According to Their Deeds by Paul Robertson Page B

okay?”
    “It’s okay.”
    “How do I look? Look in a window? Look how?”
    “This is where you get to practice your manners. Mrs. Beale and I think you need to learn proper professional behavior. Go to each place and go inside. Talk to the people. Look around and ask questions. See if this woman works there.”
    Angelo was processing. “These people in buildings, they don’t talk to me. You they talk to, they don’t talk to me.”
    “I think you can do it. Wear your good clothes. Be polite.”
    Again he shrugged. “But you don’t want her to know you’re looking?”
    “That’s right. Good. You understand.”
    “So for why do I say I’m asking them?”
    “We’ll think of something. We’ll try the first one together tomorrow.”
    “Mr. Beale?” Angelo’s door had just closed. “You have a telephone call. A Mr. Galen Jones.”
    “Oh, good! Thank you, Alice. I’ll be right there.”
    He hurried back down to the office. “Yes, hello, this is Charles Beale.”
    “Right.” A deep voice, gravelly, but it didn’t sound like a big person. “I got a message you called?”
    “Yes, I did. Thank you for calling back. Mr. Jones, I was a friend of a man named Derek Bastien. I’ve heard you may have known him?”
    Charles waited.
    “What do you want?” the voice asked.
    “Well, to talk. Either on the phone, or to meet with you.”
    “Right.” Another wait. “Who are you?”
    “I sell books. Antique books. I sold some to Derek. That’s really all. And I heard your name, and a little more than that about you, and I wanted to talk.”
    “Talk about what? Look, do you want some work done?”
    “No. I just want to talk. About Derek Bastien.”
    A long wait. “Okay, I’ll talk. I’ll come see you. Where are you?”
    “At my shop right now. In Alexandria. I’ll give you the address.”
    “I’ll be there this afternoon.”
    Charles had only set the telephone down when it rang again. By reflex, he picked it up again, without waiting for Alice to get it.
    “Alexandria Rare Books, this is Charles Beale.”
    “Answering your own phone?”
    “Oh, hello, Jacob. How are you?”
    The rusted, squeaking hinge of a voice answered, “Better than you are if you’ve lost all your help there.”
    “I haven’t. I just had a feeling who it was, and I didn’t want to inflict them with you.”
    “Someday you’ll learn respect for your elders.”
    “You’re about the only one, Jacob. What can I do for you?”
    “It’s what I can’t do for you. I’m not going to that auction here, so you’ll have to do your own bidding if you want anything.”
    “Oh, that’s fine,” Charles said. “There wasn’t anything I wanted.”
    “So you would have had me go for nothing?”
    “You’re not going.”
    “Then it’s a good thing I’m not.”
    “I would have told you. But I do have another question.”
    “Go ahead,” Jacob said. “Run up my telephone bill.”
    “Thank you, I will. It is about the man at the auction Monday, who you saw bidding on that desk.”
    “What about him? I don’t know anything but what I saw.”
    “I’ve found out that man’s name. It’s Galen Jones.”
    “Never heard of him.”
    “I’m not surprised. Even you, Jacob, have not heard of every person.”
    “Just most.”
    “Just most. This man, Galen Jones, is a maker of replica antique furniture.”
    “Oh, is he?” A conspiratorial tone entered Jacob Leatherman’s voice. “Matchmaker? Bidding on the desk?”
    “Exactly. Now, this is what I’ve pieced together. He was sitting in the back row. Norman Highberg came in and sat next to him. Norman is an antiques dealer and knows Mr. Jones. Then, when the bidding on the desk began, Mr. Jones went to where Norman wouldn’t see him bid. And then, when the bidding escalated, Mr. Jones gave up and left. Would you say that was accurate by what you saw?”
    “That’s just what I saw, Charles.” Jacob chuckled. “Are you after something?”
    “I am, a little bit. I’m not