"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.
"William," she said, "may I speak with Mr. Maus?… Please tell him it's Mary Duxbury…. That's what I was afraid of. Just a moment." She turned to Qwilleran. "The houseboy says Bob is making hollandaise for the kohlrabi and can't be interrupted." "Tell him the Daily Fluxion is about to print a vile rumor about one of his clients." The attorney came to the telephone (Qwilleran could visualize him, wearing an apron, holding a dripping spoon) and said he knew nothing about a manuscript; nothing had turned up among the papers of the Andrew Glanz estate.
"Then where is it?" Qwilleran asked Mary. "Do you suppose it was destroyed — by someone who had reason to want it suppressed? What was in the chapter that you read?" "It was about a woman who was plotting to poison her husband. It immediately captured one's interest." "Why didn't Andy let you read more?" "He was quite secretive about his novel. Don't you think most writers are sensitive about their work before it's published?" "Perhaps all the characters were drawn from life. Mrs. McGuffey seemed to think they were wildly imaginary, but I doubt whether she's in a position to know. She's lived a sheltered life. Perhaps Andy's story exposed a few Junktown secrets that would prove embarrassing — or incriminating." "He wouldn't have done anything like that! Andy was so considerate — " Qwilleran clenched his teeth. So considerate, so honest, so clever, so intelligent. He knew it by heart. "Perhaps you were in the story, too," he told Mary. "Perhaps that's why Andy wouldn't let you read farther. You may have been so transparently disguised that your position would be revealed and your family would crack down on you." Mary's eyes flashed. "No! Andy would never have been so unkind." "Well, we'll never know now!" Qwilleran started to leave and then turned back. "You know this Hollis Prantz. He says he used to be in the paint and wallpaper business and he retired because of a weak heart, and yet he's as agile as a fox. He was varnishing display cases when I was there today — " "Varnishing?" Mary asked.
"He said he was getting ready for the Block Party tomorrow, and yet he has very little merchandise to offer." "Varnishing on a day like this? It will never dry! If you varnish in damp weather, it remains sticky forever." "Are you sure?" "It's a fact. You may think it's dry, but whenever the humidity is high, the surface becomes tacky again." Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. "Strange mistake to make, isn't it?" "For someone who claims he's been in the paint business," Mary said, "it's an incredible mistake!" Later, the rain turned to a treacherous wet snow as fine as fog, and Qwilleran went to a cheap clothing store in the neighborhood to buy a red hunting cap with earflaps. He also borrowed the Cobb flashlight and crowbar in preparation for his scrounging debut.