Just as the newsman was leaving the store, the eyes that had been haunting his thoughts all evening materialized in front of him. The blue-white porcelain complexion was wet with snow, and the lashes were spangled with snowflakes.
The girl stared and said nothing.
"Well, as you can see, I'm still hanging around the neighborhood," he said to break the silence. "I've moved into the Cobb mansion." "You have? You really have?" Miss Duckworth's expression brightened, as if living in Junktown constituted an endorsement of character. She pushed her fur hood back from her blue-black hair, now piled in a ballerina's top-knot.
"The auction was an interesting experience. A lot of dealers were there, but I didn't see you." She shook her head wistfully. "I thought of going, but I lacked the courage." "Miss Duckworth," said Qwilleran, coming boldly to the point, "I'd like to write a tribute to Andy Glanz, but I need more information. I wish you'd fill me in." He could see her shrinking from the suggestion. "I know it's a painful subject for you, but Andy deserves the best we can give him." She hesitated. "You wouldn't quote me directly, would you?" "Word of honor!" "Very well," she said in a small voice, searching Qwilleran's face for reassurance. "When?" "Sooner the better." "Would you like to come over to my place tonight?" "If it isn't too late for you." "I always stay up half the night." She said it wearily. "I'll take my groceries home and be right over." A few minutes later Qwilleran went striding through the snow to The Blue Dragon with an elation that was only. partly connected with the Andy Glanz story, and he soon found himself sitting on a stiff velvet sofa in the gold and blue living room and enjoying the aroma of sandalwood furniture wax. The belligerent dog had been penned up in the kitchen.
The girl explained, "My family disapproves of this neighborhood, and they insist I keep Hepplewhite for protection.
Sometimes he takes his job too seriously." "There seems to be a sharp division of opinion about Junktown," said Qwilleran. "Is it really a bad neighborhood?" "We have no trouble," Miss Duckworth said. "Of course, I observe certain precautions, as any woman should if she lives alone." She brought a silver coffeepot on a silver tray, and Qwilleran watched her silky movements with admiration. She had the long-legged grace he admired in Koko and Yum Yum. What a sensation she would make at the Press Club on Christmas Eve! he told himself. She was wearing slim, well-fitted trousers in a delectable shade of blue, and a cashmere sweater dyed to match, probably at great expense.
"Have you ever done any fashion modeling?" he asked.
"No." She smiled patiently, as if she had been asked a thousand times before. "But I did a great deal of Modern Dance at Bennington." She poured one cup of coffee. Then, to Qwilleran's surprise, she reached for a crystal decanter with a silver label and poured Scotch for herself.
He said, "Well, I rented Mrs. Cobb's apartment this afternoon and moved in immediately — with my two room — mates, a pair of Siamese cats." "Really? You hardly look like a man who would keep cats." Qwilleran eyed her defensively. "They were orphans. I adopted them — first the male and then, some months later, the female." "I'd like to have a cat," she said. "Cats seem to go with antiques. They're so gentle." "You don't know Siamese! When they start flying around, you think you've been hit by a Caribbean hurricane." "Now that you have an apartment, you ought to buy the Mackintosh coat of arms. It would be perfect over your fireplace. Would you like to take it home on approval?" "It's rather heavy to be lugging back and forth. In fact," Qwilleran said, "I was surprised to see you handle it with so much ease this morning." "I'm strong. In this business you have to be strong." "What do you do for recreation? Lift weights?" She gave a small laugh. "I read about antiques, attend antiques lectures, and go to exhibits at the historical museum." "You've got it bad, haven't you?" She looked at him engagingly. "There's something mystic about antiques. It's more than intrinsic value or beauty or age. An object that has been owned and cherished by other human beings for centuries develops a personality of its own that reaches out to you. It's like an old friend. Do you understand? I wish I could make people understand." "You explain it very well, Miss Duckworth." "Mary," she said.
"Mary, then. But if you feel so strongly about antiques, why don't you want to share your interest with our readers?
Why don't you let me quote you?" She hesitated. "I'll tell you why," she said suddenly. "It's because of my family. They don't approve of what I'm doing, living on Zwinger Street and peddling — junk!" "What's their objection?" "Father is a banker, and bankers are rather stuffy. He's also English. The combination is deadly. He subsidizes my business venture on condition that I don't embarrass the family. That's why I must decline any publicity." She refilled Qwilleran's coffee cup and poured herself another Scotch.
In a teasing tone he said, "Do you always serve your guests coffee while you drink pedigreed Scotch?" "Only when they are total abstainers," she replied with a smug smile.
"How did you know I'm on the wagon?" She buried her nose in her glass for a few seconds. "Because I called my father this afternoon and had him check your credentials. I found out that you've been a crime reporter in New York, Los Angeles, and elsewhere, and that you once wrote an important book on urban crime, and that you've won any number of national journalism awards." She folded her arms and looked triumphant.
Warily Qwilleran said, "What else did you find out?" "That you had some lean years as a result of an unhappy marriage and a case of alcoholism, but you made a successful recovery, and the Daily Fluxion employed you last February, and you have been doing splendidly ever since." Qwilleran flushed. He was used to prying into the lives of others; it was disconcerting to have his own secrets exposed. "I should be flattered that you're interested," he said with chagrin. "Who is your father? What's his bank?" The girl was enjoying her moment of oneupmanship. She was also enjoying her drink. She slid down in her chair and crossed her long legs. "Can I trust you?" "Like a tombstone." "He's Percival Duxbury. Midwest National." "Duxbury! Then Duckworth isn't your real name?" "It's a name I've taken for professional purposes." Qwilleran's hopes for Christmas Eve soared; a Duxbury would make an impressive date at the Press Club. They immediately crashed; a Duxbury would probably never accept the invitation.
"A Duxbury in Junktown!" he said softly. "That would really make headlines." "You promised," she reminded him, snapping out of her casual pose.
"I'll keep my promise, " he said. "But tell me: why are you doing business on Zwinger Street? A nice shop like this belongs downtown — or in Lost Lake Hills." "I fell in love," she said with a helpless gesture. "I fell in love with these wonderful old houses. They have so much character and such potential for restoration. At first I was attracted to the idea of a proud old neighborhood resisting modernization, but after I had been here for a few months, I fell in love with the people." "The antique dealers?" "Not exactly. The dealers are dedicated and plucky, and I admire them — with certain reservations — but I'm talking about the people on the street. My heart goes out to them — the working class, the old people, the lonely ones, foreigners, illiterates, even the shady characters. Are you shocked?" "No. Surprised. Pleasantly surprised. I think I know what you mean. They're earthy; they get to you." "They're genuine, and they're unabashed individualists. They have made my former life seem so superficial and useless. I wish I could do something for the neighborhood, but I don't know what it would be. I have no money of my own, and Father made me promise not to mix." Qwilleran regarded her with a wishful wonder that she misinterpreted.