“Mr. Beale,” Mr. Prescott said. “I do see that sale for 1925. I’ll need to do more research to find anything about that book.”
“The particular things I’m interested in,” Charles said, “are first, if this book was indeed sold through that auction, and second, if any other books were bought at that auction, and even possibly by whom.”
“I may be able to help you with your first points, Mr. Beale, but we never release information about our buyers without their permission.”
“I’m quite familiar with your policies, Mr. Prescott. I’ve bought a few things at Sotheby’s through the years, so I’m one of your buyers myself! But anything I can find out would be useful, especially if I can determine that this book was one of a set. Oh, and one other request, if you don’t mind.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Beale. I see your record here in the computer. We’ll be pleased to assist you.”
“Thank you. I also wonder if there might have been a framed single page sold in that same auction. It would have been the title page of this book, broken out separately.”
“I can check that as well, sir.”
“Thank you so much. I do appreciate it.”
Charles referred to his note and dialed another number.
“DuPont Travel,” said another voice, which also sounded just like it.
“Hello, my name is Charles Beale. I have a friend who recommended your Grand Canyon tours very highly.”
Smiles poured out of the receiver. “I’m so glad! They’re very nice. Are you interested in one in particular?”
“My friend spoke very highly of the guides on his trip. I’d like to make sure we have the same ones.”
“I’ll have to see who they were. When did your friend take his trip?”
“It was last fall, in the middle of November. My friend’s name is John Borchard.”
“Let me see what I can find.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Computers are wonderful things,” Charles said.
“We couldn’t get by without them! Now let’s see… he was on the November seventeenth five-day trip. I’ll have to call the tour operators to see about the guides. But if they’re still available, I’m sure we can work it out!”
“Thank you so much! That would be so nice.”
“Sure, Mr. Beale! Now, let me get a phone number and I’ll call back as soon as I have that information.”
AFTERNOON
“Have you worked out John Borchard’s story?” Dorothy asked. They had returned to the salad hunting grounds, with similar results.
“I have worked a dozen different scenarios and ranked them in order of probability.”
“What is the most probable, then?”
“None of them.”
“ Most is ordinal,” Dorothy said. “There has to be one.”
“ Probable is qualitative, though, and none of them are.”
“Charles, I am armed with the English language, and I know how to use it.”
“Then I surrender! I will describe the least improbable scenario.” He bit, chewed, and swallowed. “John thinks I have Derek’s papers, which are incriminating to certain individuals. He does not know whether any of these papers concerns himself. Therefore, he told the story as if it were about someone else, and as a reason why he hasn’t sued Patrick White over his alleged slanders.”
“But why did he tell the story at all?”
“If I do have a paper about it, he wants to justify his actions to me. He wants to give me his side of the story. On the other hand, if I don’t have the paper, I won’t know what he is talking about.”
“That seems improbable,” Dorothy said.
“You admit it. You threatened me with the English language. Well, live by the pen, die by the pen.”
“It is still the most probable, even if it is improbable.”
“Just the type of nicety John Borchard would have ignored, and now it is haunting him. In my scenario he had to guess what Derek might have had on him, and that was it.”
“Then he guessed right.”
“I’m guessing what he is guessing that I am guessing.”
“I never liked those.”
“No, but that’s how the game is played.”
“What game?”
“Whatever game we’re in,” Charles said. “Derek’s game. The game he played all the time. We have three papers worked out, I think. Karen Liu’s checks, John Borchard’s prosecutions, and Patrick White’s cheating. There are three to go: The drug arrests, the woman who killed her husband, and the list of numbers and dates.”
No light but the desk lamp, and the computer off. No one else but three thousand books. No sound but the rustling of papers.
The maimed volume was open on the desk, its card box removed, and Charles bent over a single sheet of paper.
He read it again:
Drug Bust in Fairfax – Fairfax County police arrested more than a dozen members of an alleged drug importing ring. The early morning raids on five residences were the result of a three-month investigation. Drug-sniffing dogs uncovered over seventy pounds of cocaine hidden in furniture in one apartment.
He picked up the telephone.
“Hello?” It was the same woman’s voice, worn and plaintive.
“I’d like to speak with Galen Jones, please. This is Charles Beale.”
“Just a minute.”
And then, only a few seconds later, “Beale. What do you want?”
“I think I’ve found a new tree to bark up. I have a question.”
“I don’t care if you ask.”
“Did you build a secret drawer into Derek’s desk?”
Much longer pause. “That’s one of those questions that I don’t answer.”
“One more, then. Have you put secret places in other furniture?”
“I never did like telephones, Beale.”
“Those are real questions, Mr. Jones. I’m not trying to trap you. I hope there’s some way you could answer them-but I don’t like telephones either, to tell the truth.”
“I’m hanging this one up.”
And he did.
“Will you be busy this afternoon?” Dorothy asked as Charles settled into his desk.
“I’m not sure. I may have made an appointment.”
“Who would you be meeting with?”
“Our matchmaker. In the meantime, I would like to take a break from my detective work. Are we still doing a fall catalog, dear?”
“I’m still hoping to.”
“Good! Let me at it!”
“Mr. Beale?”
“Yes, Alice?”
“You have a telephone call. Mr. Anthony Prescott from Sotheby’s in London.”
“Thank you for your half hour,” Dorothy said. “Back to work?”
“Not quite. This is actually bookstore business, so it will still count as play.” He lifted his telephone. “Hello, this is Charles Beale.”
“Mr. Beale, this is Anthony Prescott from Sotheby’s in London. We spoke earlier today?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you for calling back, Mr. Prescott. It must be rather late for you. I hope you have some news for me?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Beale. I can’t give you any information about your book.”
“What-nothing?”
“My apologies, sir, that we can’t help you.”
“Do you mean that you don’t have any information, or that you can’t give it to me?”
“I’m very sorry, sir. That’s all I can say.”
“Oh. Well, thank you very much, Mr. Prescott.”
“Yes, sir. Have a pleasant day.”
Charles set the telephone down and stared across the room at Dorothy.
“You look like someone just ran over your dog,” she said.
“Yes, poor Argos. I’d finally landed on Ithaca,” he said. “And the car that squashed him was Penelope running off with the mailman.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It is.” He frowned. “Except that it’s seven o’clock in London.”
“He must have been working late.”
“And on Friday. Odd. Oh, well-that’s what I get for hoping.”
“I’m sorry, dear,” Dorothy said.
“Not at all. Something might turn up. And besides, if someone wanted to buy Odysseus, I would have to sell him.”