Angelo turned a page. “What are these people?”
“That’s Ellis Island. They are just arriving in America, maybe that very day. They’ve left everything they know behind to come to a place they’ve never seen. They don’t speak any English. They have hope, but here, I think they are mostly afraid. When you came to our shop the first day, it was something like that.”
“I was not afraid.”
“Oh no, I didn’t mean it that way. I know you weren’t.”
“Charles!”
A teapot of a man, short and stout, came bubbling and whistling toward them.
“Ah, Mervyn, here you are. Here, I’d like you to take a quick look at something. Angelo, they have some books to trade for the ones in your bag. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“What do you think?” Charles said. Mervyn Peake was bent as much as he could be over the Odyssey.
“The quality’s good. The title page, or whatever you call it, doesn’t look good. Where’d you get it?”
“Off eBay. Just someone clearing out their attic.”
He gave it one more critical look. “Seven hundred.”
“I paid seventeen.”
“You’ve been snookered, then.” He gave Charles a critical look. “What do you think’s so funny?”
“I’m not laughing!”
“You’re rolling in the aisles. What’s the hook?”
“Mervyn, have you ever heard of a man called Mr. Smith?”
“Are you kidding me? Half the people who want to sell me books are Mr. Smith.”
“This Mr. Smith wants to buy a book. This book. He’s British, and I’m meeting him this evening at a restaurant called Rusterman’s.”
“On Twenty-eighth? I’ve been there.”
“Did you meet a Mr. Smith there?”
“No Smith. We had a dinner there once when the manager of our London branch came over.”
“Any particular reason you had the dinner there?”
“The British Consul in New York came, too. He picked it. He had some connection with the owner. It didn’t have anything to do with books.”
“We’re ready,” Charles said to Angelo. “Did you get the books?”
“I have those books from the lady.”
“Very good. It looks like we have plenty of time to get to Twenty-eighth Street.”
The sky was finally black, what little could be seen beyond the high walls and lights. The windows of Rusterman’s were bright but only looked into the lobby. The dining room was hidden.
“I will stay here,” Angelo said for the third time that evening.
“You are completely respectable, Angelo,” Charles said, “and it would be fine for you to come in. But Mr. Smith is expecting me alone.”
“That man, he knows I am here, he is watching. He doesn’t show up if I come in. I will wait outside and watch.”
“That’s fine. I don’t think he’s watching us, but maybe he is. I don’t know how long I will be.”
“Thirty minutes and I will look in there for you,” Angelo said.
“Charles Beale.”
“Yes, sir,” the maitre d’ said. “Please come this way.”
Through the foyer, but they did not turn into the dining room. Farther back in the hall, the master opened a door and stood back. Charles entered.
The room was comfortably sized for the single table, and at the table, very comfortably, sat a middle-aged man. He was impeccably dressed in a dark suit and silk tie.
“Thank you,” he said, and the maitre d’ bowed and slid out. “Mr. Beale. Please sit down.”
“Thank you. Mr. Smith?”
“Mr. Smith, yes.” His tone left no doubt that he was not. “I trust you had a pleasant trip.”
“Very pleasant.”
“Good. We won’t take extra time this evening. May I see the book?”
“Of course.” There was no place setting or food on the table, just a large flat envelope and a brick-shaped wrapped bundle. Charles opened his briefcase and set the paper package in the center. The man waited and didn’t move.
Charles took his white gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. He pulled the paper apart and lifted the book from its cushioning and held it forward.
Mr. Smith took a magnifying glass from his pocket and inspected the cover. “Please open it to the signature.”
Gently, he did.
The signature was considered.
“Turn the page, please.”
Charles turned to the half title. The imperturbable Mr. Smith tensed slightly.
“The full title page has been removed,” Charles said. “Evidently long ago.”
Mr. Smith took the large flat envelope from the table, and from it extracted a clear plastic sheaf enclosing a single, yellowed book page.
“Oh my,” Charles said. Her Royal Highness
Princess Victoria
History of the War of Troy and the Greeks
The Odyssey
Padding amp; Brewster, London, 1827
“There is a slight notch from the cutting,” Mr. Smith said. “I’d like to see that it matches.”
Charles held the book while the man compared his page to it.
Then the man leaned back. “I accept that it is authentic.” A tiny charge of excitement made the convivial smile he’d had from the beginning tremble, just a little.
Then Mr. Smith returned to his perfect poise. Pleasantly, he said, “I propose one hundred thousand dollars for the book.”
Charles paused. “It’s a very rare book, of course, but I wouldn’t have asked that much.”
“I have made inquiries into your business, Mr. Beale, and I don’t feel that negotiations are necessary.”
“But-”
“And this is the only offer that I’m authorized to make.”
Charles gestured with his empty hands. “Then by all means. I accept, very gratefully.”
He re-wrapped the book and held it out.
Mr. Smith received it, and in return handed him the brick-shaped package. “I hope you find that in order.”
Charles opened the end. “This is cash!” He recovered. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t expected it.”
“It is one hundred thousand dollars.”
“Mr. Smith, I’m very sorry-a cash transaction of this size, I would need some idea of who you are-”
“I hope you can deal with the formalities. I would prefer that there is no idea of who I am.”
“I see.” Charles smiled. “Yes, I can deal with the formalities. And please tell me, do you have the other volumes in the set? I suppose there would be an Iliad and an Aeneid?”
“They will all be together. Thank you, Mr. Beale. It has been a pleasure.”
“Thank you very much,” Charles said. “And please give Her Majesty my regards.”
Mr. Smith chortled as only an Englishman of his bearing could.
“What a romantic thought. But if I ever were to see her, I will.”
Charles stopped ten feet out from the front door. He still had the package in his hand.
“The deal is good?” Angelo appeared from the empty air.
“Um, yes, I think so.”
“That is the cash?”
“Yes, it is. How did you know it would be cash?”
“A deal is always cash. Did you count it?”
“I didn’t. It would have taken too long.”
Angelo’s eyes were on the package, but he managed a brief look of scorn at Charles.
“You don’t even count it?”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
“Don’t carry it out in your hand.”
Charles opened his empty briefcase and put the package inside. “All right. We’ll just go back to the train station, then, and head home.”
Angelo swept the street with a quick glance and then fixed again on the briefcase in Charles’s hand.
Dorothy was parked in front of the deserted train station. The sky was moonless black.
“Hello, dear,” Charles said. He took the driver’s seat. “We did make it home.” Angelo slid silently into the back.
“Thank you,” she said. “Did you sell your book?”
“I did. It was all very interesting.”
It was 2:30 a.m. as they crossed the Potomac and ten minutes later when they stopped in front of the bookstore.