According to Their Deeds (39 page)

There was one sign of life, a man in a hard hat coming out of what had been the doorway, and Charles hurried toward him.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m Charles Beale. I own the building. Are you inspecting it?”

“Yeah. Good morning. They said you want to get books out of the basement?”

“Yes, very quickly. May I get them?”

“Okay, look, Mr. Beale,” the man said. “This place isn’t safe. But how much did you say the books are worth?”

“About ten million dollars.”

He nodded. “I’m going to let you in. It’s not going to fall in today, I don’t think, but you’re doing this at your own risk. I’m giving you one day.”

“Thank you. I’ll go down now and look.”

He walked in and stopped. There could never have been anything like books in such a place. There were no shelves, no counter, nothing to make it a room. There was only black, enough to suck the light out of air. There was no ceiling. He looked straight up to where the office had been and it was only more of the same black, lightless space.

He walked down the stairs. The splintered door was the first thing visible, and he pushed it aside with his foot. The water was mostly gone. He turned his light onto the walls.

The books stared back at him and their thoughts were unknowable, whether it was relief or reproach or resignation. He took a volume from a shelf and gently opened it. The cover was strong and straight and the pages were dry.

Now, as they went on, Mr. Great-heart drew his sword, with intent to make a way for the pilgrims in spite of the lions. Then there appeared one that, it seems, had taken upon him to back the lions; and he said to the pilgrims’ guide, What is the cause of your coming hither? Now the name of that man was Grim, or Bloody-man because of his slaying of pilgrims; and he was of the race of the giants.

MR. GREAT-HEART: Then said the pilgrims’ guide, These women and children are going on pilgrimage, and this is the way they must go; and go it they shall, in spite of thee and the lions.

GRIM: This is not their way, neither shall they go therein. I am come forth to withstand them, and to that end will back the lions.

“Yes, Pilgrim,” Charles said. “Keep making your progress. I will fight for you all that I can.”

He stood for a very long time looking, at shelves, at books, at the room, and at the precious value of everything, everything at all.

“I’ve so enjoyed knowing all of you,” he said.

Slowly he climbed the stairs, back into the light.

Morgan was standing in the street, gape-mouthed, wide-eyed and blinking.

“Good morning,” Charles said.

“Oh.”

“Yes. It’s all right, Morgan. There’s a lot of work to do. The basement looks good. Everything’s down there.”

“What happened?”

“We’ll talk about it later. For now, we need to get the books out. Do you have boxes?”

“Some. Alice is getting everything.” Morgan blinked once more. “I should just start?”

“Yes, get started. Take them to my house, we’ll find room. I need to go out for a while.”

But he had only turned when a taxi blocked his way, and its door opened, and a walking stick jutted.

“Get me out,” a voice said, and Charles reached down and gently lifted. It didn’t take much force.

“Jacob,” he said. “We’ve had a bad accident, I’m afraid.”

“Bad accident? That’s nothing. I’ve seen plenty worse.”

“It’s bad enough.”

“You think you’re trying to get free advertising? It’s all over the television.”

“Oh. I haven’t been watching.”

“Of course not, there’s work to do. What’s left, anything?”

“The basement came through, Jacob. Everything’s still down there. Morgan has already started and Alice is coming.”

“Then it’s not bad at all. Just work, and I know you don’t mind that. Buck up, Charles.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much. I’m glad you’re here, Jacob. Would you like to go over to the house for the morning? When is your flight?”

“I cancelled it. I’m here to take care of your books, and someday you’ll learn how to yourself and keep your store from burning down. Stop there! Let me see!”

Morgan had just emerged with his first box and Jacob scuttled over to him.

“Leave the top off,” he commanded. “Let them dry. Not too many to a box. Now you’ll pack them special to let them dry. I’ll tell you how.”

“Oh, Mr. Beale!” Alice had arrived.

“Everything is fine,” he said. “We won’t sell much today, but everything’s fine.”

She burst into tears.

“Leave the boxes,” Charles said, “and go over to the house to see Dorothy. Everything will be fine. Come back and help when you’re ready.”

“Yes, sir,” she sniffed.

“And thank you so much,” he said. “For everything.” Her lip was too stiff to talk so she just nodded. “Morgan. Just keep working, slow and steady. Angelo could help, and Alice will too when she’s calmed down.”

“Will you be back soon?” Morgan asked.

“When I can. I need to take your little telephone.”

“Yes, sir. Here.”

“Thank you very much, Morgan. You’ve been such a help over the years.”

Morgan set the first box next to his car and went in for the second.

“Jacob,” Charles said. “I need to go out for a while. If you could just watch and help them pack.”

“What are you doing, Charles?” Jacob looked at him suspiciously.

“Just some business.”

“What business?”

“Doing what I know I have to do.”

Jacob searched him with a single glance.

“Then I’ll take care of this.”

Charles returned to his quick pace. He took a smart left onto King Street and crossed to Market Square. The crowds were thicker than the day before, with brisk-moving suited office workers squeezing between slow tourists. Most of the benches were empty and Charles picked a solitary one. He took Morgan’s telephone from his pocket, and a business card, and pushed the little buttons.

“Frank Kelly.”

“Mr. Kelly. This is Charles Beale.”

“Oh, hey. What can I do for you?”

“I need your help.”

“Sure. What?”

“Mr. Kelly, this is about Derek Bastien, and it’s a very long story. I just have one question, though. When we talked about Derek’s desk, you called it a Honaker.”

“Um, yeah. I think that’s right.”

“Who told you that it was?”

“Somebody. Let me think. Why do you want to know?”

“It’s part of the long story.”

“Go ahead,” Frank Kelly said. “I like stories.”

“Do you remember the auction where it was sold? Two people tried to buy it. One of them hired a man from New York as an agent. I’ve spoken to Edmund Cane, that agent, and he called the desk a Honaker, too.” The little telephone was awkward to hold, and Charles switched it to his other ear. “No one else so far has known that detail about the desk. Whoever told you might be the person who also told Mr. Cane. I need to find that person.”

“Okay, just a minute. I’m looking at my notes. So is it something to do with the burglary?”

“It might be.”

“Should you be talking to Harry Watts over in D.C. Homicide?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m not really sure.”

“Okay, here it is. Right after the burglary in November. Interview with Norman Highberg.”

“Norman,” Charles said. “You’re sure?”

“It’s right here. Okay, Mr. Beale, I feel like I need to know more about this long story.”

“Would you like to meet?” Charles said.

“I could come right over. Are you at your place?”

Charles sighed. “No. We had a fire last night.”

“A fire!? Oh, man, I hope it wasn’t bad. What happened?”

“It was very bad. The building was destroyed.”

The telephone gasped. “All the way? What? Everything?”

“The basement survived, where the rare books were. That was very fortunate.”

“So, wait. I mean . . .” Mr. Kelly struggled for words. “Was anybody hurt?”

“Yes. The man who set the fire was killed.”

“Oh, man! Oh, man. Right in the store? I don’t know what to say. Are you all right?”

“Yes, all of us are all right.”

“That’s such a great place! Oh, I’m really sorry.” And then Mr. Kelly’s investigative mind finally caught up. “Hey, what, is there something up? It doesn’t have anything to do with Bastien, does it?” A longer pause and a grimmer voice. “Where was your night guy?”

“He’s all right. He was there, but he’s all right.”

“Mr. Beale, we need to talk, and we need Watts in on this. Who’s covering it in Alexandria?”

“It’s a Detective Mondelli.”

“Okay, never heard of him, but we need him, too. Look, I’ve been getting some stuff up on your Acevedo guy, and I think I need to start moving.”

“Mr. Kelly,” Charles said. “There’s a lot more to say and many more questions. Could you meet me at Norman Highberg’s shop in Georgetown? I think we can find our answers there.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Give me a little while to get there,” Charles said.

Charles took his time. He walked the familiar length of King Street, looking in windows and watching people, but never stopping. He rode the escalator to the Metro platform with the usual dozens of other people and waited until the doors whooshed open. He chose a seat and watched Alexandria accelerate away.

The ride was uneventful. He took the Blue Line past the airport and under the Pentagon, through Arlington and finally under the river to Georgetown, a familiar and comfortable course, and very finally left the Metro behind beneath the Georgetown streets. And then he was on the streets, which were very busy and crowded. He walked the blocks he needed to, passing the storefronts and so many people. At one last door he paused, and walked in.

“Is Mr. Highberg here?”

“Charles.” Norman had his finger on his nose, pushing up his glasses. “You want to just move in here? You’ve been up here all the time. Don’t tell me you have more of your questions.”

“No, I don’t have questions.”

The little telephone in his pocket made a funny sound. When he looked, it showed his home telephone number. He closed it and it stopped ringing.

“So you’re just browsing?” Norman said. “Maybe now that you have that chess set, you might want to look at some other things.” When Charles didn’t answer, he said, “Are you waiting for something?”

“For someone.” But then they weren’t waiting, as Frank Kelly stood in the door. “Norman, you know Mr. Kelly, of the FBI?”

Norman squinted at the silhouette. “Yeah, sure. Hi. What do you want? Did something get stolen or did something get found? It’s always one of those, right?”

“Mr. Highberg,” Frank Kelly said. “Do you have a room we can talk in? Just us three.”

“I got all kinds of rooms. Come on up.”

He led them away from the light through the sparkling windows and all within that sparkled in the light, upstairs and through a dusty corridor and into a room. It was a stockroom with unpacked empty boxes and unopened full boxes and a bench and packing litter and chairs.

“So, what do you want?” Norman asked. “You don’t look happy, Charles. Usually you look a lot better.”

Charles looked at Mr. Kelly. “How shall we do this?”

“Okay, this isn’t very good,” Mr. Kelly said. “I’m not sure if I have jurisdiction or what, yet, or whether I need to get Harry Watts. Do this. I just won’t be here officially. You say what you know, and I’ll figure it out as we go along.”

“Well.” Charles rubbed his eyes; they were red and weary. “Mr. Kelly, I’ll tell you my story now, and you’ll see how the burglaries are part of it. I’m very tired and I’ll try to make it short.”

“What are you talking about?” Norman Highberg said.

“Just listen,” Frank Kelly answered.

“Derek Bastien was a blackmailer,” Charles said. “He kept papers on people he worked with. He manipulated these people with threats, and fooled them into thinking it was his boss, John Borchard, who was doing it.”

“Borchard?” Frank had his notebook out. “He’s the one—”

“Yes, he was the one this morning.”

“I read the police report after you called.”

Charles went on. “One of the people Derek was blackmailing was a judge, Patrick White.”

“White?” Frank put his notebook down. “He’s the one—”

“Yes, who died Tuesday. Do you know the rest of his story?”

“All the stuff in the newspaper. Yeah, I know.”

“Derek Bastien was the one who told the newspaper about him,” Charles said. “Mr. White was one of his victims.”

“What are you talking about?” Norman was acting very confused. “What is all this?”

“But Patrick White thought John Borchard was his tormentor, and he planned revenge.”

“Is that what the bomb thing was about?” Frank Kelly said.

“It was supposed to look that way,” Charles said. “But there was another blackmail victim. Someone who went to Mr. White and offered to help. But I think he only helped Mr. White die.”

“Keep going,” Frank Kelly said. “I think I’m following it.”

“I’m not!” Norman Highberg said. “What is this, anyway?”

Charles did keep going. “I think he also helped John Borchard die. John was desperate to get Derek’s papers. He bought Derek’s desk.”

“Borchard bought it.” Frank was writing furiously, but still intensely attentive. “The papers were in it?”

“In a hidden drawer, and they were still there. I saw them Tuesday. John showed them to me.”

“I get it,” Frank said. “Because someone else tried to buy the desk, too. That’s this other victim, right?”

“Yes. It has to be.”

“The one that you say, um, what? That he booby-trapped White’s bomb?”

“I guess that would be it,” Charles said.

“Okay, that would be tricky. And then Borchard?”

“They would have been there in the shop together. He made sure John Borchard didn’t get out after the fire was started. Maybe he was already dead.”

“What . . . what, what fire?” Norman was beside himself. “Somebody tell me what you’re telling me? What fire? And who’s dead? Where?”

Frank was shaking his head. “Do you have any clue that he wasn’t there by himself? The police report says he was.”

“I don’t think he was. He picked locks and turned off my alarm system and sprinklers. I don’t think John Borchard could have, but I think the man who broke into Derek’s house, and the other houses, could have.”