“I’ll go down to the basement and say goodbye.” The jubilant mood sank slowly beneath the waves. “Dorothy, I’ve just had lunch with Captain Ahab.”
“Patrick White?”
“I think he must be unbalanced. I hope he is.”
“You hope he is unbalanced?”
“Otherwise what he said would be true.”
“What did he say?” Dorothy caught his mood and began sinking with him.
“John Borchard is Moby-Dick.”
“John Borchard is what?”
“There is a superficial resemblance,” Charles said. “Dorothy, Patrick White is on a quest for revenge and Mr. Borchard is his target.”
“Revenge? For what?”
“In this case, Captain Ahab has lost his judicial career rather than his leg.”
“But…” Dorothy frowned. “But didn’t…” She frowned more. “Charles, you have to tell me what you’re talking about.”
“All right. I can do it. I’m just still regaining my own balance. Mr. White believes that it was John Borchard who exposed his law school scandal to the newspaper.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Mr. White did not elaborate. But beyond that, he says he went to Derek Bastien for help against John Borchard.”
“Did Derek ever tell you anything about him?”
“No. I’m sure he never mentioned Patrick Henry White to me. But, Dorothy, this is the culmination. Patrick White says that John Borchard killed Derek Bastien.”
She was momentarily speechless. “He said that?”
“Word for word. You look just like I must have.”
“Killed him!”
“Yes.”
She got her mouth closed, then opened it again. “Did he?”
“At this point, dear, I’m inclined to doubt it.”
“I should hope so!”
“I would desperately hope he did not.”
She had recovered. “And who are you that Mr. White would tell you all of this?”
“Me? Call me Ishmael.”
“Hey, boss.”
Charles rubbed his forehead. “Someday, Angelo, I will have a heart attack.”
“You not feeling good, boss?”
“I’m fine. How did it go?”
“It was okay, that lady I didn’t see her in those places. You want I should look at the next place tomorrow?”
“You have a delivery in the morning,” Charles said. “A very important one. I’d do it myself, but I have another appointment. We can see if any of the places on the list are in the same area as your delivery.”
“Mr. Beale?” Alice’s voice from the stairs was panicked.
“Yes? I’m coming,” he said, and Angelo followed.
“There’s a man down here.”
“Now who?” Charles stood and moved quickly. He reached the showroom.
“Beale.”
“Mr. Jones,” he said, as that was who it was.
“Talk.”
The look in Galen Jones’s eye was of an altogether different ferocity than Patrick White’s.
Charles slid past the tall and centrally located Mr. Jones, and opened the front door. “We could step outside.”
He pushed through the door and stopped on the front sidewalk. “You said you talked to the FBI?”
“I’ve talked to Mr. Kelly,” Charles said. “I think I told you.”
“What did you tell them about me?”
“About you? Nothing. I hadn’t even met you.”
“Nothing?”
“I never said your name or anything about you.”
Mr. Jones searched the sidewalk for listeners. “So have you talked to anybody about me?”
“No. Well-Norman Highberg, and that was also before I’d met you. And my wife. What’s wrong?”
“Kelly, the FBI, he came by my house this morning. He asked me about the desk. Just like you. Except he also wanted to know if anyone else was asking.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Then how-? Never mind.” Galen Jones was very frustrated. “Look, don’t ever say my name to anyone. Ever.”
“That’s a hard thing to promise. I will try not to say your name to anyone.”
“Then if you do, tell me.”
“I will. I think I can promise that. Did you tell Mr. Kelly I’d been asking about the desk?”
“No way. I don’t answer questions like that.”
“I think it would have been all right. He and I have discussed the desk.”
“My name, and that desk, those don’t go together for anybody, okay? And I want to know how he ever got them together.”
“Maybe from Norman. Norman told me that he’d recommended you to Derek. That’s how I found you.”
Mr. Jones paused. “Maybe. Yeah, that’s it. But you’re up to something, Beale, and you better be real careful.”
“I’m just trying to do the right thing.”
“As if anyone ever knew what that was.”
And that was all. Charles watched as Galen Jones’s long legs carried him swiftly away.
“Who was that?” Dorothy asked.
“Galen Jones. The matchmaker. Don’t tell anyone about him. I just promised we wouldn’t.” He dropped into his chair. “Mr. Kelly from the FBI was asking him about the desk.”
“So he does have some connection with it?”
“He didn’t say that. It’s more a question of why Mr. Kelly thinks he does.” He rubbed his eyes. “Dorothy, I am now officially very worried about what is going on.”
“Only now?”
“Only now officially and very. Who wanted so much to buy it? Two people were willing to pay a hundred thousand dollars for it.” And then he took a deep, slow breath. “And no one special tried to buy the books.”
“Who else would want the books?”
“John Borchard and Karen Liu, if they’d known what was in them.”
“Maybe someone thought the papers were in the desk,” Dorothy said.
“Exactly, dear. Why didn’t we think of that before? That would mean that two people knew about the papers, and thought they were in the desk. But why would anyone try to buy the desk at this point? The drawers would all have been emptied.”
“What would have happened to everything in the desk?” Dorothy asked.
“I think I’ll call Lucy Bastien. Cloverdale. Whatever her name is.”
Dorothy watched. “What are you doing?”
“Breathing.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know?”
“Charles! I mean why are you just sitting there.”
