Free According to Their Deeds by Paul Robertson Page B

amazes me.”
    “I could show you how to do this.”
    “I know my limitations, Morgan.”
    “It isn’t hard, sir.”
    “I mean that I’m already not very disciplined. If I were to start poking around eBay and all those other places, I would never escape. I’ll just use my computer for email and leave the rest to you.”
    He slid around the corner to the main office. “Is Angelo’s next probation meeting this Monday or the next Monday?”
    Dorothy looked at her calendar. “A week from this Monday.”
    “I would like for him to learn better manners in dealing with people.”
    “I don’t think we could have him wait on customers.”
    “No. I’ll have to think about it.”
    The morning had progressed. Charles strolled down the stairs and wandered over to the front window to inspect a newly empty space on the shelf beside it. Outside the window a man on the sidewalk was inspecting the front of the building.
    A brown tweed jacket draped the man’s broad shoulders, and a fedora shaded his strong jaw and heavy forehead. He straightened his tie and strode up the steps.
    The door opened. Charles still had his eye on the vacancy.
    “Good morning,” the man said, coming to a stop at the counter.
    “Good morning,” Alice said, accommodating as a traffic light turning green.
    The conversation slowly accelerated. “Nice place you got here.”
    “Thank you, sir. May I help you with anything?”
    “I’m actually looking for the owner.”
    Charles turned and merged in. “That would be me.”
    Blue eyes beneath the hat brim smiled. “Then that would make you Charles Beale. I’m Frank Kelly. How do you do, Mr. Beale?”
    “I’m quite well, thank you, Mr. Kelly.”
    “Glad to hear it. I’m . . . um . . .” The blue eyes had focused on the wall behind Charles. “Well look at that!” He leaned closer to the shelves, and Charles moved aside. “Do you mind?”
    “Not at all. Go ahead.”
    “Thanks.” Mr. Kelly stared at the books, his eyes darting side to side, up and down. Then he gingerly put his hand to one and slid it out.
    Charles waited attentively. Mr. Kelly’s square jaw slipped slowly ajar; his broad forehead wrinkled.
    “This is real Raymond Chandler?” he asked.
    “Of course.”
    “Golly. First edition?”
    “That one is.”
    “Well, get a load of that.” He turned his intense blue stare back to Charles, and then to the shelves. “Are all of these—?”
    “Not all first editions.”
    “Okay.” He replaced the Chandler and pulled out a Ross Mac-Donald. “You know, I’ve seen these on the Internet. But I never really looked at one.”
    “Are you familiar with antique books, Mr. Kelly?”
    “Oh, sure. All kinds of antiques.” He shook his head wistfully as he put the book back. “It’s my job. Say, you got a place where we could talk?”
    “What about?”
    “Well . . .” Mr. Kelly glanced around the room. Only Alice was with them, crisply. “It’s business.”
    “Please, come with me.”
    Charles led him upstairs to the office.
    “Mr. Kelly, this is my wife. Dorothy, this is Mr. Frank Kelly.”
    Their guest doffed his hat and held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
    “It’s my pleasure,” Dorothy said. Bravely, she put her graceful hand into his.
    “Great.” He held it for a minute, scrutinizing her, especially studying her face and hair. Then he released her hand without any damage.
    “I guess I can talk with you both?”
    “You might as well,” Charles said.
    “Then here goes.” Faster than sight, he had a thin leather case in his hand. “I’m from the FBI,” he said, flicking the case open to show his badge.
    “How interesting!” Charles said.
    “Man, is it!” Mr. Kelly grinned. “You wouldn’t believe what comes up in this job.”
    “I couldn’t even guess.”
    “It gets pretty strange sometimes.” He shook his head. “But this isn’t.
    I’ve got you on a list of dealers that Derek Bastien bought from.”
    “I see. Yes, Derek bought a number