“You’re sounding biblical.”
Absently, he sipped his drink and looked deep into its swirls. “There’s a feel about this, Dorothy, and I don’t know what. Something deep and far-reaching. I want to not do anything wrong.”
“What could you do wrong?”
“I don’t know.” His eyes were on her now, looking deep. “But reading about that judge in the newspaper, I think about how easy it is to do something harmful.”
“I don’t see the connection.”
He smiled. “Never mind. I will just follow the wind and keep my eyes very open.”
“Don’t follow it too far.”
“It may lead to the Emerald City.”
“That’s the wrong metaphor, dear,” Dorothy said. “We are talking about the wind.”
“All right, then, it might lift your whole house up and carry it to another country.”
“If it gets that serious, you should talk to the police.”
“If you drop a farmhouse, you don’t know who it might land on. And you”-he pointed right at her-“should know that better than anyone.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. And Toto, too.” He looked at his watch. “I think if we linger a bit longer we can get back to the shop just in time to leave for the day.”
“ The Federalist Papers. Charles, what was it about that generation? Every one of them could write.”
“They had something to write about, perhaps.”
“Revolution. I said it made for good literature.”
“You don’t like revolutions, Derek.”
“All right. I admit they have their uses. But they’re uncontrollable once they’re started and they create terrible vacuums. It took Europe nearly twenty years to rid itself of Napoleon. It’s all about power, Charles. However it starts-even whatever ‘it’ is-it always ends in the hands of the ruthless and powerful.”
“Not always.”
“You’re referring to George Washington? He’s underrated. He understood power, and it did end up in his hands.”
“For the good of the country.”
“Remarkably. But, Charles, he is an example. He had great power, founded on his prestige and success, and used it to good.”
“And then gave it up.”
“When he had accomplished his purpose. I appreciate his example. Rule by power is necessary and it could be used to good purpose even today.”
“Are you a monarchist, Derek?”
“I guess we can’t go that far. But within my own small sphere, it is an example I find very useful.”
THURSDAY MORNING
“Mr. Beale?”
“Good morning, Morgan.”
“Good morning, sir.” His red hair was really too bright to be growing in a place so hidden from the sun. “I have an answer back from the person on eBay selling the Odyssey.”
“Yes, the hypothetical autographed first edition. What does he say?”
“He is moving and getting rid of stuff, and it was in a box.”
“So he found Attica in his attic. Does he know where the box came from?”
“It was his grandfather’s, who got it from an aunt in England as a present in the nineteen twenties, and she bought it for him at a bookstore.”
“That’s more than we usually get.”
“There’s a handwritten inscription to his grandfather inside the cover.”
“Oh. Oh, dear. That’s too bad. What about the title page?”
“Here’s a picture he took of it.”
Charles put his nose right up to the screen. “Hmm.”
“Does that tell you anything?”
“It’s not a proper title page.”
“What is it?” Morgan asked.
Charles shrugged. “Some kind of half title page. It does have the title: Homer’s Odyssey; Translated by Alexander Pope. But there’s no publisher or city or date. Why does he say it’s a first edition?”
“ ‘I believe it is a first edition because it is so old, and because the author signed it.’ End quote.”
“Of course.”
“This picture is the inside front cover, with the inscription to his grandfather and the author signature.”
“That?” A very faded smudge crawled along the top of the paper.
“I can make out sort of an A and sort of a P,” Morgan said.
“I’m sure the book is nineteenth century, so Pope would have been dead a hundred years or so.”
“Maybe that’s why his signature is so shaky.”
“Mine would be, too. Well, obviously it’s not a first edition of anything. It’s some other printing. Get the picture of the cover again.”
Morgan quickly did so.
“But it’s still interesting,” Charles said. “I haven’t seen anything just like that. It looks like very nice leather. How much longer on the auction?”
“Four and a half days. Until Monday afternoon.”
“And where is the bidding?”
“Four hundred.”
“Yes. The dealers all know it’s not specifically valuable, and they’re waiting.”
“What is it worth if it isn’t specifically valuable?”
“Three or four hundred, up to maybe fifteen if it’s sort of specific. But it all depends. I’d have to actually see the book.”
“You could fly to Denver. He wouldn’t mail it here while it’s under auction.”
Charles stared at the book on the screen. “Morgan, I’m on an odyssey of my own at the moment. So I think I’ll take a chance.”
“Yes, sir. How much of a chance?”
“Fifteen hundred. I’m young and idealistic. Or foolish, I don’t remember which. Make it two thousand.”
“Yes, sir.”
Charles watched the fingers flit. “It all still amazes me.”
“I could show you how to do this.”
“I know my limitations, Morgan.”
“It isn’t hard, sir.”
“I mean that I’m already not very disciplined. If I were to start poking around eBay and all those other places, I would never escape. I’ll just use my computer for email and leave the rest to you.”
He slid around the corner to the main office. “Is Angelo’s next probation meeting this Monday or the next Monday?”
Dorothy looked at her calendar. “A week from this Monday.”
“I would like for him to learn better manners in dealing with people.”
“I don’t think we could have him wait on customers.”
“No. I’ll have to think about it.”
The morning had progressed. Charles strolled down the stairs and wandered over to the front window to inspect a newly empty space on the shelf beside it. Outside the window a man on the sidewalk was inspecting the front of the building.
A brown tweed jacket draped the man’s broad shoulders, and a fedora shaded his strong jaw and heavy forehead. He straightened his tie and strode up the steps.
The door opened. Charles still had his eye on the vacancy.
“Good morning,” the man said, coming to a stop at the counter.
“Good morning,” Alice said, accommodating as a traffic light turning green.
The conversation slowly accelerated. “Nice place you got here.”
“Thank you, sir. May I help you with anything?”
“I’m actually looking for the owner.”
Charles turned and merged in. “That would be me.”
Blue eyes beneath the hat brim smiled. “Then that would make you Charles Beale. I’m Frank Kelly. How do you do, Mr. Beale?”
“I’m quite well, thank you, Mr. Kelly.”
“Glad to hear it. I’m… um…” The blue eyes had focused on the wall behind Charles. “Well look at that!” He leaned closer to the shelves, and Charles moved aside. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” Mr. Kelly stared at the books, his eyes darting side to side, up and down. Then he gingerly put his hand to one and slid it out.
Charles waited attentively. Mr. Kelly’s square jaw slipped slowly ajar; his broad forehead wrinkled.
“This is real Raymond Chandler?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Golly. First edition?”
“That one is.”
“Well, get a load of that.” He turned his intense blue stare back to Charles, and then to the shelves. “Are all of these-?”
“Not all first editions.”
“Okay.” He replaced the Chandler and pulled out a Ross Mac-Donald. “You know, I’ve seen these on the Internet. But I never really looked at one.”