Before going downtown to hand in his copy, he made two phone calls and wangled some invitations. He told Cluthra he wanted to see how antique dealers live, what they collect, how they furnish their apartments. He told Russell Patch he had a Siamese cat who was crazy about music. And he told Ben he wanted to have the firsthand experience of scrounging. He also asked him to change a five-dollar bill.

"Alas," said Ben, "if we could change a fin, we would retire from this wretched business." At the Daily Fluxion that afternoon Qwilleran walked into the Feature Department with its even rows of modem metal desks that had always looked so orderly and serene, and suddenly he found the scene cold, sterile, monotonous, and without character.

Arch Riker said, "Did you see how we handled the auction story in today's paper? The boss liked your copy." "The whole back page! That was more than I expected," Qwilleran said, tossing some triple-spaced sheets on the desk, "Here's the second installment, and I'll have more tomorrow. This morning I interviewed a man who sells some absurd junk called tech-tiques." "Rosie told me about him. He's new in Junktown." "He's either out of his mind or pulling a hoax, In fact, I think Hollis Prantz is a fraud, He claims to have a weak heart, but you should have seen him running up stairs two at a time! I'm discovering all kinds of monkeyshines in Junktown." "Don't get sidetracked," Riker advised him. "Bear down on the writing." "But, Arch! I've unearthed some good clues in the Andy Glanz case! I also have my suspicions about Cobb's death." "For Pete's sake, Qwill, the police called them accidents. Let's leave it that way." "That's one reason I'm suspicious. Everyone in Junktown is busy explaining that the two deaths were accidents.

They protest too much." "I can understand their position," Riker told him. "If Junktown gets a reputation as a high-crime neighborhood, the junkers will stay away in droves…. Look here, I've got five pages to layout. I can't argue with you all day." "If there's been a crime committed, it should be exposed," Qwilleran persisted.

"All right," said Riker. "If you want to investigate, go ahead. But do it on your time and wait until after Christmas.

The way your antique series is shaping up, you've got a good chance to win first prize." By the time Qwilleran returned to Junktown, Ivy had spread the word that he was a private detective operating with two evil-eyed Siamese cats who were trained to attack.

"Is it true?" asked the young man in sideburns and dark glasses at the Junque Trunque.

"Is it true?" asked the woman who ran the shop called Nuthin' But Chairs.

"I wish it were," Qwilleran said. "I'm just a newspaperman, doing a job that isn't very glamorous." She half closed her eyes. "I see you as a Yorkshire Windsor. Everyone resembles some kind of chair. That dainty little Sheraton is a ballet dancer. That English Chippendale looks just like my landlord. You're a Yorkshire Windsor….

Think about it for a while, and all your friends will turn into chairs." After listening to this woman's conversation and Ivy's speculations and Hollis Prantz's dubious theories, Qwilleran was relieved to meet Mrs. McGuffey. She seemed to be a sensible sort.

He asked about the name of her shop, and she explained, "They're all wooden containers. The noggin has a handle like a cup. The piggin has a stave, and it's used as a dipper. The firkin is for storage." "Where do you get your information?" "From books. When I have no customers, I sit here and read. Nice work for a retired schoolteacher. If there's any book on American history or antiques that you'd like to borrow, just ask." "Do you have anything on the history of Junktown? I'm especially curious about the Cobb mansion." "Most important house on our street! Built by William Towne Spencer, the famous abolitionist, in 1855. He had two younger brothers, James and Philip, who built smaller replicas next door. Also a spinster sister, Mathilda, blind from birth and killed at the age of thirty-two when she fell down the stairs of her brother's house." She spoke with an authority that Qwilleran welcomed. He had had his fill of hearsay and addled theories.

"I've noticed that Junktown residents are prone to fall and kill themselves," he said. "Strange that it started way back when." The dealer shook her head mournfully. "Poor Mrs. Cobb! I wonder if she'll be able to continue running the shop without her husband." "He was the sparkplug of Junktown, they tell me." "Probably true… but confidentially, I abhorred the man. He had no manners! You don't act that way in a civilized society. In my opinion the real loss to the community was Andrew Glanz. A fine young man, with great promise, and a real scholar! I say this with pride, because it was I who taught him to read-twenty-five years ago, up north in Boyerville. My, he was a smart boy! And a good speller. I knew he would turn out to be a writer." The lines in her face were radiant.

"He wrote features on antiques?" "Yes, but he was also writing a novel, about which I have mixed emotions. He gave me the first ten chapters to read. I refrained from discouraging him, naturally, but… I'm afraid I do not approve of today's sordid fiction. And yet that is what sells, they say." "What was the setting of Andy's novel?" "The setting was authentic — a community of antique dealers similar to ours — but the story involved all sorts of unsavory characters: alcoholics, gamblers, homosexuals, prostitutes, dope peddlers, adulterers!" Mrs. McGuffey shuddered. "Oh, dear! If our street were anything like that book, I believe I would close up shop tomorrow!" Qwilleran stroked his moustache. "You don't think there's anything like that going on in Junktown?" "Oh, no! Nothing at all! Except…" She lowered her voice and glanced toward a customer who had wandered into the store. "I wouldn't want you to repeat this, but… they say that the little old man at the fruit stand is a bookkeeper." "You mean a bookmaker? He takes bets?" "That's what they say. Please don't put it in the paper. This is a respectable neighborhood." The customer interrupted. "Excuse me. Do you have any butter molds?" "Just one moment," the dealer said with a gracious smile, "and I'll be glad to help you." "What happened to Andy's manuscript?" Qwilleran asked as he headed for the door.

"I believe he gave it to his friend, Miss Duckworth. She was begging to see it, but," Mrs. McGuffey concluded triumphantly, "he wanted his old schoolmarm to read it first."

17

With savage glee the humidity decided to turn into a cold ugly rain. Qwilleran hurried to The Blue Dragon as fast as his knee would permit.

"I'm going to do some illegal scrounging tonight," he announced to Mary Duckworth. "Ben Nicholas is going to show me the ropes." "Where is he taking you?" "To an old theatre on Zwinger Street. He said it's boarded up, but he knows how to get in through the stage door.

All I want is the experience, so I can write a piece about the preservationists who risk arrest to salvage historic architectural fragments. I think the practice should be publicized with a view to having it sanctioned." Mary beamed her admiration for him. "Qwill, you're talking like a confirmed junker! You've been converted!" "I know a good story when I see one, that's all. Mean- while, would you mind lending me the manuscript of Andy's novel'! Mrs. McGuffey was telling me about it, and since it's all about Junktown — " "Manuscript? I have no manuscript." "Mrs. McGuffey said — " "Andy allowed me to read the first chapter, that was all." "What happened to it, then?" "I have no idea. Robert Maus would know." "Will you phone him?" "Now?" Qwilleran nodded impatiently.

She glanced at the tall-case clock. "This is an inconvenient time to call. He'll be preparing dinner. Is it really so urgent?" Nevertheless, she dialed the number.