According to Their Deeds (22 page)

“No. It’s not any printing I know of. Get that Barlow, will you? Thank you.”

Morgan laid a heavy, modern book on the desk, modern at least compared to the other books in the room. Charles opened it with as much respect.

“Alexander Pope.” He found the page. “Two dozen editions before 1850.” He turned the pages of the
Odyssey
back to the first printed page. “I’ll say 1830s.”

“What about the signature?”

“Right.” He turned back another page to the inside of the front cover. “That is supposed to be an
A
?”

“And that’s the
P
,” Morgan said.

“It isn’t even two words. It’s just one word. Even dead, I think Pope would have signed more clearly than that.” He turned back to the first printed page. “Look. At the very inside edge. See?”

“It looks like . . .”

“Yes.” Charles closed the book and looked at it from the top. “Yes. You can see here. There was another page, and it’s been removed. You can see just the sliver that was left.”

“That would have been the real title page?”

Charles had the book open. “It’s been cut out.”

“So it was the half title.”

Charles was staring very hard. “I’m not sure. There’s something about it.”

Morgan waited. Charles looked up at the shelves. All four walls of shelves looked back. The shades varied, but they were all brooding hues of brown. The shelves were divided every three feet by vertical braces, and every section was numbered. Some sections were filled; many had spaces. Ceramic blocks held the books upright where the shelf wasn’t filled.

“Get . . . um . . . there, over there, those three. Above the Grotes. The red ones. All three.”

Morgan carried them to the desk. Charles opened the first.

“A Jane Austen set from 1820-something, isn’t it? Yes, 1828. Now, see, the set title page. It has all the standard title page information, but it’s the same for each volume except for the one line of the volume title. Then, the next page is the volume title page. Just like in our
Odyssey
.”

“So this
Odyssey
is part of a set,” Morgan said. “Is that good?”

“Well . . . yes and no. If we knew anything about the set, and then if we could actually locate any other volumes, that would be very good. But we don’t, so we probably couldn’t, so it wouldn’t. And the missing main title page is very damaging.”

“Was it broken out?”

“Yes, to be framed. I’m sure it was. It’s probably on someone’s wall right now, or more likely in a box in someone else’s attic.”

“What will we do with this?”

“We could put it in the catalog and on the website, but just as it is—it’s probably not worth more than eight hundred, and that’s just because of its age and the quality of its materials. I wonder who was bidding it up to seventeen hundred.”

“It was another dealer.”

“Just taking a chance, like I was. And maybe I was the loser. Well . . . let me look at it for a while before I decide what to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Maybe I’ll read it. I don’t know if the Pope translation is even in print anymore. And this is a very nice volume.” He turned away from the book. “What are you up to these days, Morgan?”

“Actually, sir, I’ve been looking through the inventory. I have a list to order.”

“Anything special?”

“It’s mostly replacements. I’ll find them wherever I can. Briary Roberts has a lot of them.”

“Anything expensive? We won’t replace the Melville, of course.”

“There is a nice Dante I found for about twelve thousand. Longfellow, eighteen sixty-seven. It’s on one of the private auction sites.”

“Eighteen sixty-seven? A first-edition Longfellow? That would be nice. I’ll look at it.”

“Mr. Beale?” Alice called down from above. “You have a telephone call. Mr. John Borchard.”

“Hello, John, this is Charles Beale.”

“Charles! I’m starting to feel like an old friend, calling you so often.”

“I’m feeling the same way.”

“Good. I think I’ve worked out a space in my schedule for tomorrow morning. I want to stop in and see you.”

“Tomorrow morning would be fine.”

“Wonderful! I’ll look forward to it. Tomorrow morning then?”

“Yes, John, tomorrow morning.”

“What time do you open?”

“Ten o’clock. But I’ll be here earlier.”

“Oh, no, I’m sure you’d be busy. Would ten-thirty be convenient?”

“That would be fine.”

“Then tomorrow morning, at ten-thirty.”

“Tomorrow morning at ten-thirty.”

“Is that a customer?” Morgan asked as Charles set the telephone down.

“No, an old friend.”

“He’s coming by the store?”

“Yes. I think he might come tomorrow morning. Maybe around ten-thirty.”

Evening

“Good evening, ladies,” Charles said, coming up from the basement. Alice and Dorothy were together at the counter.

“Are you ready?” Dorothy asked.

“Yes. I could walk out the door this instant. Are we going home for dinner?”

“I was going to get some fish out of the freezer.”

Charles considered. “I don’t know. After reading
Moby-Dick
all morning yesterday, I don’t know if I’m in the mood for fish.”

“I’m open to suggestions,” Dorothy said.

“Have we sold anything this afternoon?” Charles asked Alice.

“Quite a few books, Mr. Beale. There was a Kipling,
Captains Courageous
.”

“No, no more fish.”

“A
Carry On, Mr. Bowditch
?”

“No.”

“Several Patrick O’Brians.”

“No!”

“A Jules Verne,
Twenty Thousand
—”

“No, no, no! Anything else?”

Alice smiled so sweetly. “And a Hemingway.”

“Don’t tell me,” Charles said.

“
Old Man and the Sea
.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, there was an F. Scott Fitzgerald,
The Great Gatsby.
”

“Ah,” Charles sighed. “That sounds like something we can work with.”

Between four wild lanes of mired Duke Street traffic and their table were a wide brick sidewalk, a wider plate glass window, and a mild jazz trio. Between the two of them were two knives, two forks, and one steak.

“John Borchard is coming to the store tomorrow morning,” Charles said during a pause in the music.

“I’ve heard so much about him,” Dorothy said.

“In quantity and quality. Besides that he was Derek’s boss, you’ve heard that he is harsh and cruel, that he put innocent people in prison in Kansas, that he blackmailed and ultimately destroyed Patrick White, and that he killed Derek. That’s quite a tale.”

“It does predispose me against him.”

“He is also charming, jolly, thoughtful and very important.”

“I’ll keep an open mind. What do you think about him?”

“I’m trying to stay open myself,” Charles said. “He is something between Derek’s victim and his co-conspirator.”

“Why is he coming?”

“To find out what I know, if anything, about Derek, including why I’ve put myself in the middle of his tussle with Karen Liu and Patrick White.”

“Would he know about Derek’s papers?”

“At this point, I’d put it at seventy percent that he does.”

“Does he know you have them?”

“I give it forty percent that he at least suspects.”

“What will you tell him?” Dorothy asked.

The jazz group fired up.

“I will play that by ear.”

Did any of our philosophers play chess, Charles?”

“Chess? Why, I have no idea, Derek. What an interesting question.”

“What would you guess?”

“Voltaire, if any of them. Hamilton might have.”

“I picture most of them hunched over their writing desks scrawling by candlelight. Not gregarious or social.”

“Nor cunning, either, Derek.”

“You aren’t cunning, Charles, are you? And you play chess quite well.”

“I’m gregarious.”

“What about Burke? Would he have played?”

“He might have been cunning, Derek. For the power he wielded in Parliament, he must have been. It wasn’t all fiery speeches.”

“The deals were struck at the gaming tables.”

“So he played cards, not chess.”

“I think I agree, Charles. Chess is pure intellect. Politics is much closer to gambling. Do you play any card games?”

“They’ve never appealed to me.”

“Perhaps we should try. I think you’d be good at it.”

“I’d have to learn any you’d suggest, Derek.”

“I think I’ll get a deck of cards.”

THURSDAY

MORNING

Charles looked out the window from his desk. On the sidewalk below, across the street, John Borchard stood waiting.

The clock said 10:25.

“Should I invite him in?”

“Of course,” Dorothy said, coming to look. “We’re open. Why is he waiting?”

“Because he said 10:30.”

“But that’s ridiculous.”

“A Deputy Assistant Attorney General isn’t ridiculous,” Charles said. “Well, maybe he is. But he isn’t supposed to be.”

John Borchard pulled a pocket watch from his suit vest, frowned, and returned it to its pocket.

“Now that is impressive,” Charles said. “Did you see how he did that? It takes practice to do it with just the right pomposity.”

“But why is he waiting?” Dorothy asked again.

Charles shook his head. “Because he’s nervous.”

“About what?”

“That’s the question. I’ll go down to be there when he comes in.”

“Should I come?”

“In a few minutes. When you’re ready.”

“Have we sold anything yet this morning?” Charles asked. He and Alice were still alone. The clock said 10:29.

“There was a lady in to buy a book for her grandson,” Alice said.

Charles had his hand on the doorknob. The seconds ticked down.

Ten thirty. He opened the front door.

Mr. Borchard was six inches from it, his face down, staring at his watch on its chain. He looked up and an immense grin spread across his large face.

“Charles!”

“John. Come in.”

John Borchard stuffed the watch back into his vest, took a vast breath, and stepped over the threshold. The room was suddenly filled.

He moved to his proper place in its center.

“This is Alice,” Charles said. “Mr. Borchard.”

“Oh! So good to meet you!” He shook her hand with both of his in a full body greeting, and then he returned his stare to the room itself.

“Absolutely amazing!”

He seemed absolutely lost in his amazement. His grin had been replaced by the pure fascination of a child in a wonderland.

Charles stepped back to the counter to be out of his way.

“What did the lady buy this morning?” Charles asked Alice.

“A
Peter Pan
.”

For a moment the only sound was the ticking of John’s pocket watch. Then he regained his speech.

“It is amazing. Charles, it’s everything I thought it would be.”

“It is just my humble shop.”

“Hardly humble! It’s impressive, quite impressive! Please, show me around.”

“This is the showroom. Children’s books—sports and hobbies—mysteries—general fiction—general nonfiction—and so on.”

“But . . .” John moved to a shelf, wrinkles of doubt rippling across his forehead. “But they’re special, aren’t they?” He looked closer.

“These are all first editions or rare editions or signed copies. Yes, they are special.”

“I see.” He removed a
The Cat in the Hat
and gravely inspected it. He handed the book to Charles and looked again at the shelves.

Charles waited as Neverland slowly lost its magic.

“But surely, there is more?” John said.

“The older books?” Charles ventured.

“Yes! Yes, that’s it! Exactly! I’d imagined older books. The ones that Derek would have bought.”

Charles nodded. “Those are downstairs.”

“Downstairs.” The eyebrows raised in complicit understanding. “Downstairs! Of course. Of course they would be.” And then, hoping against hope, “I wonder if I could see them?”

“Of course, John.”

The eyebrows collapsed in gratitude.

“Thank you!” He beamed like the sun.

But a new moon had risen from above, and the center of the solar system was put in its shadow.

“John, this is my wife, Dorothy.”

“Dorothy.” It was profoundly stated, as if it revealed all truth.

“Mr. Borchard,” she said. And she smiled, more gracious than truth. “Charles has told me so much about you.”

His return smile made up in quantity what it lacked in quality. “And he’s mentioned you as well.” He took her hand and almost seemed to kiss it, but in fact only very gently and momentarily held it, and then released. “What an honor.”

“We were just going downstairs,” Charles said.

“Go ahead,” Dorothy said. “I just need to talk with Alice.”

John tore his attention from Dorothy and turned to follow Charles. “Here we are,” Charles said, unlocking the basement door and turning on the light.

John Borchard stared and blinked and stared again. “Incredible!” For a moment he was truly amazed. He walked slowly along the wall, studying each shelf. “What treasures!”

“This is more what you imagined?”

“Yes, quite.” John took a breath. He had still not recovered his bluster. “May I look at one?”

“Here.” Charles gave him white gloves from the desk, and then a volume from the shelf.

John peered closely to make out the title. “
Gulliver’s Travels
. It is incredible! Is this a first edition?”

“No. That is a 1780 printing. If I had a first edition, it would be in a bank vault.”

“This is quite a vault itself. Who would think, just walking past this old house, what treasures it has hidden!”

“Well, perhaps anyone who looked at the sign that says
Rare Books
.”

“Well, perhaps! Absolutely. May I look inside?”

Charles carefully opened the book. “Some dealers don’t touch them, but I hate to think of a book never opened. If it’s in good condition like this, it won’t hurt it.”

John moved his finger across the page. “Absolutely amazing! And how much would this book be worth?”