by Otto Penzler
The words “dust and ashes, dust and ashes,” strayed through my brain.
On my first visit, you may remember that I had been impressed by the incongruous cleanliness of the place. The queer fancy now struck me that this old man was like an accumulation of all the dust one might have expected to see scattered over such precincts. In truth, he looked scarcely more solid than a mere conglomeration of dust that might be dispersed at a breath or a touch.
What a queer old creature to be employed by those healthy, well-to-do-looking girls! “He must,” I thought, “be some old retainer kept on out of charity.”
“Anything I can show you, sir?” repeated the old man. His voice had little more body than the tearing of a cobweb, and yet there was a curious, almost pleading, insistence in it, and his eyes were fixed on me in a wan yet devouring stare. I wanted to leave. Definitely I wanted to go. The proximity of this pitiable old man depressed me; I felt wretchedly dispirited, but, involuntarily murmuring “Thank you, I’ll look round,” I found myself following his frail form and absent-mindedly inspecting various objects temporarily illuminated by his trembling taper.
The chill silence only broken by the tired shuffle of his carpet slippers got on my nerves. “Very cold night, isn’t it?” I hazarded.
“Cold is it? Cold, cold, yes, I dare say.” In his grey voice was the apathy of extreme initiation.
“Been at this job long?” I asked, dully peering at an old four-poster bed.
“A long, long time.” The answer came softly as a sigh, and as he spoke Time seemed no longer a matter of days, weeks, months, years, but something that stretched immeasurably. I resented the old man’s exhaustion and melancholy, the infection of which was so unaccountably weighing down my own spirits.
“How long, O Lord, how long?” I said as jauntily as possible—adding, with odious jocularity—“Old age pension about due, what?” No response.
In silence we moved across to the other side of the room.
“Quaint piece that,” said my guide, picking up a little grotesque frog that was lying on a shelf amongst numerous other small objects. It seemed to be made of some substance similar to jade and, rather struck by its uncouth appearance, I took it from the old man’s hand. It was strikingly cold.
“I think it’s rather fun,” I said. “How much?”
“Half a crown, sir,” whispered the old man, glancing up at my face. His voice had no more body than the sliding of dust, but in his eyes there was an unmistakable gleam of eagerness.
“Is that all? I’ll have it,” said I. “Don’t bother to pack up old Anthony Roland. I’ll put him in my pocket. Half a crown, did you say? Here it is.”
In giving the old man the coin, I inadvertently touched his extended palm. I could scarcely suppress a start. I have said the frog struck cold, but its substance was tepid compared to that dessicated skin. I cannot describe the chill sensation received in that second’s contact. “Poor old fellow!” I thought, “he’s not fit to be about in this cold, lonely place. I wonder at those kind-looking girls allowing such an old wreck to struggle on. Good night,” I said.
“Good night, sir; thank you, sir,” quavered the feeble old voice. He closed the door behind me.
Turning my head as I breasted the driving snow, I saw his form, scarcely more solid than shadow, outlined against the candlelight. His face was pressed against the big glass pane. I imagined his tired, patient eyes peering after his vanishing customer.
Somehow I was unable to dismiss the thought of that old man from my mind. Long, long after I was in bed and courting sleep I saw that maze of wrinkles, his ravaged face and his great initiated eyes like lifeless planets, staring, staring at me, and in their steady stare there seemed a sort of question. Yes, I was unaccountably perturbed by his personality, and even after I achieved sleep my dreams were full of my strange acquaintance.
Haunted, I suppose, by a sense of his infinite tiredness, in my dream I was trying to force him to rest—to lie down. But no sooner did I succeed in laying his frail form on the four-poster bed I had noticed in the shop (only now it seemed more like a grave than a bed, and the brocade coverlet had turned into sods of turf)—than he would slip from my grasp and totteringly set forth on his rambles around the shop. On and on I chased him, down endless avenues of weird furniture, but still he eluded me, and now the dim shop seemed to stretch on and on immeasurably—to merge into an infinity of sunless, airless space until at length I myself sank breathless and exhausted on to the four-poster grave.
The next morning I received an urgent summons to my mother’s sick bed, and in the anxiety of the ensuing week the episode of the Corner Curio Shop was banished from my mind. As soon as the invalid was declared out of danger, I returned to my dreary lodging. Dejectedly engaged in adding up my petty household accounts and wondering where on earth I was to find the money to pay next quarter’s rent, I was agreeably surprised by a visit from an old school-fellow—at that time practically the only friend I possessed in London. He was employed by one of the best-known firms of fine art dealers and auctioneers.
After a few minutes’ conversation, he rose in search of a light. My back was turned to him. I heard the sharp scratch of a match, followed by propitiating noises to his pipe. These were suddenly broken off by an exclamation.
“Good God, man!” he shouted. “Where did you get this?”
Turning round, I saw that he had snatched up my purchase of the other night, the funny little frog, whose presence on my mantelpiece I had practically forgotten.
He was holding it under the gas-jet, closely scrutinising it through a small magnifying glass, and his hands were shaking with excitement. “Where did you get this?” he repeated. “Have you any idea what it is?”
Briefly I told him that, rather than leave a shop empty-handed, I had bought the frog for half a crown.
“For half a crown?” he echoed. “My dear fellow, I can’t swear to it, but I believe you’ve had one of those amazing pieces of luck one hears about. Unless I’m very much mistaken, this is a piece of jade of the Hsia Dynasty.”
To my ignorance these words conveyed little. “Do you mean it’s worth money?”
“Worth money? Phew!” he ejaculated. “Look here. Will you leave this business to me? Let me have the thing for my firm to do the best they can by you. To-day’s Monday. I shall be able to get it into Thursday’s auction.”
Knowing I could implicitly trust my friend, I readily agreed to his proposal. Carefully enwrapping the frog in cotton-wool, he departed.
Friday morning I received the shock of my life. Shock does not necessarily imply bad news, and I can assure you that for some seconds after opening the one envelope lying on my dingy breakfast-tray, the room spun round and round me. The envelope contained an invoice from Messrs. Spunk, fine art dealers and auctioneers:
To sale of Hsia jade, £2,000, less 10
per cent. commission.… £1,800,
and there, neatly folded, made out to Peter Wood, Esq., was Messrs. Spunk’s cheque for £1,800. For some time I was completely bewildered. My friend’s words had raised hopes; hopes that my chance purchase might facilitate the payment of next quarter’s rent—might even provide for a whole year’s rent—but that so large a sum was involved had never even crossed my mind. Could it be true, or was it some hideous joke? Surely it was—in the trite phrase—much, much too good to be true! It was not the sort of thing that happened to oneself.
Still feeling physically dizzy, I rang up my friend. The normality of his voice and the heartiness of his congratulations convinced me as to the truth of my astounding fortune. It was no joke—no dream. I, Peter Wood, whose bank account was at present £20 overdrawn, and who possessed no securities save shares to the extent of £150, by a sheer fluke, now held in my hand a piece of paper convertible into 1,800 golden sovereigns. I sat down to think—to try to realise—to readjust. From a jumble of plans, problems, and emotions one fact emerged crystal clear. Obviously, I could not take advantage of the gi
rl’s ignorance or of her poor old caretaker’s incompetence. I could not accept this amazing gift from Fate, simply because I had bought a treasure for half a crown.
Clearly I must return at least half of the sum to my unconscious benefactors. Otherwise I should feel I had robbed them almost as much as though I had broken into their shop like a thief in the night. I remember their pleasant open countenances. What fun to astonish them with the wonderful news! I felt a strong impulse to rush to the shop, but having for once a case in court, I was obliged to go to the Temple. Endorsing Messrs. Spunk’s cheque, I addressed it to my bankers, and, consulting the fly-leaf of my cheque-book, made out one to the Corner Curio Shop for £900. This I placed in my pocket, determined to call at the Corner Shop on my way home.
It was late before I was free to leave the Law Courts, and on arriving at the shop, though somewhat disappointed, I was not greatly surprised to find that it was again shut, with the notice “Closed” slung over the handle. Even supposing the old caretaker to be on duty, there was no particular point in seeing him. My business was with his mistress. So, deciding to postpone my visit to the following day, I was just on the point of hurrying home, when—as though I were expected—the door opened, and there on the threshold stood the old man peering out into the darkness.
“Anything I can do for you, sir?”
His voice was even queerer than before. I now realised that I had dreaded re-encountering him, but I felt irresistibly compelled to enter. The atmosphere was as grimly cold as on my last visit. I found myself actually shivering. Several candles, obviously only just lit, were burning, and by their glimmering light I saw the old man’s grey gaze questioningly fixed upon me. What a face! I had not exaggerated its weirdness. Never had I seen so singular, so striking a being. No wonder I had dreamt of him. I wished he had not opened the door.
“Anything I can show you to-night, sir?” he rather tremulously inquired.
“No, thanks. I have come about that thing you sold me the other day. I find it’s of great value. Please tell your mistress that I will pay her a proper price for it tomorrow.”
As I spoke there spread over the old man’s face the most wonderful smile. “Smile” I use for lack of a better word; but how to convey any idea of the beauty of the indefinable expression that now transfigured that time-worn face? Tender triumph, gentle rapture! It was frost yielding to sunshine. Never before have I witnessed the thawing of thickly frozen grief—the dawn radiance of attainment. For the first time I had some inkling of the meaning of the word “beatitude.” Impossible to describe the impression made on me by that transfigured face. The moment, as it were, brimmed over. Time ceased, and I became conscious of infinite things. The silence of the shop was now broken by that gathering sound of an old clock about to break into speech. I turned my head towards one of those wonderful pieces of mediæval workmanship—a Nuremberg grandfather clock. From a recess beneath its exquisitely painted face, quaint figures emerged, and while one struck a bell, others daintily stepped through a minuet. My attention was riveted by the pretty spectacle, and not till the last sounds had trembled into silence did I turn my head.
I found myself alone.
The old man had disappeared. Surprised at his leaving me, I looked all round the large room. Oddly enough, the fire, which I had supposed to be dead, had flared into unexpected life, and was now casting a cheerful glow. But neither fire nor candlelight showed any trace of the old caretaker. He had vanished.
“Hullo! Hullo!” I called interrogatively.
No answer. No sound, save the loud ticking of clocks and the busy crackling of the fire. I walked all round the room. I even looked into the four-poster bed of which I had dreamt. I then saw that there was a smaller adjoining room, and, seizing a candle, I resolved to explore it. At the far end I discerned a small staircase obviously leading up to a sort of gallery that surrounded the room. The old man must have withdrawn into some upstairs lair. I would follow him. I groped my way to the foot of the stairs, and began to ascend, but the steps creaked beneath my feet, I had a feeling of crumbling woodwork, my candle went out: cobwebs brushed against my face. To continue was most uninviting. I desisted.
After all, what did it matter? Let the old man hide himself. I had given my message. Best be gone. But the main room to which I had returned had now become quite warm and cheerful. How could I ever have thought it sinister. And it was with a distinct sense of regret that I left the shop. I felt balked. I would have liked to see more of that irradiating smile. Dear, strange, old man! How could I ever have fancied that I feared him?
The next Saturday I was free to go straight to the shop. On the way there my mind was agreeably occupied in anticipating the cordial welcome the grateful sisters were sure to give me. As the clank of the bell announced my opening of the door, the two girls, who were busily dusting their treasures, turned their heads to see who came at so unusually early an hour. Recognising me, to my surprise they bowed pleasantly, but quite casually, as though to a mere acquaintance.
With the fairy-tale bond between us, I had expected quite a different sort of greeting. I at once guessed that they had not yet heard the astounding news, and when I said “I’ve brought the cheque!” I saw that my surmise was correct. Their faces expressed blank uncomprehension.
“Cheque?” echoed the grown-up sister. “What cheque?”
“For the frog I bought the other day.”
“The frog? What frog? I only remember you buying a piece of Sheffield plate.”
I saw they knew nothing, not even of my second visit to their shop! By degrees I told them the whole story. They were bewildered with astonishment. The elder sister seemed quite dazed.
“But I can’t understand it! I can’t understand it!” she repeated. “Holmes isn’t even supposed to admit anyone in our absence—far less to sell things. He just comes here as caretaker on the evenings when we leave early, and he’s only supposed to stay till the night policeman comes on to his beat. I can’t believe he let you in and never even told us he’d sold you something. It’s too extraordinary! What time was it?”
“Round about seven, I should think,” I answered.
“He generally leaves about half-past six,” said the girl. “But I suppose the policeman must have been late.”
“It was later when I came yesterday.”
“Did you come again yesterday?” she asked.
Briefly I told her of my visit and the message I had left with the caretaker.
“What an incredible thing!” she exclaimed. “I can’t begin to understand it; but we shall soon hear his explanation. I’m expecting him in at any moment now. He comes in every morning to sweep the floors.”
At the prospect of meeting the remarkable old man again, I felt an appreciable thrill of excitement. How would he look in the strong daylight? Would he smile again?
“He’s very old, isn’t he?” I hazarded.
“Old? Yes, I suppose he is getting rather old; but it’s a very easy job. He’s a good, honest fellow. I can’t understand his doing this sort of thing on the sly. I’m afraid we’ve been rather slack in our cataloguing lately. I wonder if he’s been selling odds and ends for himself? Oh no, I can’t bear to think it! By the way, can you remember whereabouts this frog was?”
I pointed to the shelf from which the caretaker had picked up the piece of jade.
“Oh, from that assortment? It’s a lot I bought the other day for next to nothing, and I haven’t sorted or priced them yet. I can’t remember seeing a frog. Oh, what an incredible thing to happen!”
At this moment the telephone rang. She raised the receiver to her ear, and spoke down the instrument.
“Hullo! Hullo!” I heard her voice. “Yes, it’s Miss Wilton speaking. Yes, Mrs. Holmes, what do you want?” There was a few seconds’ pause, and then in startled tones her voice went on: “Dead? Dead? But how? Why? Oh, I am sorry!”
After a few more words she replaced the receiver and turned to us, her eyes full of tears.
Both girls were very much upset and, saying that I would soon return, I thought it best to leave. That hauntingly singular old man had made so vivid an impression upon me that I felt deeply moved by the news of his sudden death. How strange that I should have been, except for his wife, the last person to speak with him. No doubt the fatal pain had seized him in my very presence, and that was why he had left me so abruptly and without a word. Had Death already brushed against his consciousness? That ineffable irradiating smile? Was that the beginning of the peace that passes all understanding?
I returned to the Corner Curio Shop the next day. I told them all the details of the sale of the fabulous frog, and presented the cheque I had drawn out. Here I met with unexpected opposition. The sisters showed great unwillingness to accept the money. It was—they said—all mine, and they had no need of it.
“You see,” explained Miss Wilton, “my father had a flare for this business amounting to a sort of genius, and made quite a large fortune. When he became too old to carry on the shop, we kept it open out of sentiment and for the sake of occupation; but we don’t need to make any profit out of it.”
At last I prevailed upon them to accept the money, if only to spend it on the various charities in which they were interested. It was a relief to my mind when the matter was thus settled.