Read Online According to Their Deeds by Paul Robertson - Free Book Online

places to wait; but this bright-lit moment was brief.
    An enormous bald head appeared. “How do you do? I’m John Borchard.”
    “Charles Beale.”
    There was a normal body beneath John Borchard’s large head, clothed in a dark, serious suit. The face spread across the front of the head was serious, too, but capable of many emotions in only a few seconds. Even as Charles lifted his hand, the seriousness shifted through interest and anticipation to pleasure.
    “I am so glad you called,” he said. “Please come into my office.”
    The office was larger than the head. Charles was set on a supple, wine-red leather couch, beneath historic American paintings that needed as large a room as this in which to be properly displayed. Yards away, it seemed, was an immense desk, capable of properly displaying a Deputy Assistant Attorney General.
    John Borchard chose a matching chair closer to Charles.
    “Thank you so much for seeing me,” Charles said.
    “It’s a pleasure.” The voice was of bassoons and cellos. “So you knew Derek?” The head tilted at that profound thought. “What a tragedy.”
    “Certainly,” Charles said. His own voice was rather reedy and oboe-ish.
    “And you are an antiquarian?”
    “I deal in antique books. I met Derek through his collecting.”
    “Yes, his collecting.” Each phrase was a plaque in sound, dark wood with the words engraved in brass. “He was quite a collector. In many ways. But what can I do for you today, Mr. Beale—Charles?”
    “Well . . . not really anything. I only wanted to meet you. As someone who knew Derek.”
    Mr. Borchard—John?—nodded. “I understand. Absolutely. An odd thing, isn’t it? Yet I think anyone who knew him would understand. It was the quality of the man.”
    “There was a quality.”
    “There was. I can’t tell you how much he is missed here. He’d been with me for over ten years.”
    “I’d known him about six years.”
    “How well?” One eyebrow climbed high. “Had you been his guest, even?”
    “I did get in the front door a few times,” Charles said.
    The other eyebrow rose up to its fellow. “Ah. A game or two of chess?”
    “A game or two.”
    A grand smile stretched the lower part of the face while the eyebrows expanded the upper. “He was quite good, wasn’t he?”
    “He was very good.”
    “Yes, I learned my lesson early on, that some battles are hopeless.” What a big smile he had. “And I declined further contests. So you were quite into the inner circle, then.”
    “It was a large circle.”
    “Very, but close in, nonetheless. And your entrée was books.”
    “He purchased a dozen or so through the years.”
    “Did you supply all his books?”
    “Only the antique volumes.”
    “I remember them on his shelves. Did he buy from anyone else?”
    Charles smiled. “Not that he told me.”
    “Nor would he have! Would he? He wouldn’t have told you. So we don’t really know.”
    “I never saw any others.”
    “Then we’ll say he didn’t. He wasn’t usually so loyal with his dealers.”
    “It would have been fine, of course,” Charles said. “Most collectors cultivate a network of suppliers.”
    “And he certainly cultivated his suppliers. He was absolutely a collector.”
    “He had a diverse collection.”
    “More than diverse.” John Borchard was studying him. “Oh, you must realize. It wasn’t antiques he was collecting. He collected people! He always was looking. For an interesting vase, for an interesting person. Maybe we should form a society, The Collected Works of Derek Bastien.”
    “What an odd thought, Mr. Borchard.”
    “Call me, John! Please! Those of us in it, we’d be quite a crew. What do the books on your shelves think of each other?”
    “I think they get along,” Charles said. “They have a lot in common.”
    “I wonder what we have in common, those of us in Derek’s collection. It would be interesting to know what caught his eye. I expect you’re quite an expert on