“What do you mean?”
“Shh! Isn’t that him in front of us?”
Val’s hands were tight in her lap. She heard her father expel a long, labored breath. People were such pigs. Vultures! Wheeling over the carrion! Even that Ruhig person had had the unadulterated gall to attend the auction. He was sitting well down front, beaming at all the hostile glances converging on his pudgy cheeks.
“Also withdrawn is number seven-three, a miscellaneous lot of sporting equipment — golf clubs, bags, fencing foils, tennis rackets, et cetera.”
She felt Rhys stir with surprise. “No, pop,” she whispered. “It’s not a mistake.”
“But I included them—”
“I withdrew them. You’re not going to be stripped bare!”
He groped for her hand and found it.
“Everything else will be sold on this floor regardless of bid. Everything is in superb condition. The art-objects and antiques have all been expertized and found genuine. Each lot is fully described in your catalogue...”
Come on. Get started... It was worse, far worse, than Val had imagined it would be. Oh, Walter, why don’t you move down here and sit by me and hold my hand, too!
“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.”