Mrs. Stammers was used to company, if only the company of the general and his wife. She felt lonely in their absence, and welcomed the arrival of this very charming, very well-spoken gentleman. She hoped he would stay for a while and perhaps even come back. When he had finished his brief inspection, the most delicate sandwiches, the most delicate cakes, and a pot of tea awaited him. A bottle of whisky and two glasses stood by, in reserve.
Clauson beamed his delight, said how very tasty the sandwiches were, passed unkind comments on the younger generation that couldn’t even turn out a sandwich without it tasting like cardboard, and sipped the tea. He complimented her on her taste, her foresight in having bought such beautiful things, and how lucky her friends and relatives were to have such a hospitable friend and such a very, very beautiful home to visit.
“Oh, I’ve hardly any family left, except my Aunt Pru, and she can’t travel,” she said.
“Oh, I say, what a shame,” he said.
“My husband died in the war, and here I am, and lucky to be here.”
“And lucky am I to be here, too,” he beamed.
When the tea had been drunk, she offered him something a little stronger. He accepted, but only on condition she had a little too. Mrs. Stammers was beginning to enjoy her role as hostess. She wondered why Mrs. Thundackaray-Harding did not seem to enjoy it, and got so many headaches when guests were due. Slipping into the role of lady of the house, she enjoyed being complimented not only on her taste, but also on her ability to arrange the furniture, as well as the china, not to mention tapestries.
“I say, wouldn’t it be marvelous if you’d help me buy for my house,” said Mr. Clauson. “With your taste and my bank manager, what a lovely house I’d have. Nearly as lovely as yours.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly,” protested Mrs. Stammers, not knowing where to start looking and afraid of being found out.
“Oh, but look what super taste you have. You must be a very astute buyer,” said Mr. Clauson.
“Well, I’ve got a little confession to make to you,” she said. “You won’t think any the worse of me for it?”
Mr. Clauson protested his utter devotion (his conversation would not have shamed Mrs. Cartland’s villains).
Mrs. Stammers took a deep breath and began her confession, “Actually, it’s been in the family for centuries. I just keep it polished...”
“And a splendid job you do,” said the unsuspecting Mr. Clauson. “But look here, wouldn’t it be very nice if you’d sell me just one of those things to start me off, just one, to start me off with.” (Mr. Clauson diphthonged the o in “off” because someone had told him it was the right thing to do in some circles.)
“Oh, but I couldn’t... I really have no right...”
“Ah, yes, how well I understand, and very commendable in this day and age. You are the guardian of the past, and you wish to see all these very beautiful things preserved for posterity. What a very commendable thought. But my dear lady, I promise you I will look after it with the same devotion, I would keep it just as well polished...”
“Oh, how could I!”
“I know what you are thinking, but you are absolutely wrong. You see, I do know something about antique furniture. I wouldn’t just give you the right value. I’d give you more than what a dealer would pay. After all, a dealer has to make a profit. Did you know, dear lady, that an antiques dealer has to make a profit, whereas I do not? Did you know, dear lady, that an antiques dealer sells his wares for double what he pays you? I shall pay you exactly what a dealer would sell it for, not what he would buy it for, not what he would sell it for to another dealer. Because these horrible chaps have a special price for each other, not what they would charge an unsuspecting collector like you or me.”
At this point he brought out a wad of twenty-pound notes. Most people are used to a few fives and tens, but a wad of twenties is something else. It produces the worst possible effect on the soul (or the psyche). It makes the most generous grasping, the most disinterested in the material goods of this world rapacious. Mr. Clauson saw all this in her face.
“I must tell you something else, dear lady. That very lovely, that very beautiful china cabinet, I really don’t know how to break the news to you, but I am sure you would rather hear it from me than from someone else, less well disposed towards you...” He leaned forward and his voice began to drop. “That very beautiful china cabinet, full of all those very beautiful china pieces, I notice it has woodworm.” He stopped dramatically. “It’s got woodworm in several places. Too late to be treated! And do you know what that means? It will spread. It will spread to other pieces of furniture, till they too are full of woodworm. And when all your furniture, all your beautiful, beautiful furniture is full of woodworm...” He paused and very dramatically jabbed a finger into the air, all the while fanning out the banknotes in his other hand. “The woodworm will permeate the floor,” he said very slowly, drawing out every syllable, “and when it has permeated the floor...” By this time his voice had dropped so low she had to strain her ears to hear what he was saying. He waved his hands to show everything collapsing, “The house will collapse with all your lovely, lovely things in it. Dear lady, what are you going to do then?”
Mrs. Stammers got terribly agitated. “Cannot anything be done?” she wailed.
“Ah, but yes,” he said gravely, and paused, “ah, but yes.”
“What, what can be done?”
“Harry Clauson to the rescue. I shall take that cabinet off your hands, and I shall even pay you enough to get another.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t... it’s not as if... I am only here as, as...”
“A guardian, a worthy guardian of the past. But what of the future? Think of the future. Think of all that woodworm permeating the house and then... boom boom!”
Here he began to lay out the banknotes as if they were so many cards being laid out for solitaire.
“Would you like me to see if there is anything else which has woodworm?”
She nodded dumbly.
Clauson went round the sitting room and then the dining room. There was woodworm there... and there... and there... and, oh what a shame... here too. And every time he found woodworm in a piece of furniture he laid down banknotes on it, as if this would remove the infestation. After a while, Clauson got quite carried away himself.
“There are several things I’ll have to check tomorrow — I’m not sure how bad the woodworm is, but I wouldn’t like to remove anything which could be saved. Besides, I’ve run out of money and a gentleman never pays by check... certainly not... it’s cash amongst friends.”
It just so happened that a friend of Mr. Clauson had a large van, that he was close by, and they would take all that woodwormy stuff away with the least possible inconvenience to the dear, dear lady.
The very next day Mr. Clauson called again with Bill. Bill, he explained, was a woodworm inspector, a woodworm inspector of the greatest expertise and probity. It wouldn’t cost her anything. Bill would do it as a personal favor to him, because he, Harry Clauson, had given him a testimonial which led to his present employment.
Bill declared certain items as being safe, others as being not too advanced in infestation, and therefore capable of being saved by appropriate treatment, and still others as beyond hope. The items to be treated, he told her, she could rescue herself by using some of the special liquid available only to the trade. Since she was a friend of Mr. Clauson, who had been so good to him, he’d brought her a goodly supply, which she could apply at leisure. But she was never to tell anyone where it had come from. The tin was, of course, unmarked.