Manxmouse (Essential Modern Classic)

by Paul Gallico

  As each succeeding lot was knocked down, anticipation mounted. In his little box cage under the care of one of the uniformed attendants, Manxmouse awaited his fate in considerable confusion.

  He had never quite understood the whole affair, except that his ‘owner’, Mr Smeater, was not a very nice man what with his dyed birds and fish and cheating parrots. But he had had little time to reflect, it had all gone so rapidly. And now he was part of something called an auction.

  As Lot No. 84 was sold, the crowd began to move uneasily in its seats. At No. 85, there was a shuffling of feet and a clearing of throats. At No. 86, women clutched the arms of their escorts to avoid fainting from the tension. At last Mr Bidemup placed his glasses at the end of their black ribbon upon the bridge of his nose and announced, “Lot No. 87: one blue, tailless Manx Mouse reputed to be the only one in existence.”

  The attendant gently lifted Manxmouse out of his box and placed him upon the pedestal where all could see. There was a great rustle and a murmur ran through the bidders. Necks were craned and people stood up to see amidst loud cries of, “Down in front! Keep your seats, please!”

  “I have a bid for fifty thousand pounds,” said Mr Bidemup, but immediately changed it to “one hundred thousand,” as someone must have signalled. “A hundred and fifty thousand – two hundred thousand – two hundred and fifty – three hundred…”

  Manxmouse on his pedestal looked over the assemblage and wondered how it was that so many obviously good people in beautiful clothes could appear so flushed with greed. What on earth was it they wanted that made their faces so red, their eyes narrowed and their mouths all twisted and peculiar?

  Mr Bidemup was wonderful. He never grew flustered or lost his head as the bidding mounted. “Three hundred and fifty thousand,” he said, “… against you, Your Grace. Four hundred thousand from New York. Four hundred and fifty from Buenos Aires. Was that you bidding, Your Majesty? Sorry, I couldn’t see. Thank you, I have your bid, five hundred thousand…”

  Half a million pounds! The excitement in the saleroom became almost unbearable.

  “Five hundred and fifty thousand from San Francisco… Six hundred thousand, thank you, Sheik Ibn-Cascarah… Six hundred and fifty thousand, at the back of the room.”

  Mr Smeater hugged himself. Every time that somebody held up a hand or waggled a catalogue, or an electric impulse arrived from the other side of the world, he was fifty thousand pounds richer. Could it be possible that he was about to become a millionaire? Everyone in the auction room was asking themselves the same question as the price continued up to seven hundred thousand, seven hundred and fifty, and eight hundred thousand pounds.

  At eight hundred and fifty thousand, the auction slowed down momentarily as they always do. People needed to catch their breath and consult their bank balances, and their consciences. And, sitting up on his pedestal with his gentle expression, Manxmouse was consulting his own. For at last understanding of what was going on had come to him and he was saying to himself, “But this is ridiculous! Someone is going to spend all that money on me? I could never allow that. I’m not worth it. I’d never be able to have another peaceful night’s sleep if I thought I’d let somebody pay that much money. And besides,” and here his face became somewhat sadder, “I don’t belong to Mr Smeater at all. I belong to Manx Cat… everyone has said so.”

  “Are you all finished at eight hundred and fifty thousand pounds?” asked the auctioneer, and glanced about the gathering. And at this point an attendant crossed in front of the pedestal where Manxmouse was perched and whispered something to Mr Bidemup, who immediately announced, “I have nine hundred thousand pounds. Sorry! Against you again, Your Grace. At nine hundred thousand… thank you, nine hundred and fifty thousand…”

  And now, as the fantastic figure of a million pounds was approached, the tension in the saleroom reached explosive proportions. Men loosened their collars, women fanned themselves.

  Mr Bidemup intoned, “Nine hundred and fifty thousand pounds, I am bid,” and he looked about the assembly and continued. “Will anyone say a million?” For a moment you could have heard a feather drop. And then with a triumphant note in his voice, he announced, “One million pounds is bid! At one million pounds – at one million pounds - are you all done, then?” and with a sharp rap, his hammer fell and he announced, “Sold to Sheik Ibn-Cascarah, at one million pounds.”

  For, of course, sitting on half the oil of Arabia, the sheik had more money than anyone else in the world.

  A great shout went up from the audience and a tremendous burst of applause as the sheik, clad in his white robes, arose to accept congratulations. Every lens was focused upon him.

  Mr Smeater was jumping up and down with joy, saying to himself over and over, “I’m a millionaire! I’m a millionaire!”

  Such a sensational and dramatic moment had never before been seen in the famous saleroom. That is, until the attendant who had Manxmouse’s box under his arm went over and whispered something to Mr Bidemup, who at first turned pale and then quite red. Beating upon his desk with his hammer insistently until he had produced quiet, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, have any of you seen the Manx Mouse?”

  There was a chorus of, “What? Where?” and all eyes were turned upon the pedestal. It was empty. Manxmouse was no longer there.

  There was a gasp from the crowd and one could almost hear it echoed from Sydney, Buenos Aires, San Francisco and New York. A moment before the mouse had been there; now it was not.

  Sheik Ibn-Cascarah, already dark of colour, was looking even darker.

  The auctioneer retained his calm. He said, “Naturally, if the purchase cannot be delivered, your bid is cancelled. But perhaps he has got on to the floor somewhere… Would you all please have a look?”

  And at that, although he meant it for the best, the balloon went up. A woman’s voice was heard to shriek, “What, a mouse loose on the floor? Help!” and she got up on to her chair.

  Immediately the other women climbed on to the nearest ones, trying to pull their miniskirts down over their knees and screaming. Other chairs were being overturned or were collapsing as the men and attendants searched under them. Clothing was torn, fist fights started and not until it became quite clear that there was no Manx Mouse anywhere did the confusion cease.

  And, naturally, he was not to be found, for at the moment that the attendant had crossed over in front of him, he had slid down the pillar of the pedestal, run under the seats to the rear of the room where the exit was, nipped across the floor, whipped through the hall, dashed down the stairs and out into the street. There, just at that moment, luckily, a cab drew up to the kerb and discharged a gentleman in a bowler hat carrying a briefcase and a rolled umbrella. As he paid the driver, Manxmouse leapt inside; the door was shut and the cab drove off with him.

  And thus did the great, million-pound Manx Mouse auction come to an end, except for a very unhappy session that Mr Smeater had with the head of the famous firm in his office, a little later. There, Mr Bidemup was saying, “One million pounds at our usual ten per cent… that will be one hundred thousand pounds.”

  “But the mouse has gone,” complained Mr Smeater. “There wasn’t any sale.”

  As always, Mr Bidemup retained his stately cool. “If you will remember, sir, the agreement was that you pay a percentage of the final sale bid. If you will look there in the fine print—”

  “But it’s your fault!” screamed Mr Smeater. “Your men let the Manx Mouse go!”

  “Paragraph two, just below… where it says, ‘and Bidemup’s can accept no responsibility of any kind for the animal’… and, ahem, this is your signature at the bottom of the document, is it not?”

  And there it was. Mr Smeater was compelled to pay over every penny of the money he had earned from Manxmouse prior to the sale and sell his shop and his house to boot, to make up the difference. For his pains he was left only with the expensive suit of clothes which, as has been regrettably noted, did not make him look any be
tter than had his old one.

  As for Manxmouse, he was on his way somewhere in an empty taxi in London.

  But the taxi did not remain empty for long. Even before it had reached Piccadilly it was hailed and a gentleman who looked exactly like the one who had got out, bowler had and all, got in. “Savoy,” he said, and off they went.

  Manxmouse squeezed himself into a corner on the floor where he would not be likely to be noticed. The cab twisted this way and that through the traffic until they drew up at the famous Savoy Hotel in the Strand, where the doorman said to the driver as the gentleman stepped out, “Haven’t seen anything of a Manx Mouse, have you? It’s got away. Just heard it on the radio. Worth a million pounds.”

  “Wouldn’t know one if I saw one,” said the driver.

  “Shocking looking thing,” said the doorman. “About a foot high, they say, with horns and a stinger, and green all over. Haven’t left anything in the cab, have you, sir?” This to the passenger who was paying. And as they always do, the doorman had a look for parcels, bags or umbrellas forgotten.

  Manxmouse squdged down as small as he could.

  The doorman, however, was looking for something quite different – people never manage to get things right that they hear – and so did not see him. “Yes, madam, taxi…”

  “Fortnum and Mason, please.”

  When they arrived there it turned out to be London’s celebrated food shop with the most delicious-looking hams, tongues, chickens, cheeses, jars of caviar, bottles of fruits and wines in the window which started up Manxmouse’s appetite again. But he did not dare get out, for there was a commissionaire in an imposing uniform who asked the driver the same question about the missing Manx Mouse and then said, “You wouldn’t hardly be able to miss ’im. They say he’s three feet long, with teeth like a shark, purple scales and barks like a dog. Yes, sir. Taxi. Here you are, sir.”

  This time an elderly gentleman got in and said, “Hamley’s in Regent Street,” for he was going to buy a present for the birthday of his niece. Hamley’s turned out to be one of the biggest and most marvellous toy shops in the world and when they got there, it seemed, according to the attendant who opened the door of the cab, that Manxmouse had grown wings like a bat, legs like a stork, the hide of a rhinoceros and grunted like a pig.

  “Marks and Spencer!” directed the next customer and by the time they arrived at yet another well-known store, Manxmouse was supposed to be about the size of a medium hippopotamus with a beak like an eagle’s, tusks and hide like a walrus, the tail of a gibbon and the cry of a mother auk.

  That was bad enough, but the feeling of being hunted was even worse. Everyone was looking for him or talking about him, and on a newspaper vendor’s board outside Marks and Spencer, Manxmouse caught a glimpse of a bulletin scribbled in large letters: ‘MILLION POUND BIDEMUP ESCAPE! ALL LONDON SEEKS MANX MOUSE!’ People were crowding around and buying the afternoon papers at a tremendous rate.

  By this time, Manxmouse had gnawed himself a small hole in the leather of the seat down by the floor and slipped inside whence he could peer out and see, but not be seen. And for the rest of the afternoon he was a part of what a London taxi driver lives through every day of his life: the frustrating stalls in traffic and never knowing where he will be bound for next.

  They had calls to addresses in Harley Street, where all the doctors had their offices, fashionable Belgravia and arty Bloomsbury, to the Portobello Road, the British Museum and St Paul’s Cathedral. They ranged as far north as Hampstead Heath and south to Battersea Rise. Manxmouse smelt that they kept passing the most wonderful green patches where he might have found a hiding place, such as St James’s, Green, Hyde and Regent’s Parks, but they never stopped at any.

  When a passenger ordered the driver to take him to St Martin-in-the-Fields, Manxmouse took heart. Once in a field again he would feel safe. But the address turned out to be the name of a church in the heart of the busy city, by Trafalgar Square with not so much as a blade of grass in sight.

  The fares were as diverse as the addresses: men, women, children, young, old, middle-aged, sick, well, chatty and silent. There were elegant ladies who sat up in prim-mouthed dignity, or more poorly clad working women who could not resist a natter with the driver, chiefly on the subject of the missing Manx Mouse who had now grown to the proportions of a beast the size of an elephant with a hump on its back, headlamps for eyes, a forked tongue and ten claws on each foot.

  The cab picked up doctors, solicitors, clergymen, an actress on the way to rehearsal, a blind beggar who was not blind at all, but was moving his pitch from one part of town to another, and five hippies from Chelsea who were going to the Iranian Embassy to protest over something. They plucked on guitars and smelled bad.

  An unexpected break came when the driver picked up a family outside Earls Court, London’s big Exhibition Hall where there was a Dairy Show going on. They climbed into the taxi clutching handfuls of samples they had collected inside: cheeses, butter, powdered and malted milks and other edible products. When one of these fell to the floor of the cab, quick as a flash, Manxmouse whipped it into his hiding place. While they searched for it, remarking that they could not imagine where it had got to, he had a satisfactory meal and felt better prepared to face whatever lay before him.

  The weather had changed again, with intermittent rain and sunshine and now, as it grew dark, Manxmouse knew that it was time for him to have a go at getting away. He could not remain in the cab for ever and the driver would soon be going home. But how? Leap out when the door was opened? With all London on the alert for some kind of strange looking animal worth an absolute fortune?

  It was shortly before six o’clock that the opportunity came. Another gentleman in bowler hat with umbrella and briefcase (London seemed to be full of them), hailed the cab just outside Buckingham Palace, where the Queen lived, giving Manxmouse a glimpse of it as he got in and said, “Go to that newsreel cinema in the Marylebone Road, near the Planetarium. I’ve an hour yet before my train.”

  “Right you are, guvnor.”

  And Manxmouse saw that, for once, his umbrella was not rolled, since it had been raining shortly before. Its owner leaned it against the seat. As they turned a corner it fell to the floor and by the time he had picked it up again, Manxmouse was inside it. In this way no one would see him leave the cab. What he would do thereafter would remain to be seen.

  But he had not reckoned upon those treacherous skies. As they drew up at the cinema, the heavens decided to let go again.

  The gentleman jumped out, said, “Half a moment,” to the driver and opened his umbrella before reaching into his pocket for the fare. And out on to the pavement dropped Manxmouse.

  It was hard to tell who was the more astonished. “’Ullo, ’ullo,” said the cabby. “Where’d you pick ’im up?”

  “I can’t imagine. It must have been in your taxi.”

  “Garn! I ain’t never ’ad a mouse in me cab in me life.” And then suddenly staring, he cried, “Lookee here, guvnor, that wouldn’t be that there Minxmanx they’ve been talking about? Grab ’im, guv!”

  “By Jove!” said the gentleman and bent over to do so. But Manxmouse was off and running hard with the man and the driver, who had jumped down off his cab, in pursuit, the latter shouting, “It’s the Mooseminx! Stop ’im!”

  But by now it was nearly dark and raining heavily. The streets were slippery, other pedestrians took up the cry and the chase, but they interfered with one another, or skidded. Since none of them knew exactly what they were chasing, this gave Manxmouse his chance.

  On the right there seemed to be a building the entrance to which was ablaze with lights and there was a large sign over the door. Just at that moment all the lights went out leaving the front in darkness, but the door was still open with one or two stragglers emerging therefrom. Manxmouse did a beautiful right turn and dashed inside just as a man in uniform approached, dangling a bunch of keys.

  He turned and shouted up a flight of stair
s to someone, “Any left, Joe?” to which the reply came down, “All clear. What about ’Orrors?” From below another voice said, “Ain’t none down ’ere.”

  “OK, then,” said the attendant with the keys. “Last one is out.” He pushed the heavy door shut and locked it just as the hue and cry behind Manxmouse came charging up. Manxmouse himself had ducked beneath a counter just inside and was keeping very still.

  There came a pounding on the door from without and cries of, “The Manx Mouse! The Manx Mouse! Let us in!”

  “Closed for the night!” the attendant shouted back.

  There were more bangings and calls. “The Manx Mouse! He’s inside. Let us in.”

  “Of course he’s in here,” said the attendant. “And no extra charge to see ’im. But you’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning. We’re closed now. Can’t you read? It’s six o’clock. Doors open at nine in the morning.”

  Some still kept at it, crying, “Open up! We know he’s in there!”

  The attendant laughed. “So do we,” he said. “Nine o’clock tomorrow and you can all come in at seven and six each, ’Orrors included.”

  Eventually the pursuers became disgusted and went away. Four other attendants now appeared from various parts of the building. “All the daft ones ain’t in the loony bin,” said the chief with the keys. “Can you imagine bein’ all that crazy to have a dekko at a bloomin’ mouse? Right then, goodnight, Tom. See you tomorrow, Bill. Take the side door, Jerry. You goin’ my way, Alf? What about a quick one?”

  And the five left to change into their street clothes and go home. Manxmouse heard their voices once more as they left by the side exit. Then that door slammed and the key rattled in the lock.

  Manxmouse crept out from beneath the counter. A few lights had been left burning. He was all alone but he had no idea where. And he was most puzzled by the behaviour of the men in uniform. For he had heard them admit to the pursuers outside that they knew he was there inside with them, and then refuse to let them in. They had instituted no search themselves but had told the ones outside to return at nine in the morning. It was most mysterious, baffling and confusing.