The Cat Who Turned on and Off (3 page)

“I heard someone say—and in this kind of neighborhood, you know . . .”

“He was killed in an accident.”

“Traffic accident?”

“He fell from a ladder.” She crushed her cigarette. “I would rather not talk about it. It was too—too—”

“He was a friend of yours?” Qwilleran asked in the sympathetic tone that had won him the confidence of maidens and murderers in the past.

“Yes. But, if you don’t mind, Mr.—Mr.—”

“Qwilleran.”

“The name is Irish?” She was deliberately changing the subject.

“No, Scottish. Spelled with a Qw. And your name?”

“Duckworth.”

“Miss or Mrs. ?”

She drew a breath. “Miss . . . . I have quite a few
antiques from Scotland in the other room. Would you like to see them?”

She rose and led the way. She was tall and slender, and the kimono, a long shaft of blue, moved with silky grace among the mahogany sideboards and walnut tables.

“These andirons are Scottish,” she said, “and so is this brass salver. Do you like brass? Most men like brass.”

Qwilleran was squinting at something leaning against the wall in a far corner. “What’s that?” he demanded. He pointed to a wrought-iron coat of arms, a yard in diameter. It was a shield surrounded by three snarling cats.

“An ornament from an iron gate, I think. It may have come from the arch over the gate of a castle.”

“It’s the Mackintosh coat of arms!” said Qwilleran. “I know the inscription:
Touch not the catt bot a glove.
My mother was a Mackintosh.” He patted his moustache with satisfaction.

“You ought to buy it,” Miss Duckworth said.

“What would I do with it? I don’t even have an apartment. How much is it?”

“I’ve been asking two hundred dollars, but if you like it, you can have it for one hundred twenty-five dollars. That’s actually what I paid for it.” She lifted the weighty piece out from the wall to show it off to better advantage. “You’ll never find a better buy, and you can always sell it for what you paid—or more. That’s the nice thing about antiques. It would be wonderful over a fireplace—against a chimney
wall. See, it has remnants of a lovely old red and blue decoration.”

As she warmed to her sales talk, she grew animated and her dark-rimmed eyes glistened. Qwilleran began to feel mellow. He began to regard this blue-white porcelain creature as a possible prospect for Christmas Eve at the Press Club.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, turning away from the coat of arms with reluctance. “Meanwhile, I’m going to cover the auction this afternoon. Do you happen to know where I could get a picture of Andrew Glanz to use with my story?”

Her reserved manner returned. “What—what kind of story are you going to write?”

“I’ll just describe the auction and give suitable recognition to the deceased.”

She hesitated, glancing at the ceiling.

“If it’s true what you say, Miss Duckworth—that he was a highly respected authority—”

“I have a few pictures in my apartment upstairs. Would you like to look at them?”

She unhooked the velvet rope that barred the stairs. “Let me go first and restrain the dog.”

At the top of the stairs a large German police dog was waiting with unfriendly growl and quivering jaws. Miss Duckworth penned him in another room and then led the newsman down a long hallway, its walls covered with framed photographs. Qwilleran thought he recognized some rather important people in those frames. Of the deceased dealer there were three pictures: Glanz on a lecture platform, Glanz
with the director of the historical museum, and then a studio portrait—a photograph of a young man with a square jaw, firm mouth, and intelligent eyes—a good face, an honest face.

Qwilleran glanced at Miss Duckworth, who was clasping and unclasping her hands, and said, “May I borrow this studio shot? I’ll have it copied and return it.”

She nodded sadly.

“You have a beautiful apartment,” he said, glancing into a living room that was all gold velvet, blue silk, and polished wood. “I had no idea there was anything like this in Junktown.”

“I wish other responsible people would buy some of the old houses and preserve them,” she said. “So far the only ones who have shown any inclination to do so are the Cobbs. They have the mansion on this block. Antiques on the first floor and apartments upstairs.”

“Apartments? Do you know if they have one for rent?”

“Yes,” the girl said, lowering her eyes. “There’s one vacant in the rear.”

“I might inquire about it. I need a place to live.”

“Mrs. Cobb is a very pleasant woman. Don’t let her husband upset you.”

“I don’t upset easily. What’s wrong with her husband?”

Miss Duckworth turned her attention to the downstairs hall. Customers had walked into the house and were chattering and exclaiming. “You go
down,” she instructed Qwilleran, “and I’ll let the dog out of the kitchen before I follow you.”

Downstairs two women were wandering among the treasures—women with the air and facial characteristics of suburban housewives; the newsman had met hundreds of them at flower shows and amateur art exhibits. But the garb of these women was out of character. One wore a man’s leather trench coat and a woolly mop of a hat studded with seashells, while the other was bundled up in an Eskimo parka over black-and-white checkerboard trousers stuffed into hunting boots with plaid laces.

“Oh, what a lovely shop,” said the parka.

“Oh, she’s got some old Steuben,” said the trench coat.

“Oh, Freda, look at this decanter! My grandmother had one just like it. Wonder what she wants for it.”

“She’s high, but she has good things. Don’t act too enthusiastic, and she’ll come down a few dollars,” the trench coat advised, adding in a low voice, “Did you know she was Andy’s girl friend?”

“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.

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.