"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 hound-handle 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 your 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 Sevres 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 Sevres 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 — l 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.
4
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 iron-work. 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, flat- irons, 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.
"Don't open that book," came a surly command, "unless you're buying it." Qwilleran's moustache bristled. "How do I know whether I want it till I read the title?" "To hell with the title!" said the proprietor. "If you like the looks of it, buy it. If you don't, keep your sweatin' hands in your pockets. How long do you think those books will last if every jerk that comes in here has to paw the bindings?" "How much do you want for it?" Qwilleran demanded. "I don't think I want to sell it. Not to you, anyway." The other customers had stopped browsing and were looking mildly amused at Qwilleran's discomfiture. He sensed the encouragement in their glances and rose to the occasion.
"Discrimination! That's what this is," he roared. "I should report this and have you put out of business! This place is a rat's nest anyway. The city should condemn it.
… Now, how much do you want for this crummy piece of junk?" "Four bucks, just to shut your loud mouth!" "I'll give you three." Qwilleran threw some bills on the bar.
Cobb scooped them up and filed them in his billfold. "Well, there's more than one way to skin a sucker," he said with a leer at the other customers.
Qwilleran opened the book he had bought. It was The Works of the Reverend Dr. Ishmael Higginbotham, Being a Collection of Interesting Tracts Explaining Several Important Points of the Divine Doctrine, Set Forth with Diligence and Extreme Brevity.
Mrs. Cobb burst into the room. "Did you let that dirty old man bully you into buying something?" "Shut up, old lady," said her husband.
She had put on a pink dress, fixed her hair, and applied make-up, and she looked plumply pretty. "Come upstairs with me," she said sweetly, putting a friendly hand on Qwilleran's arm. "We'll have a cozy cup of coffee and let Cornball Cobb fume with jealousy." Mrs. Cobb started up the creaking staircase, her round hips bobbling from side to side and the backs of her fat knees bulging in a horizontal grin. Qwilleran was neither titillated nor repelled by the sight, but rather saddened that every woman was not blessed with a perfect figure.
"Don't pay any attention to C. C.," she said over her shoulder. "He's a great kidder." The spacious upstairs hall was a forest of old chairs, tables, desks, and chests. Several doors stood open, revealing dingy living quarters.
"Our apartment is on that side," said Mrs. Cobb, indicating an open door through which came a loud radio commercial, "and on this side we have two smaller apartments. Ben Nicholas rents the front, but the rear is nicer because it has a view of the backyard." Qwilleran looked out the hall window and saw two station wagons backed in from the alley, an iron bed, a grindstone, the fender from a car, some wagon wheels, an old refrigerator with no door, and a wooden washing machine with attached clothes wringer — most of them frozen together in a drift of dirty ice and snow. "Then how come Nicholas lives in the front?" he asked. "His apartment has a bay window, and he can keep an eye on the entrance to his shop, next door." She led the way into the rear apartment — a large square room with four tall windows and a frightening collection of furniture. Qwilleran's gaze went first to an old parlor organ in jaundiced oak — then a pair of high-backed gilded chairs with seats supported by gargoyles — then a round table, not quite level, draped with an embroidered shawl and holding an oil lamp, its two globes painted with pink roses — then a patterned rug suffering from age and melancholy — then a crude rocking chair made of bent twigs and tree bark, probably full of termites.
"You do like antiques, don't you?" Mrs. Cobb asked anxiously.
"Not especially," Qwilleran replied in a burst of honesty. "And what is that supposed to be?" He pointed to a chair with tortured iron frame, elevated on a pedestal and equipped with headrest and footrest.
"An old dentist's chair — really quite comfortable for reading. You can pump it up and down with your foot. And the painting over the fireplace is a very good primitive." With a remarkably controlled expression on his face, Qwilleran studied the lifesize portrait of someone's great- great-grandmother, dressed in black-square-jawed, thin-lipped, steely-eyed, and disapproving all she surveyed.
"You haven't said a word about the daybed," said Mrs. Cobb with enthusiasm. "It's really unique. It came from New Jersey." The newsman turned around and winced. The daybed, placed against one wall, was built like a swan boat, with one end carved in the shape of a long-necked bad-tempered bird and the other end culminating in a tail.
"Sybaritic," he said drily, and the landlady went into spasms of laughter.
A second room, toward the front of the house, had been subdivided into kitchenette, dressing room, and bath.
Mrs. Cobb said, "C. C. installed the kitchen himself. I He's handy with tools. Do you like to cook?" "No, I take most of my meals at the Press Club." "The fireplace works, if you want to haul wood upstairs. Do you like the place? I usually get one hundred and ten dollars a month, but if you like it, you can have it for eighty-five dollars." Qwilleran looked at the furniture again and groomed his moustache thoughtfully. The furnishings gave him a chill, but the rent suited his economic position admirably. "I'd need a desk and a good reading light and a place to put my books." "We've got anything you want. Just ask for it." He b
ounced on the daybed and found it sufficiently firm. Being built down to the floor, it would offer no temptations to burrowing cats. "I forgot to tell you," he said. "I have pets. A couple of Siamese cats." "Fine! They'll get rid of our mice. They can have a feast." "I don't think they like meat on the hoof. They prefer it well-aged and served medium rare with pan juices." Mrs. Cobb laughed heartily — too heartily — at his humor. "What do you call your cats?" "Koko and Yum Yum." "Oh, excuse me a minute!" She rushed from the room and returned to explain that she had a pie in the oven. An aroma of apples and spices was wafting across the hall, and Qwilleran's moustache twitched.
While Mrs. Cobb straightened pictures and tested surfaces for dust, Qwilleran examined the facilities. The bathroom had an archaic tub with clawed feet, snarling faucets, and a maze of exposed pipes. The refrigerator was new, however, and the large dressing room had a feature that interested him; one wall was a solid bank of built-in bookshelves filled with volumes in old leather bindings.
"If you want to use the shelves for something else, we'll move the books out," Mrs. Cobb said. "We found them in the attic. They belonged to the man who built this house lover a hundred years ago. He was a newspaper editor. Very prominent in the abolitionist movement. This house is quite historic." Qwilleran noticed Dostoyevski, Chesterfield, Emerson. "You don't need to move the books, Mrs. Cobb. I might like to browse through them." "Then you'll take the apartment?" Her round eyes were shining. "Have a cup of coffee and a piece of pie, and then you can decide." Soon Qwilleran was sitting in a gilded chair at the lopsided table, plunging a fork into bubbling hot pie with sharp cheese melted over the top. Mrs. Cobb watched with pleasure as her prospective tenant devoured every crumb of flaky crust and every dribble of spiced juice.
"Have some more?" "I shouldn't." Qwilleran pulled in his waistline. "But it's very good." "Oh, come on! You don't have to worry about weight. You have a very nice physique." The newsman tackled his second wedge of pie, and Mrs. Cobb described the joys of living in an old house.
The Cat Who Turned On and Off Page 3