And then there was silence.
“That’s all there is,” John Borchard said.
“It must be the same person Patrick White has mentioned to me. Who could they be talking about?”
“That’s what I have to find out!” John said, suddenly vehement. “I have to know who it is. It isn’t just Patrick White. There’s someone else as well. It must be someone else that Derek was blackmailing.”
“Could it be any of these people?” Charles put his hand on the stack of folders.
“It isn’t. I’ve been through all of them. It must be one of the papers you have. That is why I have to see them.” He was standing, pacing in the narrow space of the office.
“Karen Liu?”
“It’s a man. White said he. And this man, he must know more than Patrick White does. He knew that the papers were in Derek’s desk. He’s the person who was bidding against me.”
“Maybe…” Charles said, “maybe I could get Mr. White to tell me.”
“Even if he doesn’t know, he might have some clue. Something that could help me guess. Maybe the man at the auction who did the bidding. He was from New York.”
“Edmund Cane.”
“He might know. But I need to see the papers you have. That might be enough.”
“I’ll show them to you,” Charles said. “And I’ll talk to Mr. White.”
“Do you know where he is?” John asked. “I haven’t been able to find where he’s living.”
“No, I don’t know where he liv-”
First, shaking.
Just afterward sound. Then the sorting of sounds-glass shattering, heavier objects falling. A percussion of air and then heat.
“Get down,” Charles said. John collapsed to the floor.
But there was no more of the sound or motion. Charles stood enough to see out the window. John didn’t move.
The neighboring house was buried in smoke. Charles watched in shock as the gray cleared. An upstairs window was gone, and also most of the wall that had held it, and the hole was black edged and jagged. Flames wavered inside.
“Call the police,” Charles said, but John was immobile. Charles grabbed the telephone and pushed three digits.
“There’s been an explosion,” he said. “The house behind us-what is the address here?”
John didn’t answer.
“I don’t know the address. Whatever this phone number is.”
“Who is calling?” the voice said.
“Charles Beale. I’m at the home of John Borchard in McLean. I don’t know the address.”
“We have your address. What happened?”
“Behind us. The house exploded-something in it-there’s fire and smoke. It was a big explosion.”
“We have help on the way. Has anyone been injured?”
“I don’t know. I think-” The window that had looked directly down on John Borchard’s office was destroyed. “I think someone must have been.”
“Do you see anyone injured?”
“No. I’m calling from the neighbor’s house. No one here was hurt.”
“Mr. Beale, we have help on the way. Stay clear of the fire. Don’t try to go into the house.”
“I won’t. We won’t.”
“That’s all we need now. You can hang up.”
Charles set the telephone down. “John. Are you all right?”
John Borchard was still not moving or speaking. He was on his knees, his mouth was open, his face was paper white, shining with sweat, his breath jerking, his eyes wide.
“John!”
Charles took his shoulder and shook it. The blank eyes suddenly moved.
“It was meant for me,” he said, finally speaking.
“Who lives in that house?”
“Where?”
“The house right behind you!”
“They’re gone. They’ve been gone.”
Charles bent down, face-to-face with John Borchard. “Are you all right?”
John’s face was a sagging ruin. “It was for me! They want to kill me!”
“You’re fine,” Charles said. “Sit up here.”
John heaved himself up into his chair. His face was regaining color and his breath was becoming normal.
“The police!” he said.
“I called them.”
“They’ll see the files.” John staggered to his feet. He pushed aside a small table and groped at the wood paneling behind it. The panel clicked open, uncovering the gray front of a safe.
A bitter smell had infiltrated the room.
“Hey, boss.” Angelo’s voice startled Charles. “Come on, get out of here.”
“No. We’re all right,” Charles said.
John was on his knees, fumbling with the safe door. Finally, sirens were sounding.
“Who did that might come here,” Angelo said.
Charles untangled the words. “No, I don’t think anyone did it. It went off from inside the house.”
“Come on, go!” Angelo’s hiss was urgent and angry. “Get away.”
“We’ll wait for the police, Angelo.”
“Boss, no police!”
“No police,” John Borchard said, suddenly aware of them. The safe was still not open. “Not until I put the files away.”
“Boss,” Angelo pleaded. “Come! The police can’t find me here!” His eyes were wide and white.
“Why are you so afraid?” Charles shouted at him.
A shudder passed from head to feet, and a thin sigh escaped the clenched mouth.
“I am not afraid.”
“Then sit down.”
Slowly the tense body settled into a chair, not sitting but perched.
John was back at the safe, trying to open it. The sirens were close and car doors were opening.
AFTERNOON
“Mr. Beale?”
“Yes, Officer?” Charles was in his car in John Borchard’s driveway. Angelo was beside him. The dashboard clock said 1:30.
The policeman leaned into his open window. “You can go.”
“But I haven’t spoken with anyone yet!”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long. Detective Paisley may call you later.”
“I really need to discuss this with him.”
“I’ll make sure he calls.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“We’re not giving any information yet.”
“Then please have your detective call me as soon as possible.” Charles started the car and pulled out onto the street. “There,” he said, angry and frustrated, to Angelo. “There was no reason to get away before the police came. We couldn’t even get them to notice us.”
