“A friend of a friend. I did him a favor and put a little space under a bed.”
“That isn’t wrong, is it?” Charles said.
“He made a deal with the cops when he got busted. Every name he could come up with was worth points.”
“What happened?”
“It was ugly, but I hadn’t done anything. But it won’t do me any good if that desk ever gets my name on it. I didn’t work for a year after that with all the dealers yakking about me. Do you get that, Beale?”
“I get it, Jones. That’s why you tried to buy the desk back?”
“I wanted to just get it out of circulation. But some people have way too much money. For a desk.”
“I think they wanted what was in it. Can you tell me what this drawer was like?”
“Yeah. There’s eight inches behind the regular drawers on either side. That’s just how it was made originally. It’s empty space between the drawers and the back of the desk. On the left, there was a small drawer and a larger file drawer. This is what I did. You push them both into the desk at the same time, about an inch. If you push either one by itself, it won’t go. Push them both and then pull them back out, and when you pull the bottom file drawer all the way out, there’s a six-inch box behind that comes out with it. It hangs on the far back. Push the drawer back in, and next time you pull it out, there’s no box.”
Charles nodded slowly. “It wouldn’t be easy to find.”
“Depends on how hard someone’s looking.”
“Would someone just stumble onto it? The movers? The appraiser from the auction house?”
“I don’t know. Probably not, if they kept it level. A regular appraisal, you wouldn’t find it. If you pull the bottom drawer all the way out by itself and look in where it was, the box just looks like the inside of the desk.”
“Whatever was in the drawer when Derek was killed-could it have still been there when the buyer picked it up last week?”
“For all I know, it could be.”
“And if that person knew there was a compartment,” Charles said, “they would find it.”
“Soon enough, they would. They could tear the desk apart and it would be right there.”
“Then it’s possible that person would have the original contents right now.”
“It sounds like you know a lot about what that was,” Galen Jones said.
“I’ve seen some of the papers that may have been in it. How much would this box have held?”
“Six inches. At least a few hundred sheets of paper, or whatever else he put in it. So look, Beale.” He backed off entirely, to his full straight length. “I’ve told you everything I know. From what you say, I don’t think I want to know anything else.”
“I will be glad not to tell you anything.”
“Yeah, let’s do that. Like including whatever you think you’re doing.”
“As I said, just the right thing.”
“Lots of times that doesn’t work. You might want to be careful.”
“I will take your advice, Mr. Jones.”
Mr. Jones was finished. He stood, and Charles did also.
“So Bastien had that paper about the cocaine, like it would do him any good.”
“I don’t know why he had it.”
“And he was keeping it in the drawer I made him.”
“You weren’t the only one.”
Mr. Jones was not finished. “I don’t get involved.” He flexed his fingers. “I just do my job, and I don’t ever get involved in anyone else’s. Because people that get into each other’s business get killed sometimes.”
“Are you talking about me or Derek Bastien?”
“Both of you. You really think you’re doing the right thing?”
“I have no choice. I’m trying to undo what he did.”
“Bastien betrayed me. You can’t undo that.”
“I’m feeling rather betrayed myself, Mr. Jones. But I still think I can do something for some of the people involved.”
Mr. Jones nodded. “Look, you ever need help, call me. Because if you try to do some right thing, you’ll probably need any help you can get.”
Charles watched as Galen Jones left the shop.
“And have we sold anything, Alice?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, from the games shelf. A book on chess.”
“Did you pick the last books?” Dorothy asked.
In slow motion, Charles walked across the office and lowered himself into his chair. “What did you say?”
“Did you pick any books?”
“What books?”
Dorothy took a slow motion breath. “For the catalog, dear. Weren’t you downstairs looking?”
“Oh. No, Galen Jones came and we talked.”
“He did come? You said he might. What did he want?”
“It’s a long story. I need to make a telephone call.”
“I can finish the catalog. We only have four more catalog pages to fill.”
“Maybe you should, dear.” He shook his head to clear it, and gave Dorothy a wistful smile. “This won’t be a long call, but I’ll have an errand to run after it.”
“Who are you calling?”
He was already pushing buttons. “Norman Highberg, please,” he said.
And he waited.
“Hello?”
“Norman? This is Charles Beale.”
“Charles? I thought you were a customer. Why didn’t you tell her who you were?”
“I am a customer.”
“You are?” Norman was confused. “What? You mean you want to buy something?”
“Do you still have that chess set?”
“The Austrian wood inlay? Sure. What, you decided you want it?”
“Will you still give me that deal?”
“Thirty-two seventy-five, between friends. Okay. You’re keeping it, right? You’re not selling it?”
“It’s for me.”
“Because if someone’s going to sell it for five grand, I will. It’ll go for five, sooner or later.”
“I want to buy it now.”
“Okay, sold. Do you want to come get it?”
“Do you deliver?” Charles asked.
“Who, me? Sometimes. My wife’s nephew, I send him out sometimes, but he breaks things.”
“I wouldn’t want it broken. Why don’t you bring it, Norman. I think it’s your turn to visit my shop, anyway.”
“Okay. I can bring it. How about tomorrow?”
“Saturday? That would be fine. We’re just open until two, but Dorothy and I will be here most of the day.”
“And now, dear,” he said, “I am going out.”
“This was the errand?”
“I’m going to visit Lucy Bastien Cloverdale.”
“Can’t you just call her?”
“She told me not to call back.”
“Well, Charles, that might mean she doesn’t want you to visit either.”
“She didn’t say that. I don’t think she’ll turn me away.”
“And you said it was terrible seeing the house changed,” Dorothy said.
“I’ve gotten over it. It couldn’t be as big a shock or insult this time.”
“Anybody ever call you Charlie?” Lucy Bastien said, leaning against the front door.
