“Lot number one,” said the auctioneer in a brisk chant. “Lowestoft china, 1787, with the New York insignia, design female and eagle, two hundred pieces, rare antiquity and historic value, who’ll start it with five thousand dollars? Do I hear five thousand on lot number one? Five thousand?”
“Two thousand,” called out a cadaverous man with the predatory look of a rabid collector.
The auctioneer groaned. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. A crude imitation of these superb antiques brought seven thousand in a private sale only a few years ago—”
“Twenty-five hundred,” said a calm, rather husky voice from the rear.
“Three thousand,” droned the cadaverous man.
“Thirty-five,” said the husky voice.
“Thirty-five! Who says four thousand?”
“Four thousand,” said Mr. Anatole Ruhig.
“Five? Do I hear five?”
“Forty-five hundred,” said the husky voice.
“Forty-five bid! Five, any one? You, sir? Mr. Ruhig? Forty-five once, forty-five twice, forty-five… Sold to the gentleman for forty-five hundred dollars.
Robbery! screamed Val silently. The Lowestoft had come down in the family. It was worth many, many thousands. Robber! She craned with the others to see the husky-voiced thief. He was a spare young man with a close black beard covering his cheeks and chin, and he wore
pince-nez
glasses. Val after one malevolent look turned her eyes front. Robber!
Lot number two went up; Val heard the rattle of auctioneer’s patter and bids only dimly. Poor Rhys was so rigid. It was horrible having to be here. … When the voices stopped it appeared that the husky one belonging to the bearded young man had again prevailed. The beast—buying poor mother’s b-bedroom suite!
Lot number three—history repeated itself. There were murmurs from the floor, and the auctioneer looked enchanted. Mr. Anatole Ruhig, who seemed to have a passion for antiques, looked definitely unenchanted. Black looks were hurled at the unconquerable bidder. … Far in the rear, Mr. Walter Spaeth sat slumped in a chair, his right hand absently sketching on the back of an envelope the head of the bearded young man, who was sitting in the row before.
Lot number four. Number five. Six. Seven. …
“It’s a frame-up,” said some one loudly. “He doesn’t give any one else a chance!”
“Quiet! Please! Ladies and gentlemen—”
“This isn’t an auction, it’s a monologue!”
Three people rose and went out in a dudgeon. Mr. Anatole Ruhig was by this time regarding the villain of the piece thoughtfully. The cadaverous one rose and left too. Val looked around in a panic; Rhys frowned at the greedy one.
Lot number eight, nine, number ten. …
“I’m going!”
“So am I!”
The bearded young man coughed. “Common courtesy compels me to warn those who still remain that you may as well leave, too, unless you choose to remain as mere spectators.”
“I beg your pardon, sir—” began the auctioneer, who did not like the way things were going.
“I was about to add,” the bearded young man called out to the auctioneer, “that we can all save a lot of wear-and-tear on our vocal cords if we face the fact.”
“The fact?” said the auctioneer in bewilderment, rapping for order.
“The fact that I humbly intend,” continued the young man, getting to his feet and revealing considerable flannel-clad length, “to buy every lot in this auction, regardless of opposition bidding.” And he sat down, smiling pleasantly at his neighbors.
“Who is he?” muttered Rhys Jardin.
“Don’t you know?” whispered Val. “I can’t understand—”
“This is highly irregular,” said the auctioneer, wiping his face.
“In fact,” said the young man hoarsely from his seat, “to save time I’m prepared to offer, Mr. Jardin a lump sum for the entire catalogue!”
The man behind Val jumped up and shouted: “It’s a conspiracy, that’s what it is!”
“I see the whole thing,” cried some one else.
“Sure! It’s a trick of Jardin’s!”
“He’s pulling a bluff!”
“Run a fake auction to make the public think he’s broke, and then plant this man to buy the whole thing back for him!”
“With his own money!
My
money!”
“Ladies and gentlemen! Please—” began Rhys, rising with a pale face.
“Sit down, you crook!” screeched a fat sweaty lady.
“No, no, he’s nothing of the sort,” protested the young man who had caused all the trouble. But by this time every one was shouting with indignation, and the young man’s voice was lost in the noise.
“You take that back!” screamed Val, diving for the fat lady.
“Officer! Clear the room!” roared the auctioneer.
When order was restored Val scrambled over two chairs getting to the bearded young man. “You worm! Now see what you’ve done!”
“I’ll admit,” he said ruefully, “I didn’t foresee a rising of the masses. … Mr. Jardin, I think? Of course my proposal was seriously intended.”
“Breaking up auctions,” grumbled the auctioneer, scowling; for obviously with such a spirited bidder on the floor he would have realized a greater gross sum and consequently a handsomer commission.
“I decided on impulse, Mr. Jardin, and didn’t have time to make an offer in advance of the sale.”
“Suppose we talk it over,” said Jardin abruptly; and the three men put their heads together. Mr. Anatole Ruhig rose, took his hat and stick, and quietly went away.
The young man was a persuasive bargainer. In five minutes Jardin, completely mystified, had agreed to his offer, the auctioneer sat grumpily down to write out a bill of sale, and the young man dragged a large wallet out of his pocket and laid on the desk such a pile of new thousand-dollar bills that Val felt like yelling “Economic royalist!”
“Just to avoid any embarrassment about checks,” he said in his hoarse voice. “And now, if there’s nothing else, I have a group of vans waiting outside.” And he went out and returned a moment later with a crew of muscular gentlemen in aprons who looked around, spat on their hands, listened to their employer’s whispered instructions, nodded, and went to work without conversation.
“Who is he, anyway?” demanded Pink, glaring at the beard.
“Profiteer,” snapped Valerie. That made her think of Walter, so she drifted over casually to where he still sat.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
Silence. Then Val said: “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
“Yes,” said Walter.
What could you do with a creature like that? Val snatched the envelope on which he was sketching out of his hands, crumpled it, threw it at him, and flounced away. Walter picked up the envelope and absently pocketed it.
“There you are,” said a bass voice, and Walter looked up.
“Hullo, Fitz. How are you?”
Fitzgerald sat down, wheezing. “Lousy. I thought California would stop these sinus headaches of mine, but I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if they aren’t worse.” Fitz had been in California over ten years and he complained about his sinusitis on the average of a dozen times each day. “Where’s the drawing?”
“Which one?”
“Today’s—yesterday’s—any day’s,” growled Fitz. “What do you think I’m paying you for—your good looks? With all this Ohippi dirt in the air, you go on a bat!”
“I was busy.”
“I haven’t had a cartoon for a week—I’ve had to fill in with old ones. Listen, Walter… Say what’s going on here?”
“As if you didn’t know, you long-eared jackass.”
“I heard outside somebody stampeded the works.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your nose, either.”
Fitz was a bulky Irishman with eyebrows like birds’ nests, imbedded in which were two very glossy and restless eggs. He was also unpredictable. He left Walter like a genie.
“Hullo, Rhys. Say, Rhys, I’m damned sorry about everything. Would have come over sooner, but I thought you’d rather not jaw about it.”
“Good of you.” Jardin looked around; the room was getting bare. “You’re in at the death, anyway,” he said grimly.
“Tough break.” Fitz shot sidewise glances at the bearded young man, who was watching his men calmly. “Who’s the buyer? Hullo, Valerie.”
Just then the young man turned his bearded face toward them, and Fitz’s eyebrows almost met his puffy cheeks.
“Hello, Mr. F-Fitzgerald,” said Val, watching a commode sail by. There was still a deep scratch in one leg where she had kicked it the time Mrs. Thomson had whacked her for printing “Thomson is a turkey” in yellow crayon on the drawer.
But Fitz ignored her. He lumbered over to the bearded young man and said: “Hey, you’re somebody I know.”
“Yes?” said the young man politely, and he moved off.
Fitz followed him. “Name’s Queen, isn’t it? Ellery Queen?”
“Sharp eyes,” said the young man. He moved off again.
Fitz seized his arm. “Know who bought your stuff, Rhys?” he bellowed. “Ellery Queen, the master-mind!” But the master-mind was gone with a single twist. Fitz thundered after him, leaving a bewildered group behind. As he passed Walter he snapped: “Report to the office, damn you. Queen! Hey!” He caught up with Ellery outside the house. Several of the vans had filled up and were gone; the men were packing the last two.
“Now don’t be unpleasant,” sighed Mr. Queen.
“I’m Fitzgerald of the
Independent
,” said Fitz briskly, grasping Ellery’s arm like a grappling-iron.
“You’re an ass.”
“What’s that?”
“If I’d wanted my identity known, Mr. Fitzgerald, don’t you think I’d have advertised it myself?”
“So that accounts for the phony brush!”
“Not at all. I broke out in a nasty facial rash a few months ago—probably an allergy—and I couldn’t shave. Now that the rash is gone I’m so pleased with my appearance I’ve kept the beard.”
“With me it’s sinus,” said Fitz. “However, it still smells. How about the voice? Got a rash on your vocal cords?”
“Very simple, my dear Watson. The moment I stepped off the train into your balmy California rains I caught a laryngitis, and I’ve still got it. I should be in bed,” said Ellery bitterly.
“Why aren’t you? What’s the gag? What are you doing in Hollywood? Where’d you get the dough? Are you getting married and furnishing your love-nest?”
“If this is an interview,” said Ellery, “I’m a deaf-mute overcome by complete paralysis.”
“Say, who do you think you are? Managing editors don’t leg it.” Fitz eyed him keenly. “It isn’t if you say so.”
“I say so.”
“Now how about satisfying my layman’s curiosity?”
“It’s no gag. I’m in Hollywood on a writing contract to Magna—God knows I don’t know anything about writing for the screen, but they don’t seem to care, so I don’t either. And no, I’m not being married.”
“Wait a minute! Why are you buying the Jardin stuff?”
Ellery watched the last two vans drive off. He moved out from under the porte-cochère into the drizzle and stepped hastily into his rented car. “Goodbye, Mr. Fitzgerald,” he said amiably, waving. “It’s been nice seeing you.” And he drove off.
The Jardins and Walter and Pink stood in silence in the denuded living-room. “Are the—are the trunks gone?” asked Val at last in a small voice. “And… everything else?”
“Yes, Val.”
“Then I don’t suppose there’s anything—”
“Come on, let’s get going,” growled Pink, “before I bust out crying.”
They marched out of the empty house in a body, close together, like condemned criminals on their way to the wall. Outside Val picked a rose off a bush and absently pulled it to pieces. “Well! Here we go,” said Rhys in a cheery voice. “It’s goodbye to all this. I think we’re going to have a lot of fun, puss.” He put his arm around her.
“All the common people have fun,” said Pink. “Perk up, squirt.”
“I’m all right,” protested Valerie. “Of course, it’s a little strange. …”
“Let’s go,” said Walter in a low voice.
He preceded them down the private drive toward the pillbox at the gate, hands jammed into the pockets of his topcoat. He did not look back at either the Jardin house—or that other. A crowd was waiting in the road beyond the gate, making mob noises; but the noises stopped as the little procession came toward them. Frank, the day man, his empty left sleeve flapping, hurried from the pillbox toward their two cars, which were parked near the gate. It became more and more difficult to keep that steady pace. Val felt a little faint. It was like the French Revolution, with the mob of
citoyens
waiting greedily for the victims, and the guillotine looming ahead. …
Frank held the door of Jardin’s small sedan open—the only car they had kept. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jardin. I’m awfully sorry,” said Frank. In getting into the sedan Rhys had caught his coat on the door-handle, and the camel’s-hair fabric just below the right pocket ripped away in a triangular flap.
Pink said: “You tore your coat, Rhys,” but Jardin paid no attention, groping blindly for the ignition-key. Valerie crept into the rear seat and slipped far down on her spine; she avoided Walter’s eyes as he closed the door behind her. Pink jumped in beside Jardin.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Frank again, in a weepy voice.
“Here.” Jardin leaned out and pressed a large bill into the gateman’s hand. “Split it with Walewski, Frank. Goodbye.”
“Thanks, thanks!” Frank scuttled off to the gate.
“Well,” smiled Rhys, starting the car, “what shall it be? A snack at the Troc?”
“It’s too expensive there, pop,” murmured Val.
“How about Al Levy’s? Or the Derby?”
“Better get going,” remarked Pink dryly, “before that mob out there starts yipping for blood.”
Rhys fell silent and shifted. Val looked back. Walter was getting into his coupé, slowly. Then he stopped and stepped back and looked across the lawns toward the Spaeth house. Far away, Solomon Spaeth stood alone, in motion. He was waving and his mouth was open. Apparently he was shouting something, but his voice did not carry. Walter’s lean jaw hardened. Val saw the taut whitening line. He got into his car without a sign that he had seen.
“It’s like the end of a bad dream,” thought Val, shivering. “For all of us.” Then they were pushing slowly through the silent crowd and she sat up straight and tried to look as she fancied Marie Antoinette had once looked in a somewhat similar situation.