“Turn the page, please.”
Charles turned to the half title. The imperturbable Mr. Smith tensed slightly.
“The full title page has been removed,” Charles said. “Evidently long ago.”
Mr. Smith took the large flat envelope from the table, and from it extracted a clear plastic sheaf enclosing a single, yellowed book page.
“Oh my,” Charles said. Her Royal Highness
Princess Victoria
History of the War of Troy and the Greeks
The Odyssey
Padding amp; Brewster, London, 1827
“There is a slight notch from the cutting,” Mr. Smith said. “I’d like to see that it matches.”
Charles held the book while the man compared his page to it.
Then the man leaned back. “I accept that it is authentic.” A tiny charge of excitement made the convivial smile he’d had from the beginning tremble, just a little.
Then Mr. Smith returned to his perfect poise. Pleasantly, he said, “I propose one hundred thousand dollars for the book.”
Charles paused. “It’s a very rare book, of course, but I wouldn’t have asked that much.”
“I have made inquiries into your business, Mr. Beale, and I don’t feel that negotiations are necessary.”
“But-”
“And this is the only offer that I’m authorized to make.”
Charles gestured with his empty hands. “Then by all means. I accept, very gratefully.”
He re-wrapped the book and held it out.
Mr. Smith received it, and in return handed him the brick-shaped package. “I hope you find that in order.”
Charles opened the end. “This is cash!” He recovered. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t expected it.”
“It is one hundred thousand dollars.”
“Mr. Smith, I’m very sorry-a cash transaction of this size, I would need some idea of who you are-”
“I hope you can deal with the formalities. I would prefer that there is no idea of who I am.”
“I see.” Charles smiled. “Yes, I can deal with the formalities. And please tell me, do you have the other volumes in the set? I suppose there would be an Iliad and an Aeneid?”
“They will all be together. Thank you, Mr. Beale. It has been a pleasure.”
“Thank you very much,” Charles said. “And please give Her Majesty my regards.”
Mr. Smith chortled as only an Englishman of his bearing could.
“What a romantic thought. But if I ever were to see her, I will.”
Charles stopped ten feet out from the front door. He still had the package in his hand.
“The deal is good?” Angelo appeared from the empty air.
“Um, yes, I think so.”
“That is the cash?”
“Yes, it is. How did you know it would be cash?”
“A deal is always cash. Did you count it?”
“I didn’t. It would have taken too long.”
Angelo’s eyes were on the package, but he managed a brief look of scorn at Charles.
“You don’t even count it?”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
“Don’t carry it out in your hand.”
Charles opened his empty briefcase and put the package inside. “All right. We’ll just go back to the train station, then, and head home.”
Angelo swept the street with a quick glance and then fixed again on the briefcase in Charles’s hand.
Dorothy was parked in front of the deserted train station. The sky was moonless black.
“Hello, dear,” Charles said. He took the driver’s seat. “We did make it home.” Angelo slid silently into the back.
“Thank you,” she said. “Did you sell your book?”
“I did. It was all very interesting.”
It was 2:30 a.m. as they crossed the Potomac and ten minutes later when they stopped in front of the bookstore.
“Here we are,” Charles said to Dorothy. The street and the shop were as dark and empty as they could be. “I’ll only be a minute.”
“I’ll come in.”
Angelo followed with the book satchel. Charles turned on the light and put his code into the alarm.
“Thank you for coming, Angelo,” he said. “I’ll put those books down in the basement for Morgan.”
“Good night,” Dorothy said as Angelo disappeared.
The desk was empty except for its computer and one volume that hadn’t been returned to its shelf. Charles set the book satchel next to them. Then he opened the briefcase and took the package out and unwrapped it. There were ten banded stacks. It took over a minute to count one stack of one hundred hundred-dollar bills.
He didn’t count the others. He wrapped the stacks back together and set the package on a shelf behind a row of books.
He looked closer at the volume on the desk. It was the Dante; he opened it and read a few lines at random. For all the gold that is beneath the moon,
Or ever has been, of these weary souls
Could never make a single one respose.
Then he put it up on the same shelf as the package of money.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes, it’s fine.” Charles turned the alarm on and the light off. He and Dorothy walked out into the night. The streetlamp sent their shadows flying.
Charles stretched his fingers as he opened Dorothy’s car door. “I’ve been carrying that briefcase all day. It’s nice to have my hands free.”
On the third floor, Angelo’s light turned off.
“One hundred thousand?” Dorothy was shocked.
“It was the only offer he was authorized to make.”
“Who was he?”
“Just Mr. Smith.”
“That’s how he signed the check?”
“No check, dear. Just hundred-dollar bills. A thousand of them.”
Dorothy was very shocked.
“Where is it?”
“In the basement at the store.”
They reached their house. Charles parked on the street in front.
“Does Angelo know?”
“Know what?”
“That there is a hundred thousand dollars of cash just downstairs from him.”
“Um, not necessarily.”
“Why didn’t you bring it home?”
“I thought it would be safer locked in the basement of the store.”
“Is it just lying out?”
“It’s not lying. It’s telling the truth.”
“Charles.”
“It’s on the shelf behind the Dante.”
They were finally settling into bed at three o’clock in the morning.
“You could sleep late tomorrow,” Dorothy said.
