Mr Harrap’s almost deferential acknowledgment of this woman’s bid established that she was familiar to him. He gazed into the outfield.
“I have accepted a call of four pounds as opener, ladies and gentlemen. A very modest opener. Again, do I hear five?”
Most of the audience sat hunch-shouldered, keeping hands low and still, in case of misinterpretation. No one in particular could be seen talking, yet there was a great deal of noise from general conversation. It was substantially a crowd of spectators. The actual participants, the bidders, formed a tiny minority scattered among the rest like spies sending secret messages. Only the quicksilver eye of the auctioneer divined their purpose from the flutter of a catalogue, the lift of an eyebrow.
Regular salegoers had had very poor expectations of lot thirty-four. A first bid of four pounds for such poor trash came as quite a surprise. It was not like the shabby but astute Mrs Moldham-Clegg to set the pace so high. Had stolen glasses from the London, Midland and Scottish Railway suddenly acquired rarity value?
Purbright had been to such a sale only once before in his life. His sole concern at this one was to see if anybody present qualified—in the light of the inspector’s special knowledge of Flaxborough grievances—as the opportunist who had felled Sid Love in that temporarily deserted corner of the saleroom.
He gazed about him for several minutes but failed to spot a likely candidate.
Meanwhile, the bidding for lot thirty-four had risen, quite unaccountably, to ten pounds and promised to go even further.
Mrs Moldham-Clegg led a small field of some half dozen contenders. She put in each bid with stern assurance as if it were an instruction for the goods to be knocked down to her at once and delivered to the tradesmen’s entrance.
But her few rivals were perverse and kept jacking up their offers.
Miss Teatime showed no sign of interest for several minutes, during which she seemed to be giving full attention to a quiet conversation with her neighbour. Then, suddenly, up went her face and a sweet but distinct, “Twenty pounds.”
Purbright directed at her a frown of disbelief.
She smiled at him and made a little inclination of the head in recognition and greeting.
Purbright repented of the frown. He nodded and smiled back.
“Twenty-one,” declared Mr Harrap, triumphantly. He pointed with his gavel in Purbright’s direction.
Auction novice though he was, the inspector knew he was in a situation governed by a rule exactly similar to that applicable to drowning: don’t struggle. He resisted the huge temptation to shake his head and cry denial. Silent, motionless and dreadfully apprehensive, he waited for rescue.
It came after what seemed a very long time. “And fifty,” barked Mrs Moldham-Clegg. Purbright sent her a grateful glance but otherwise stirred no muscle.
Bidding rose to thirty pounds. Mr Harrap looked as nearly jovial as it was constitutionally possible for him to look. When Miss Teatime took it to thirty-five, he was so tipsy with success that he essayed a witticism about “the lady’s age” but mercifully spoiled it by fumbling the words.
At forty pounds, Harrap had sobered up again. His face showed something approaching bewilderment, and he paused for a while to confer with his clerk.
The sale went on. Miss Teatime did not bid again, but Harrap was now receiving signs from two directions other than that of Mrs Moldham-Clegg. Forty pounds. Forty-five. Fifty. All chatter in the hall ceased. What seemed a mad contest for a tray of junk held captive a silent audience.
Purbright tried to see who the other two bidders were. Neither made any gesture visible from where the inspector sat, so he had to look at the faces of other people who were watching them, and work out a solution geometrically by a system of crossed bearings.
One, he decided, was Mr Clapper Buxton, a Flaxborough solicitor’s confidential clerk.
The other appeared to be a man Purbright had noted a little earlier as a stranger to the town, a man with protruding teeth and an air of wanting to be helpful.
The hundred-pound mark was reached and passed. There had set in a rhythm of bid and counter-bid that was raising the price more quickly. Only one voice was to be heard, though. Mrs Moldham-Clegg’s. It was now perceptibly grittier and edged with a sort of patrician contempt. Mr Harrap gave it heed, then turned his eye without delay to collect the silent instructions first of Mr Clapper, then of the stranger.
Both seemed prepared to give stony assent for ever, or for as long as Mrs Moldham-Clegg cared to defy them.
“Two hundred and fifty pounds.”
Purbright saw the squaring of the woman’s back, the rug she gave at the big lifeboatman’s hat. Generations of Flaxborough shopkeepers had quailed before such intimations of prerogative.
Harrap looked in Clapper’s direction and raised his brow. “And sixty?” Then, at once, to the stranger: “May I say seventy, sir?”
Taking elaborate care to make no movement that might be construed as a bid, Purbright eased himself along to the end of the row. He heard the command of Mrs Moldham-Clegg: “Two hundred and eighty pounds.” He waited a moment, then cautiously crossed the aisle and stood in the lee of the side wall.
The offers continued to rise. Harrap looked pale; he was beginning to wonder if he were being made the victim of some conspiratorial leg-pull.
Purbright moved slowly up the hall, keeping close to the wall.
“Twenty-three, sir?”
The inspector was level with the front row of seats. He gained the shelter of the auctioneer’s stand, and, stooping, edged towards the clerk’s table.
Lewcock saw him. He leaned sideways in his chair, presenting an ear. Purbright whispered good morning into it.
“Morning, inspector.” A breathed greeting, as in church.
“What,” whispered Purbright, “is he selling-the Mona Lisa?”
“I reckon,” Lewcock confided, “that either they’re barmy or they’ve got the wrong lot.”
“It’s there to be seen, though. They can’t all be mistaken.”
Lewcock shrugged. “Barmy, then. It’s rubbish. I’ve looked at it.”
Above them waved the auctioneer’s arm, conjuring more bids with dream-like ease.
“Give him a message, will you, Mr Lewcock,” murmured the inspector.
“Not during bidding, I can’t.”
“That’s up to you, but I think it’s only fair he should know that the goods he is now offering for sale will not be immediately available.”
“What do you mean?”
Purbright was writing in his notebook. “They are, as you might say, impounded. Temporarily, one hopes.” He half-turned to check what he had written with the contents of the tray still held dutifully by the porter. “Here is Mr Harrap’s official receipt.”