“You mean—Andy, the one who . . . ?”
The trench coat nodded. “You know how he was killed, don’t you?”
The other one shuddered and made a grimace of distaste.
“Here she comes.”
As Miss Duckworth glided into the room, looking cool, poised, fragile as bone china—Qwilleran went to the rear of the shop to have one more look at the Mackintosh coat of arms. It was massive and crudely made. He felt a need to touch it, and his flesh tingled as his hand made contact with the iron. Then he hefted it—with an involuntary grunt. It felt like a hundred-pound weight.
And yet, he remembered afterwards, the delicate Miss Duckworth had lifted it with apparent ease.
THREE
By noon Zwinger Street showed signs of coming to life. A halfhearted winter sunshine had broken through the gloom, adding no real joy to the scene—only a sickly smile. The sidewalks were now populated with women and quite a few men in their antiquing clothes—deliberately outlandish, mismatched, or shabby. They moved from shop to shop while waiting for the auction at one thirty.
Qwilleran decided there was time for a quick lunch and found a diner, where he gulped a leathery hot dog on a spongy roll, a beverage claiming to be coffee and a piece of synthetic pie with crust made of papier-mâché. He also telephoned the feature editor and asked for a photographer.
“About this auction,” he told Arch Riker. “We should get some candids of the crowd. Their getups are incredible.”
“I told you Junktown was colorful,” Riker reminded him.
“Don’t send me Tiny Spooner. He’s a clumsy oaf, and there are lots of breakables here.”
“At this short notice we’ll have to take any man we can get. Have you bought any antiques yet?”
“NO!” Qwilleran bellowed into the mouthpiece, at the same time thinking warmly of the Mackintosh coat of arms.
By one o’clock the scene of the auction was crowded. Andrew Glanz had done business in a large building, probably dating from the 1920s when the neighborhood had begun to go commercial. The high ceiling was hung with ladderback chair, copper pots, birdcages, sleds, and chandeliers of every description. The floor was crowded with furniture in a disorganized jumble, pushed back to make room for rows of folding chairs. A narrow stairway led to a balcony, and from its railings hung Oriental rugs and faded tapestries. Everywhere there were signs reminding customers, “If you break it, you’ve bought it.”
The auctiongoers were circulating, examining the merchandise with studious frowns, looking at the underside of plates, ringing crystal with a flick of a finger.
Qwilleran pushed through the crowd, making mental notes of the conversation around him.
“Look at this rocking horse! I had one exactly like it in the attic, and my husband burned it in the fireplace!”
“If it has a little man with a parasol on the bridge, it’s Canton china, but if he’s sitting in the teahouse, it’s Nanking . . . or maybe it’s the other way around.”
“What’s this thing? It would make a wonderful punch bowl!”
“I don’t see the finial anywhere, thank God!”
“There’s Andy’s stepladder.”
“My grandmother had a Meissen ewer, but hers was blue.”
“Do you think they’ll put up the finial?”
As the auction hour approached, people began to take seats facing the platform, and Qwilleran found a chair at the end of a row where he could watch for the Fluxion photographer to arrive. There were all kinds, all ages in the audience. One man in a Hudson Bay blanket coat carried a small dog dressed to match. Another was wearing a Santa Claus cap and a rainbow-striped muffler that hung down to the floor.
Next to Qwilleran sat a plump woman with two pairs of glasses hanging from ribbons around her neck.
“This is my first auction,” he said to her. “Do you have any advice for a greenhorn?”
The woman had been designed with a compass: large round pupils in round eyes in a round face. She gave him a half-circular smile. “Don’t scratch your ear, or you’ll find you’ve bought that pier mirror.” She pointed to a narrow mirror in an ornate frame that towered a good fourteen feet high and leaned against the balcony rail. “I was afraid I’d miss the auction. I had to go to the eye doctor, and he kept me waiting. He put drops in my eyes, and I can’t see a thing.”
“What’s the finial that everyone’s talking about?”
She shivered. “Don’t you know about Andy’s accident?”
“I heard he fell off a ladder.”
“Worse than that!” She made a pained face. “Let’s skip the details. It makes me sick to my stomach . . . . At first I thought you were an out-of-town dealer.”
“I’m from the Daily Fluxion.”
“Really?” She smoothed her ash-colored hair and turned adoring pupils in his direction. “Are you going to write up the auction? I’m Iris Cobb. My husband runs The Junkery down the street.”
“You must be the people with the apartment to rent.”
“Are you interested? You’d love it! It’s furnished with antiques.” The woman kept glancing toward the door. “Wonder if my husband is here yet. I can’t see a thing.”
“What does he look like?”
“Tall and nice-looking and probably needs a shave. He’ll be wearing a red flannel shirt.”
“He’s standing at the back, next to a grandfather’s clock.”
The woman settled back in her chair. “I’m glad he got here. He’ll do the bidding, and I won’t have to worry about it.”
“He’s talking to a character in a Santa Claus cap.”
“That must be Ben Nicholas. Ben rents one of our apartments and runs a shop called Bit o’ Junk.” With an affectionate smile she added, “He’s an idiot!”
“Anyone else I should know? There’s a blond guy on crutches, all dressed in white.”
“Russell Patch, the refinisher. He never wears anything but white.” She lowered her voice. “In front of us—the thin man—he’s Hollis Prantz. He has a new shop called Tech-Tiques. The man with the briefcase is Robert Maus, attorney for the estate.”
Qwilleran was impressed. The firm of Teahandle, Burris, Hansblow, Maus and Castle was the most prestigious in the city.
“Mr. Maus has a personal interest in Junktown,” Mrs. Cobb explained. “Otherwise—”
The rapping of a gavel interrupted the conversation in the audience, and the auctioneer opened the sale. He wore a dark business suit with a plaid shirt, string tie, and Texas boots.
“We have a lot of good goods here today,” he said, “and some smart cookies in the audience, so bid fast if you want to buy. Please refrain from unnecessary yakking so I can hear spoken bids. Let’s go!” He struck the lectern with an ivory hammer. “We’ll start with a Bennington houndhandle pitcher—collector’s dream—slight chip but what’s the difference? Who’ll give me five? Five is bid—now six? Six is bid—do I hear seven? Seven over here. Eight over there—anybody give nine?—eight I’ve got—sold for eight!”
There were protests from the audience.
“Too fast for you clods, eh? If you want to buy, keep on your toes,” the auctioneer said crisply. “We’ve got a lot of stuff to move this afternoon.”
“He’s good,” Mrs. Cobb whispered to Qwilleran. “Wait till he really gets wound up!”
Every sixty seconds another item went down under the hammer—a silver inkwell, pewter goblets, a pair of bisque figures, a prayer rug, an ivory snuffbox. Three assistants were kept busy up and down the aisles, while porters carried items to and from the platform.
“And now we have a fine, fat, cast-iron stove,” said the auctioneer, raising his voice. “We won’t lug it to the platform, because you eagle eyes can see it on the stair landing. Who’ll give me fifty?”
All heads turned to look at a sculptured black monster with a bloated silhouette and bowlegged stance.
“Fifty I have—who’ll say seventy-five?—it’s a beauty . . . . Seventy-five is
bid—do I hear a hundred?—you’re getting it cheap . . . . I have a hundred—what do I hear? . . . Hundred and ten—it’s worth twice the price . . . . Hundred-twenty is bid . . . . Hundred-thirty back there—don’t lose this prize—a nice big stove—big enough to hide a body . . . . Hundred-forty is bid—make it a hundred-fifty . . . . Sold for a hundred-fifty.” The auctioneer turned to the assistant who recorded sales. “Sold to C.C. Cobb.”
Mrs. Cobb gasped. “That fool!” she said. “We’ll never get our money out of it! I’ll bet Ben Nicholas was bidding against him. The bids were going up too fast. Ben didn’t want that stove. He was bidding just to be funny. He does it all the time. He knew C.C. wouldn’t let him have it.” She turned around and glared with unseeing eyes in the direction of the red flannel shirt and the Santa Claus cap.
The auctioneer was saying, “And now before we take an intermission, we’ll unload a few items of office equipment.”
There were reference books, a filing cabinet, a portable tape recorder, a typewriter—mundane items that had little interest for the crowd of junkers. Mrs. Cobb made a hesitant bid on the tape recorder and got it for a pittance.
“And here we have a portable typewriter—sold as is—one letter missing—who’ll give me fifty?—do I hear fifty?—I’ll take forty—I think it’s the Z that’s missing—I’m waiting for forty—thirty, then—who’ll say thirty?”
“Twenty,” said Qwilleran, to his own surprise.
“Sold to the astute gentleman with the big moustache for twenty smackers and now we’ll take a fifteen-minute break.”
Qwilleran was stunned by his windfall. He had not expected to do any bidding.
“Let’s stretch our legs,” Mrs. Cobb said, pulling at his sleeve in a familiar way.
As they stood up they were confronted by the man in the red flannel shirt. “Why’d you buy that stupid tape recorder?” he demanded of his wife.
“You wait and see!” she said with a saucy shake of her head. “This is a reporter from the Daily Fluxion. He’s interested in our vacant apartment.”
“It’s not for rent. I don’t like reporters,” Cobb growled and walked away with his hands in his trouser pockets.
“My husband is the most obnoxious dealer in Junktown,” Mrs. Cobb said with pride. “Don’t you think he’s good-looking?”
Qwilleran was trying to think of a tactful reply when there was a crash near the front door, followed by exclamations and groans. The Fluxion photographer was standing at the entrance.
Tiny Spooner was six-feet-three and weighed close to four hundred pounds, including the photographic equipment draped about his person. Added to his obesity were cameras, lens cases, meters, lights, film kits, and folding tripods dangling from straps and connected by trailing cords.
Mrs. Cobb said, “What a shame! Must have been the Sèvres vase on the Empire pedestal.”
“Was it valuable?”
“Worth about eight hundred dollars, I guess.”
“Save my seat for me,” Qwilleran said. “I’ll be right back.”
Tiny Spooner was standing near the door, looking uncomfortable. “So help me, I’m innocent,” he told Qwilleran. “I was nowhere near the silly thing.” He shifted the equipment that hung around his neck and over both shoulders, and his tripod whacked a bust of Marie Antoinette. Qwilleran flung his arms around the white marble.
“Oops,” said Tiny.
The auctioneer was looking at the remains of the Sèvres vase, instructing the porter to gather the shattered fragments carefully, and Qwilleran thought it was time to introduce himself.
“We want to get a few candid shots during the bidding,” he told the auctioneer. “You can proceed normally. Don’t pay any attention to the photographer.”
Spooner said, “I’d like to get some elevation and shoot down. Do you have a stepladder?”
There was an awkward pause. Someone laughed nervously.
“Skip it,” said the photographer. “I see there’s a balcony. I’ll shoot from the stairway.”
“Take it easy,” Qwilleran cautioned him. “If you break it, you’ve bought it.”
Spooner surveyed the scene with scorn. “Do you want form or content? I don’t know what I can do with this rubbish. Too many dynamic lines and no chiarascuro.” He waddled toward the stairway, his photo equipment swinging, and the wagging tripod narrowly missed the crown glass doors of a breakfront.
Back in his seat, Qwilleran explained to Mrs. Cobb, “He’s the only press photographer I know with a Ph.D. in mathematics, but he’s inclined to be clumsy.”
“My goodness!” she said. “If he’s so smart, why is he working for a newspaper?”
The gavel rapped, and the second half of the auction began, bringing out the most desirable items: an English bookcase, a Boule commode, a seventeenth century Greek icon, a small collection of Benin bronzes.
Occasionally there was a flash from the photographer’s lights, and women in the audience touched their hair and assumed bright, intelligent expressions.
“And now,” said the auctioneer, “we have this beautiful pair of French chairs in the original—”
There was a shriek!
A shout: “Look out!”
A porter lunged forward with arms outstretched, barely in time to steady a teetering mirror—the pier mirror that almost reached the ceiling. In another second the towering glass would have crashed on the audience.
The spectators gasped, and Qwilleran said, “Whew!” At the same time he scanned the crowd for Spooner.
The photographer was leaning over the balcony railing. He caught the newsman’s eye and shrugged.
Mrs. Cobb said, “I’ve never seen so many accidents at an auction! It gives me the creeps. Do you believe in ghosts?”
The audience was nervous and noisy. The auctioneer raised his voice and increased the tempo of his spiel. Waving his hand, jabbing his finger at bidders, jerking his thumb over his shoulder when each item was sold, he whipped the spectators into a frenzy.
“Do you want this or don’t you?—Five hundred I’ve got—Do I hear six hundred?—What’s the matter with you?—it’s two hundred years old!—I want seven—I want seven—I’ll buy it myself for seven—going, going—take it away!” The thumb jerked, the gavel crashed on the lectern, and the excitement in the audience reached a crescendo.
The two-hundred-year-old desk was removed, and the spectators waited eagerly for the next item.
At this point there was a significant pause in the action, as the auctioneer spoke to the attorney. It was a pantomime of indecision. Then they both nodded and beckoned to a porter. A moment later a hush fell on the crowd. The porter had placed a curious object on the platform—a tall, slender ornament about three feet high. It had a square base topped by a brass ball, and then a shaft of black metal tapering up to a swordlike point.
“That’s it!” someone whispered behind Qwilleran. “That’s the finial!”
Beside him, Mrs. Cobb was shaking her head and covering her face with her hands. “They shouldn’t have done it!”
“We have here,” said the auctioneer in slow, deliberate tones, “the finial from a rooftop—probably an ornament from an old house in the Zwinger reclamation area. The ball is solid brass. Needs a little polishing. What am I offered?”
The people seated around Qwilleran were shocked.
“Makes my blood run cold,” one whispered.
“I didn’t think they’d have the nerve to put it up.”
“Who’s bidding? Can you see who’s bidding?”
“Very bad taste! Very bad!” someone said.
“Did Andy actually fall on it?”
“Didn’t you know? He was impaled!”
“Sold!” snapped the auctioneer. “Sold to C.C. Cobb.”
“No!” cried Mrs. Cobb.
At that moment there was a spine-chilling crash. A bronze chandelier let loose from the ceiling and crashed on the floor, narrowly missing Mr. Maus, the attorney.
FOUR
/> It had been a splendid Victorian mansion in its day—a stately red brick with white columns framing the entrance, a flight of broad steps, and a railing of ornamental ironwork. Now the painted trim was peeling, and the steps were cracked and crumbling.
This was the building that housed the Cobbs’ antique shop, The Junkery, and the bay windows on either side of the entrance were filled with colored glass and bric-a-brac.
After the auction Qwilleran accompanied Mrs. Cobb to the mansion, and she left him in the tacky entrance hall.
“Have a look at our shop,” she said, “while I go upstairs and see if the apartment is presentable. We’ve been selling out of it for two months, and it’s probably a mess.”
“It’s been vacant two months?” Qwilleran asked, counting back to October. “Who was your last tenant?”
Mrs. Cobb looked apologetic. “Andy Glanz lived up there. You don’t mind, do you? Some people are squeamish.”
She hurried upstairs, and Qwilleran inspected the hallway. Although shabby, it was graciously wide, with carved woodwork and elaborate gaslight fixtures converted for electricity. The rooms opening off the hall were filled with miscellany in various stages of decrepitude. One room was crowded with fragments of old buildings—porch posts, fireplaces, slabs of discolored marble, stained-glass windows, an iron gate and sections of stair railing. Customers who had drifted in after the auction were poking among the debris, appraising with narrowed eyes, exhibiting a lack of enthusiasm. They were veteran junkers.
Eventually Qwilleran found himself in a room filled with cradles, brass beds, trunks, churns, weather vanes, flatirons, old books, engravings of Abraham Lincoln, and a primitive block and tackle made into a lamp. There was also a mahogany bar with brass rail, evidently salvaged from a turn-of-the-century saloon, and behind it stood a red-shirted man, unshaven and handsome in a brutal way. He watched Qwilleran with a hostile glare.
The newsman ignored him and picked up a book from one of the tables. It was bound in leather, and the cracking spine was lettered in gold that had worn away with age. He opened the book to find the title page.
The Cat Who Could Read Backwards, Ate Danish Modern, Turned on and Off Page 3