was framed by the four woods inlaid, one on each side, creating an illusion of three-dimensional bevels. The outer frame was both intricate and elegant, a dense cascade of overlapping, variably sized squares like the froth of a wave.
“It’s dazzling,” Dorothy said. “It looks like a Klimt.”
“It is Austrian, 1890s,” Charles said. “Or maybe it’s Sigmund Freud’s psyche.”
“I don’t know about that stuff,” Norman said. “But you can tell it’s the real thing.”
“What will we do with it, Charles?” Dorothy said.
“I want to have it here in the showroom,” he said. “You wouldn’t have some kind of table, would you, Norman?”
“I don’t do furniture. There’s a zillion places to buy tables.”
“Just in Alexandria alone. Would there have been a stand for it?”
“Sure,” Norman said. “Who knows where it is now, in Tokyo or someplace if it didn’t get blown up in some war.”
“What would it have looked like?”
“It would have been a square top, about four inches on each side, bigger than the board with a recess to fit it in and a big heavy column leg with some kind of flared bottom.”
“Derek just kept the board on his desk, to one side. He’d move it to the center to play.”
Norman shook his head. “I never figured that game out. I mean, who came up with it? Checkers, that makes sense. Everything moves the same way.”
“If you appreciate that people are different, Norman, you appreciate that chess pieces are different.”
“If everyone were the same, it’d be a lot simpler.”
“Yes, it would.”
“You played that game with him,” Norman asked.
“Yes,” Charles said. “Eight or ten times over the years.”
“So who won?”
“I did.”
“How many times?”
“Every time.”
“You never told me that!” Dorothy said.
“That’s why he kept playing me,” Charles said. “You sold the set to Derek originally, didn’t you?” he asked Norman.
“Yeah. First thing I sold him. Ten years ago at least.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Germany. It was part of a bunch of loot left over from the Nazis. They got everything they could back to whoever owned it before the war, and then they auctioned the rest for the Jewish Reparation Fund. Good cause.”
“And it had all been stolen by the Nazis,” Charles said. “There must have been quite a variety.”
“Some of them had good taste. It was everything-art, furniture, jewelry-everything. And that was just the stuff the government recovered after the war. A lot of it went underground.”
“What do you know about that underground market, Norman? The market for stolen art.”
“A little. I’ve got to, you know? In my business you’ve got to.”
Dorothy had unwrapped the white queen, and Charles took it from her. There was no play in the pin holding the chestnut figure to the cherry base. “Where do you think Derek’s stolen pieces are now?”
“Three places,” Norman said. “In a basement somewhere, you know, or buried or something. Or in some rich guy’s parlor that bought the whole bag. Or else at the bottom of the Potomac. That’s where they’d be if the guy that stole them was smart.”
“How would the guy that stole them find the rich guy that wanted to buy them?” Charles said.
“How do any of those guys find each other?” Norman said. “But they do. They always do.”
“Could you find one?”
“Why should I want to? Except I could use the money, and that would be no taxes on the sale. You know how much I pay in taxes? What’s it like in Virginia? It must be lower than D.C.”
“I suppose,” Charles said. “Here, Norman, look at this queen. What do you think?”
Norman looked close, then very close. “Let me see the other queen.”
They found it, and Norman looked close again. “It doesn’t exactly match the other pieces. The carving, you know? But the queens match each other. And the colors don’t match exact either. But it’s chestnut, and who can get chestnut? It must be from the same workshop.” He looked very, very close. “I don’t know. Maybe it was a different carver?”
“I think Lucy Bastien, Derek’s wife, mentioned something about the queens. I hadn’t ever looked close.”
“Then she’s got a good eye. It’s good stuff. So maybe they don’t match exactly, but you’ve got to have an eye to see it, and they’re maybe the best work of the whole set.”
“Very good, then,” Charles said. “Here is a check, and I’m very glad to have the whole set. We’ll keep it in the basement for now. I just wish I had someone to play with.”
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Galen Jones, please. This is Charles Beale.”
He waited.
“Beale. Now what do you want?”
“I want you to build a table for me.”
“What table?” There was some suspicion and a little curiosity.
“Do you remember Derek Bastien’s chess set, Mr. Jones?”
“Sure. I told you I replaced the queens.”
“I have that set now. Norman Highberg says it would have had a matching table once. I’d like for you to make one for me.”
“Okay…” For the first time, there was less suspicion in his voice than interest. “I’ll come look at it.”
“Please. At your convenience.”
“My convenience is Thursday. Are you always there?”
“Usually,” Charles said. “You could call. Or no, we should meet up at Norman Highberg’s. He’ll know just how the table should look.”
“Okay, ten o’clock?”
“Good. I’ll bring the board.”
“The pieces, too. But just don’t tell Highberg I ever touched them. So, Beale, anybody asking you about the desk lately?”
“It’s come up, but I haven’t said your name.”
“Just keep doing the right thing, okay?”
EVENING
“ ‘To be, or not to be? That is the question.’ ”
“Are you still being Shakespearian, Charles?” Dorothy said. They were together in their parlor, but Charles had no book in his hand.
“No, it is a question. Wasn’t Hamlet’s great flaw that he couldn’t make up his mind?”
“He did have that problem.”
“I do, too.”
“You’ve been hoping for better choices.”
“None have presented themselves,” Charles said.
“I think I’ve lost track of all your conversations with everyone.”
“There is one point, dear, that is especially troubling me. It is from Galen Jones, on Friday. I have been trying to work out what it means.”
A breeze troubled the curtains.
