dark-rimmed in his haggard face.

“It was John Borchard who blackmailed me! John Borchard sent the papers to the
Washington Post
.”

Now it was Charles who had frozen. “John Borchard was the blackmailer?”

“Yes. Yes! Why don’t you understand?”

“I . . . I’m sorry . . . I just got mixed up who you were talking about.”

“Why do you think Derek Bastien was a blackmailer?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I was just confused. Please. Keep going. John Borchard had papers about you from your law school, and he threatened that he would expose you. And then he did. How was Derek involved?”

“I went to Derek for help. First, I went to get his help to stop Borchard. Then after Borchard told the newspaper, I went to Derek for help to get revenge. But Borchard found out and he killed Derek for talking to me.”

“Why was he blackmailing you?”

But Charles had to wait. Mr. White’s mental trips away from the physical world were becoming more frequent.

“Do you believe me?” was the answer when it came.

“I don’t know. How sure are you of all of this?”

“Oh, I’m sure. I’m absolutely sure.”

“John Borchard told you himself that he had this information and that he was going to use it?”

“He didn’t tell me himself. But he made it obvious it was him. We both knew.”

“All right, then. Did Derek know anything about it?”

“Not until I told him.”

“And how do you know John Borchard killed him?”

“Who else would have? That’s obvious, too.”

Charles tried another direction. “Have you told all this to the police?”

“Of course I have.”

“And they haven’t done anything about it?”

“No. Nothing! Borchard’s got them in his pocket.”

“I see. So why are you telling me?”

This required another short trip away.

“Karen Liu said you knew Derek, and you were talking to people he knew. I thought maybe you knew something.”

“I didn’t know any of this that you’ve told me.”

“Watch out for Borchard. That’s the first thing,” Mr. White said, oblivious to Charles’s answer. “He’s dangerous. But he might trust you. So see what you can find out. Maybe he’ll let something slip.”

“Really, Mr. White. I don’t—”

“Derek Bastien was murdered. Somebody has to do something.” And then, suddenly the conversation ended. Patrick White stood and dropped two twenty-dollar bills on the table. “Be careful,” he said.

He left. Charles was left behind.

“Mr. Beale,” Alice said. “You’ll never guess what we sold while you were gone.”

Charles closed the front door behind him, a cloud of bewilderment still swirling around his head. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“
Moby-Dick
.”

He stopped in his tracks and the cloud vanished. “The first edition? From downstairs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who bought it?”

“One of our regular customers. Morgan has the order upstairs.”

Charles climbed up to the office. “Did Alice tell you?” Dorothy said.

“Yes! Who bought it?”

“The same man who bought
The Scarlet Letter
two years ago.”

“Oh—Abercrombie. In Arlington.”

“That’s it.”

“Does he want it delivered?”

“Yes. He paid by credit card.”

“Did we give him the regular discount?”

“Ten percent off twenty-seven thousand.”

“Moby-Dick.” Charles sank into his chair. “Oh my. He’s been here so long. Are you sure?”

“Yes, dear.” Dorothy smiled. “You look thoroughly befuddled.”

“I’ll go down to the basement and say goodbye.” The jubilant mood sank slowly beneath the waves. “Dorothy, I’ve just had lunch with Captain Ahab.”

“Patrick White?”

“I think he must be unbalanced. I hope he is.”

“You hope he is unbalanced?”

“Otherwise what he said would be true.”

“What did he say?” Dorothy caught his mood and began sinking with him.

“John Borchard is Moby-Dick.”

“John Borchard is what?”

“There is a superficial resemblance,” Charles said. “Dorothy, Patrick White is on a quest for revenge and Mr. Borchard is his target.”

“Revenge? For what?”

“In this case, Captain Ahab has lost his judicial career rather than his leg.”

“But . . .” Dorothy frowned. “But didn’t . . .” She frowned more. “Charles, you have to tell me what you’re talking about.”

“All right. I can do it. I’m just still regaining my own balance. Mr. White believes that it was John Borchard who exposed his law school scandal to the newspaper.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Mr. White did not elaborate. But beyond that, he says he went to Derek Bastien for help against John Borchard.”

“Did Derek ever tell you anything about him?”

“No. I’m sure he never mentioned Patrick Henry White to me. But, Dorothy, this is the culmination. Patrick White says that John Borchard killed Derek Bastien.”

She was momentarily speechless. “He said that?”

“Word for word. You look just like I must have.”

“Killed him!”

“Yes.”

She got her mouth closed, then opened it again. “Did he?”

“At this point, dear, I’m inclined to doubt it.”

“I should hope so!”

“I would desperately hope he did not.”

She had recovered. “And who are you that Mr. White would tell you all of this?”

“Me? Call me Ishmael.”

“Hey, boss.”

Charles rubbed his forehead. “Someday, Angelo, I will have a heart attack.”

“You not feeling good, boss?”

“I’m fine. How did it go?”

“It was okay, that lady I didn’t see her in those places. You want I should look at the next place tomorrow?”

“You have a delivery in the morning,” Charles said. “A very important one. I’d do it myself, but I have another appointment. We can see if any of the places on the list are in the same area as your delivery.”

“Mr. Beale?” Alice’s voice from the stairs was panicked.

“Yes? I’m coming,” he said, and Angelo followed.

“There’s a man down here.”

“Now who?” Charles stood and moved quickly. He reached the showroom.

“Beale.”

“Mr. Jones,” he said, as that was who it was.

“Talk.”

The look in Galen Jones’s eye was of an altogether different ferocity than Patrick White’s.

Charles slid past the tall and centrally located Mr. Jones, and opened the front door. “We could step outside.”

He pushed through the door and stopped on the front sidewalk. “You said you talked to the FBI?”

“I’ve talked to Mr. Kelly,” Charles said. “I think I told you.”

“What did you tell them about me?”

“About you? Nothing. I hadn’t even met you.”

“Nothing?”

“I never said your name or anything about you.”

Mr. Jones searched the sidewalk for listeners. “So have you talked to anybody about me?”

“No. Well—Norman Highberg, and that was also before I’d met you. And my wife. What’s wrong?”

“Kelly, the FBI, he came by my house this morning. He asked me about the desk. Just like you. Except he also wanted to know if anyone else was asking.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Then how—? Never mind.” Galen Jones was very frustrated. “Look, don’t ever say my name to anyone. Ever.”

“That’s a hard thing to promise. I will try not to say your name to anyone.”

“Then if you do, tell me.”

“I will. I think I can promise that. Did you tell Mr. Kelly I’d been asking about the desk?”

“No way. I don’t answer questions like that.”

“I think it would have been all right. He and I have discussed the desk.”

“My name, and that desk, those don’t go together for anybody, okay? And I want to know how he ever got them together.”

“Maybe from Norman. Norman told me that he’d recommended you to Derek. That’s how I found you.”

Mr. Jones paused. “Maybe. Yeah, that’s it. But you’re up to something, Beale, and you better be real careful.”

“I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

“As if anyone ever knew what that was.”

And that was all. Charles watched as Galen Jones’s long legs carried him swiftly away.

“Who was that?” Dorothy asked.

“Galen Jones. The matchmaker. Don’t tell anyone about him. I just promised we wouldn’t.” He dropped into his chair. “Mr. Kelly from the FBI was asking him about the desk.”

“So he does have some connection with it?”

“He didn’t say that. It’s more a question of why Mr. Kelly thinks he does.” He rubbed his eyes. “Dorothy, I am now officially very worried about what is going on.”

“Only now?”

“Only now officially and very. Who wanted so much to buy it? Two people were willing to pay a hundred thousand dollars for it.” And then he took a deep, slow breath. “And no one special tried to buy the books.”

“Who else would want the books?”

“John Borchard and Karen Liu, if they’d known what was in them.”

“Maybe someone thought the papers were in the desk,” Dorothy said.

“Exactly, dear. Why didn’t we think of that before? That would mean that two people knew about the papers, and thought they were in the desk. But why would anyone try to buy the desk at this point? The drawers would all have been emptied.”

“What would have happened to everything in the desk?” Dorothy asked.

“I think I’ll call Lucy Bastien. Cloverdale. Whatever her name is.”

Dorothy watched. “What are you doing?”

“Breathing.”

“Why?”

“You don’t know?”

“Charles! I mean why are you just sitting there.”

“I just want to be calm.” He took one more breath. “All right. I’m calm.” He picked up the telephone.

“Mrs. Bastien. This is Charles Beale.”

“Mr. Beale. The used-book salesman.”

“That’s right.”

“Is that like a used-car salesman?”

“Pretty much the same thing.”

“It’s Cloverdale.”

“Of course, I’m terribly sorry. Mrs. Cloverdale.”

“That’s better. What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to ask you about Derek’s desk.”

“His desk? His desk?! What is it about this desk?”