When he and his acquisition reached the foyer of the Cobb mansion, he stopped to catch his breath, and he heard the ranting voice of C.C. coming from The Junkery.
"You don't know a piece of black walnut from a hole in your head!" Cobb was saying. "Why don't you admit it?" "If that's black walnut, I'll eat my crutch. You're the biggest fake in the business! I'll give you twenty bucks — no more!" Qwilleran wrestled the ironwork up the staircase alone. The cats were asleep in the Morris chair, curled up like Yin and Yang, and Qwilleran did not disturb them. He leaned the coat of arms against the wall and left the apartment, hoping to make three more stops before calling it a day. He had promised to visit Ben's shop, but first he wanted to meet the talkative Sylvia Katzenhide. He liked garrulous subjects; they made his job so easy.
Arriving at The Sorta Camp shop, he held the door open for a well-dressed man who was leaving with a large purchase wrapped in newspaper, black tubes protruding from the wrappings. Inside the shop a woman customer was haggling over the price of a chair made out of automobile tires.
"My dear," Sylvia was telling her, "age and intrinsic value are unimportant. Camp is all wit and whimsy, plus a gentle thumbing of the nose. Either you dig it or you don't, as my son would say." Mrs. Katzenhide was a handsome, well-groomed, self-assured woman who looked forty and was undoubtedly fifty-five. Qwilleran had seen hundreds like her in the women's auxiliary at the art museum, all identical in their well-cut tweed suits, jersey blouses, gold chains, and alligator shoes. This one had added black cotton stockings as the touch of eccentricity that seemed to be necessary in Junktown.
Qwilleran introduced himself and said, "Was I seeing things, or did a man leave this store with a stuffed — " "You're right! A stuffed octopus," said Mrs. Katzenhide. "Hideous thing! I was glad to get rid of it. That was Judge Bennett from Municipal Court. Do you know the judge? He bought the octopus for his wife's Christmas present. She's mad about crawly things." "How come you're dealing in — " "In camp? It was my son's idea. He said I needed a proj ect to keep my mind off myself." She lighted a cigarette.
"Did you know my late husband? He was corporation counsel for the city. My son is in law school…. Excuse me, would you like a cigarette?" Qwilleran declined. "But why camp? Why not something more — " "More genteel? That's what all my friends say. But you have to know something to deal in genuine antiques. Be- sides, my son insists that camp is what the public wants. If anything is unattractive, poorly made, and secondhand, it sells like hot cakes. I really don't understand it." "Then I suppose you didn't buy anything at — " "At the auction yesterday?" The woman had a phenomenal knack for reading minds. "Just a small chandelier for my own apartment. When my husband passed away, I gave up the big house in Lost Lake Hills and moved to Skyline Towers. I have a lovely apartment, and it's not furnished in camp, believe me!" "How do the Junktown dealers regard your specialty? Have you — " "Developed a rapport? Definitely! I go to their association meetings, and we get along beautifully. When I first opened the shop, Andrew Glanz took me under his wing and gave me a lot of valuable advice." She heaved a great sigh.
"It was a shock to lose that boy. Did you know Andy?" "No, I never met him. Was he — ?" "Well, I'll tell you. He always gave the impression of wearing a white tie and tails, even when he was in dungarees and scraping down a piece of furniture. And he was so good-looking-and intelligent. I always thought it was a pity he never married. What a waste!" "Wasn't he more or less engaged to — " "The Dragon? Not in the formal sense, but they would have made a perfect couple. Too bad he had to get mixed up with that other woman." "You mean…" said Qwilleran with an encouraging pause.
"Here I am, prattling again! My son says I've become an incorrigible gossip since coming to Junktown. And he's right. I'm not going to say another word." And she didn't.
There were obvious disadvantages to Qwilleran's position. He was trying to investigate an incident that no one wanted him to investigate, and he was not even sure what he was investigating. Any sensible man would have dropped the matter.
Stroking his moustache thoughtfully, Qwilleran took the next step in his noninvestigation of a questionable crime; he visited the shop called Bit o' Junk, a choice that he later regretted.
10
Bit o' Junk was next door to the Cobb Junkery, sharing the block with The Blue Dragon, Russell Patch's carriage house, Andy's place on the corner, and a variety store that catered to the needs of the community with embroidered prayer books and black panties trimmed with red fringe. Ben had his shop on the main floor of a town house that was similar in design to the Cobb mansion, but only half as wide and twice as dilapidated. The upper floors were devoted to sleeping rooms for men only, according to a weather-stained sign on the building.
Qwilleran climbed the icy stone steps and entered a drab foyer. Through the glass panes of the parlor doors he could see a hodge-podge of cast-offs: dusty furniture, unpolished brass and copper, cloudy glass, and other dreary oddments. The only thing that attracted him was the kitten curled up on a cushion with chin on paw. It was in the center of a table full of breakables, and Qwilleran could imagine with what velvet-footed care the small animal had tiptoed between the goblets and teacups. He went in.
At the sight of the bushy moustache, the proprietor rose from a couch and extended his arms in melodramatic welcome. Ben was wearing a bulky ski sweater that emphasized his rotund figure, and with it he sported a tall silk hat. He swept off the hat and bowed low.
"How's business? Slow?" Qwilleran asked as he appraised the unappealing shop.
"Weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable," said the dealer, returning the hat to cover his thinning hair.
Qwilleran picked up a World War I gas mask.
"An historic treasure," Nicholas informed him. "Came over on the Mayflower. " He padded after the newsman in white stockinged feet.
"I hear you used to be in the theatre," the newsman remarked.
The tubby little dealer drew himself up from five-feet-four to five-feet-five. "Our Friar Laurence on Broadway was acclaimed by critics. Our Dogberry was superb. Our Bottom was unforgettable…. How now? You tremble and look pale!" Qwilleran was staring at the kitten on its cushion. "That — that cat!" he sputtered. "It's dead!" "An admirable example of the taxidermist's art. You like it not?" "I like it not," said Qwilleran, and he blew into his moustache. "What's your specialty, anyway? Do you have a specialty?" "I am a merry wanderer of the night." "Come off it. You don't have to put on a performance for me. If you want any publicity, give me some straight answers. Do you specialize in anything?" Ben Nicholas pondered. "Anything that will turn a profit." "How long have you been operating in Junktown?" "Too long." "Did you know Andy Glanz very well?" The dealer folded his hands and rolled his eyes upward. "Noble, wise, valiant, and honest," he intoned. "It was a sad day for Junktown when Saint Andrew met his untimely end." Then he hitched his trousers and said roguishly, "How about a tankard of sack at the local pub?" "No, thanks. Not today," said Qwilleran. "What's this? A folding bookrack?" He had picked up a hinged contraption in brassbound ebony. "How much do you want for it?" "Take it — take it — with the compliments of jolly old St. Nicholas." "No, I'll buy it if it isn't too expensive." "We have been asking fifteen, but allow us to extend the favor of a clergyman's discount. Eight simoleons." At this point another customer, who had entered the shop and had been thoroughly ignored, said impatiently, "Got any horse brasses?" "Begone, begone!" said the dealer, waving the man away. "This gentleman is from the press, and we are being interviewed." "I'm through. I'm leaving," said the newsman. "I'll send a photographer Monday to get a picture of you and your shop," and he paid for the bookrack.