According to Their Deeds (3 page)

“I know when I’m not wanted. I’ll leave if that’s how it is.” He narrowed his eyes. “The Locke, I’d have liked to look at that one. Is it as nice as you said it is?”

“It is, Jacob. Nothing special—I know you’ve seen better ones. But it’s nice.”

Jacob’s scowl lightened a little. “I like looking at them. Do you have the books here?”

“No. I had a courier bring them.”

“A courier? Why would you do that for?”

“Just common caution. Shall I call you a taxi?”

“I have one waiting outside. Did you say twenty-five?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Thirty-five!” Whack. “Mocking an old man. I’ll leave. I have to go.”

Charles held open the door. “Then have a nice flight.”

“No such thing.” He started slowly and painfully down the first step, and then froze. “What’s that?! Don’t touch me!” He lifted his cane.

Angelo was four feet from him, also stopped, his eyes slits and his white teeth showing.

“Jacob––—” Charles started.

“Street gangs!” Jacob yelped. “Here at your door! That’s why you use a courier!”

“Jacob,” Charles said. “This is Angelo Acevedo. He is my courier.”

Angelo was silent.

“Just take the box in,” Charles said.

Jacob shrank back as Angelo passed. “You let him touch your books?”

“I do,” Charles said. “And it’s fine. Let me help you to your taxi.”

“Bah! I’ll make it myself.”

“Take care, Jacob.”

“You too, Charles.” Once Jacob was launched he moved quickly. The cab door was opened for him, the cab driver was scolded, and the cab drove away.

Charles closed the door and took a deep breath. “Angelo. Everything went okay?”

“Except that old crazy man.”

“That’s Mr. Leatherman, and he’s actually very nice, just prickly.”

Angelo frowned. “What is prickly?”

“Like a cactus.”

“Like a little dog to bite at you.”

“He doesn’t bite, he just barks. But never mind. You took a long time.”

“I came a different way from you, or why should I even carry the box instead of you?”

“You’re right.”

Angelo held out his hands. “So, boss, here is your box.”

“Thank you.” He took it, respectfully. “Go check with Mrs. Beale. I think she has a delivery for you to do this afternoon.”

“Okay.”

“And Angelo . . .”

He turned back from the steps and waited.

“Do you remember the delivery we made together, last November, and the man had the chess set on his desk, and he talked to you in Spanish?”

“I remember that house and that man.”

“That is the man who died. These are his books that I bought back today.”

“Oh, that man?” He shrugged. “That’s too bad.”

“It is too bad. That book we took him, it’s here in this box.”

Angelo glanced at the box with no greater interest than before, and then turned to his next task.

“I’ll be in the basement,” Charles said to Alice.

But he was interrupted. “Mr. Beale?”

Charles had just started for the basement.

“Yes, Morgan?”

As Angelo had ascended, Morgan had descended. He sat on a step halfway down. “There’s a first edition
Odyssey
that just came up on eBay.”

“Which translation?”

Morgan had stopped too high and he had to lean forward to see into the showroom. He bumped down one step, and all his pale face and red hair floated into view. “Alexander Pope.”

“A 1725 Pope first edition?” Charles snorted. “I doubt it!”

“The listing says first edition. And it says it’s signed by the author.”

“The translator, you mean.”

“It says the author.”

Charles paused. “The
Odyssey
, signed by the author. That would certainly answer the question of whether it was written or oral. I suppose I should come and see.”

“Do you think it could be anything you’d want?”

Charles squinted at the picture on Morgan’s computer. “Not much of a picture.”

“It’s not a dealer,” Morgan said. “Just an individual.”

“Send an email. I want to know the usual—the publisher and city, number of pages, and the date. And I want a picture of the title page, and see if he’ll tell us where he got it.”

“How much would it be worth?”

“A 1725 Pope first edition? Even in poor condition, at least thirty thousand. But that’s nothing like a first edition. I’d say it was nineteenth century. How long is the auction?”

“One week. It just started this afternoon.”

“Keep an eye on it. We’ll see how high it goes. I might decide to bid once we hear back from the seller.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Morgan.”

Charles stopped at the door to his office.

“Was Jacob all right?” Dorothy asked.

“Yes. Just being sociable. Have you ever read Homer’s
Odyssey
?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember which translation?”

“No. It was in college.” She noticed the box in his hands. “And that is the books?”

“This is Derek’s books,” he said. “Yes. I’m taking them to the basement right now to work on them.” He looked at the box in his hand. “Or maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“There might be Greeks hidden inside.”

“That was the
Aeneid
, and that box is not a horse, and they would have to be very small Greeks.”

“The Trojans didn’t think they were in any danger either.”

AFTERNOON

Down, down, down. He unlocked the door at the bottom and turned on the light.

The building was as old as most of the books, which was fitting. The basement had served many purposes; framed photographs in a corner showed what the renovation had uncovered. The floor had been bare earth for the first half century or so, and then quarters for two slaves, and then for two servants after the Civil War. Then it had been storage and children’s rooms and disuse alternating over more years until it had finally become what it now was.

Now the walls were filled with shelves, and the shelves were filled with volumes, and the volumes were filled with . . . everything. They rested in their ordered ranks, contemplating the deepest and widest thoughts man had accumulated since contemplation had begun.

The floor, walls, and ceiling were thick and fireproof. The dry, cool air was thick with their philosophies, histories and literatures. It was a very safe place for books.

A few very valuable volumes were in the bank safe deposit, and the lesser items were in the display room upstairs, but this was always the foundation and the heart.

Charles set the box on the desk and turned on the computer.

Then he opened the cardboard box and lifted out the first package, wrapped in crisp brown paper. The paper fell open as he cut the tape.

He opened a drawer and took white gloves, thin clean cotton, to put on, and then he touched the book.

The boards and spine were the brown of soil walked on and worn hard and flat. The lettering was faint.

He lifted the volume and studied it. The spine was sturdy and the page edges were aligned, with none loose. He cradled it in one hand and opened the front board.

The Wealth of Nations
by Adam Smith.

A two-inch square of light green paper slid off the first page.
Alexandria Rare Books
was printed on it, with the numbers 7273 2002 handwritten below.

He closed the book, turned it over, and opened the back board. Then he closed it again, turned it vertical, and opened to the center and then to a few other pages, efficiently and carefully, inspecting it at every angle.

Finally he set it back on its wrapping paper and turned to the computer. He typed 7273, read through the book’s history on the screen, and then started typing: Purchased at auction 4/21/08, Derek Bastien Estate. Condition unchanged, very good. Price—

He paused and wrote the name of the book on a scrap of the brown paper. He wrote $3,100 beside it, and then typed that number onto the screen. He carried the book to a shelf and moved a ceramic block to make a space.

He typed 235 into the Location field on-screen.

Then he stared again at the brown paper, and paused.

“. . . eleven . . . twelve . . . thirteen . . .” And he frowned.

But then he shrugged and started on the next package.

“Mr. Beale?”

“Yes?” He had four books and four prices listed on the brown paper. Two glass jars and a few small brushes were beside the book he was just closing.

Morgan had marched down the steps. “I’m getting the Anthony Trollope for Angelo to deliver.”

“Do you need the computer?”

“For just a minute. And I think Alice was just answering a phone call for you.”

“Mr. Beale?” Alice’s voice marched down the steps. “There’s a call for you, Mr. Edmund Cane.”

Charles slid his book into its new space and picked up the phone.

“Charles Beale.”

“Good afternoon.” A slow, deliberate voice. “My name is Edmund Cane.”

“Yes, Mr. Cane? What can I do for you?”

“I understand you were at the Bastien auction this morning?” Every syllable was a distinct word.

“Yes, I was.”

“You were present during the sale of the Honaker pedestal desk?”

“Derek Bastien’s desk? I was.”

“Perhaps you saw the young woman who purchased the desk?”

“Mr. Cane,” Charles said. “I hope I’m not being impertinent. By any chance, do you happen to have white hair and a dark gray mustache?”

The phone was silent as Einstein contemplated an equation or two. “Yes, I do. I see you remember me.”

“I certainly do, Mr. Cane. It was very dramatic.”

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted the desk?”

“Well, you did,” Charles said.

Time passed slowly, at least at Charles’s end of the phone. Morgan slipped the green label in the front of the Trollope and started wrapping it in brown paper. “Anyone else?” Mr. Cane finally said.

“I am sorry. You might try Norman Highberg. He has a showroom in Georgetown, and he knows the general antiques market much better than I. I only do books.”

“Actually, your name was among those given me by Mr. Highberg.”

“Hey boss, do you have the box for me?”

They both turned toward the door. In dark pants, dark shirt and dark tie, Angelo was transformed.

“Yes,” Charles said. “You’re always quiet coming into a room.”

“Everything is so always quiet here.” There was no transformation of his voice, or his eyes.

“Mr. Cane?” Charles said into the telephone. “I’m sorry, I’ll be just a moment.”

Morgan sealed the cardboard package. “I’m done.” He handed it to Angelo.

“Be very nice to the customer when you see him,” Charles said.

“Oh, I am always nice.”

“Do they think that you’re being nice?”

“I don’t know what they think.”

“I should ask them. You have the receipt for them to sign?”

“I have that.”

“Then we’ll see you when you get back. Thank you, Angelo.”

“Yes, boss.” And then he was gone.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said again to the telephone. “Is there anything else I can do to help you?”

“I would like to identify the young woman who bid against me. Do you know anything about her?”

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“You have never seen her before?”

“Not that I remember.”

“How unfortunate.”

“Actually, Mr. Cane, I did just think of something. I don’t think it would be much use. But an employee of mine was waiting outside the building. He might have seen her leave.”

“Could you ask him?”

“He just left for the afternoon. I’ll ask him this evening. But I doubt it would be much help.”

“That could be a great help.”

“I guess it’s all relative,” Charles said.

“Good day, Mr. Beale.”

“Good day, Mr. Cane.”

Morgan was looking at the books on the desk. “Those are the Derek Bastien books?”

“Yes. It doesn’t look like they’ve been touched since we sold them. They all still have their green labels in them.”

Morgan picked up one of the glass jars. “Was something loose?”

“Not particularly. The Gibbon had a little spot on the spine. I remember gluing it back when Derek first bought it, but it must not have dried all the way.”

“There are fourteen of them?”

“No, thirteen.”

“Maybe the computer’s wrong. Should I put them on the website?”

“Not yet. I’ll tell you when. I think they need a little rest first.”

The room was silent again. The invaders had all been repulsed.

Charles took the next book, the fifth, out of the box.

They were all books of law, government and human rights, by John Locke, Edmund Burke, Adam Smith, John Adams, David Hume; Rousseau, Voltaire, Montesquieu, de Tocqueville and more; man’s nature and man’s hopes of overcoming it, or at least containing it.

He held the wrapped book, staring at it. He slowly raised and lowered it, feeling its weight.

His eyes darkened and his brow lowered in anger.

He removed the paper, very slowly.

It was John Locke,
An Essay Concerning Human Understanding
. The first page was as it should have been, but there was no green paper square. The back cover was normal.

Even as he held it, though, his fingers tensed. He stopped until they had relaxed and he was ready.

Reluctantly, he put his finger against the pages. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. He opened the volume near the middle.

“No!”

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, it was still the same.

“Alice?” he called up the stairs, when he could, trying to sound normal. “Could you ask Mrs. Beale to come down here, please?”

“Look,” he demanded, even as she was still in the doorway.

It was still on the desk where he’d set it. Defiled.

“What is it, Charles?” Her voice was the stillness that smoothed the waves, and her presence was the water’s depths untouched by the storms above.

He touched it. “The pages are cut.”

She came close, and she saw it, and his shock and grief was mirrored in her eyes. He waited for her to pass through the sorrow, as he had.

“What is that?”

He touched it, nestled in the hollow space, just a plain box of playing cards. The book had been hollowed for it.