"Lay on, Macduff!" cried Ben. "Shine the light over the railing," Qwilleran instructed. "I'm working in shadow." Then he paused with crowbar in midair. He had seen something in the dust on the floor. He turned to look at Ben and was blinded by the two flashlights. A shudder in his moustache made him plunge to the rear of the box. There was a wrenching of timbers and a crash and a cloud of choking dust rising from the floor below. Two beams of light danced crazily on the walls and ceiling.
"What the hell happened?" gasped Qwilleran. "The railing let loose!" The railing was gone, and the sagging floor of the box sloped off into blackness.
"The saints were with us!" cried Ben, choked with emotion or dust.
"Give me a light and let's get out of here," said the newsman.
They drove back to Junktown with the brass grille in the back seat, Qwilleran silent as he recalled his narrow escape and what he had seen in the dust.
"Our performance lacked fire this evening," Ben apologized. An icicle glistened on the tip of his nose. "We were frozen to the bone. But come to the pub and witness a performance that will gladden your heart. Come join us in a brandy." The Lion's Tail had been a neighborhood bank in the 1920s-a miniature Roman temple, now desecrated by a neon sign and panels of glass blocks in the arched windows. Inside, it was lofty, undecorated, smoke-filled, and noisy. An assortment of patrons stood at the bar and filled half the tables-men in work clothes, and raggle-taggle members of Junktown's after-dark set.
As Ben made his entrance, he was greeted by cheering, stamping of feet, and pounding of tables. He acknowledged the acclaim graciously and held up his hand for silence.
"Tonight," he said, "a brief scene from King Richard III, and then drinks for the entire house!" With magnificent poise he moved through the crowd, his muffler hanging down to his heels, and disappeared. A moment later he emerged on a small balcony.
"Now is the winter of our discontent…" he began. The man had a ringing delivery, and the audience was quiet if not wholly attentive.
"He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber," came the voice from the balcony, and there was riotous laughter down below.
Ben concluded with a melodramatic leer: "I am determined to prove a villain and hate the idle pleasures of these days!" The applause was deafening, the actor bowed humbly, and the bartender went to work filling glasses.
When Ben came down from the balcony, he threw a wad of folded bills on the bar — bills folded lengthwise. "King Richard or Charley's aunt, what matter?" he said to Qwilleran with a gloomy countenance. "The day of the true artist is gone forever. The baggy-pants comic is an 'artist. So is the bullfighter, tightrope walker and long-haired guitar player.
Next it will be baseball players and bricklayers! Sir, the time is out of joint." The thirsty audience soon demanded an encore.
"Pardon us," Ben said to Qwilleran. "We must oblige," and he moved once more toward the balcony.
The newsman quietly left The Lion's Tail, wondering where Ben acquired the cash to buy the applause that he craved — and whether he had known that the box at the Garrick was a booby trap.
Qwilleran went home. He found the cats asleep on their cushions, which bent their whiskers into half-smiles, and he retired to his own bed, his mind swimming with questions. What was Ben's racket? Was the actor as nutty as he appeared? Was his sudden affluence connected with the Ellsworth house? Ben had been there, Qwilleran was sure. He had seen the evidence in the dust-feathery arabesques made by the tassels of his muffler. Still, Ben's reception at The Lion's Tail indicated that his audience was accustomed to his largess.
The newsman remembered something Cobb had said.
"The nearest Ben ever got to Broadway was Macy's toy department." Then a few minutes later Cobb had contradicted himself. "Ben's got a bundle. He used to make big money." And at this remark Iris had glanced at her husband in surprise.
Did Ben have a shady sideline that supplied him with the money to bribe his audience into attention and applause?
Did Cobb know about it? Qwilleran's answers were only guesses, as unprovable as they were improbable. and the questions kept him awake.
Deliberately he turned his mind to a more agreeable subject: Christmas Eve at the Press Club. He could picture the society writers — and Jack Jaunti — doing a double take when he walked in with Mary, and he could see the newshounds being outwardly casual but secretly impressed by the magic name of Duxbury. QwilIeran realized he ought to cap the evening with a Christmas gift for Mary, but what could he buy for the daughter of a millionaire?
Before he fell asleep, the answer spread over his consciousness like a warm blanket. It was a brilliant idea — so brilliant that he sat up in bed. And if the Daily Fluxion would cooperate, it would save Junktown.
QwilIeran made a mental note to call the managing editor the first thing in the morning, and then he slept, the pillow turning up one end of his moustache in a half-smile.
19
Waking on Wednesday morning, Qwilleran was vaguely aware of a lump in his armpit. It was Yum Yum, hiding under the blankets in the safest spot she could find. But while she had run for cover, Koko was investigating the shattering noise that alarmed her. With his hind feet on a chair and his forepaws on the window sill, he was watching the pellets of ice that bounced off the panes of glass.
"Hailstorm!" Qwilleran groaned. "That's all we need to ruin the Block Party!" Koko left the window and routed Yum Yum out of bed. The hail sheathed the city in ice, but by eleven o'clock that morning, the weather developed a conscience and the sun broke through. Junktown sparkled like a jewel. Buildings became crystal palaces. Utility wires, street signs, and traffic lights wore a glistening fringe of icicles, and even the trash cans were beautiful. It was the only decent gesture the weather had made all winter. By noon the junkers were flocking into Zwinger Street. Angels flew from the lampposts, carolers were caroling, and Ben Nicholas in white beard and Santa Claus pantaloons held audience on the stoop in front of his shop. Tiny Spooner was there, taking pictures, and even the Morning Rampage had sent a photographer.
Qwilleran mixed with the crowd and eavesdropped in the shops, until it was time to return to the Junkery and take his turn at tending the shop. He found Cluthra on duty.
"This chair is very old," she was telling a customer. "It has the original milk paint. You'd better grab it. At twenty- seven fifty Mrs. Cobb isn't making a penny on it, I can guarantee. Why, on Cape Cod you'd have to pay sixty-five dollars!" The customer capitulated, wrote a check, and left the shop in high glee, carrying a potty chair with sawed-off legs.
Cluthra turned the cashbox over to QwilIeran and explained the price tags. "Do you understand the code, hon?" she asked. "You read the numbers backwards to get the asking price, and then you can go up or down a few dollars, depending on the customer. Be careful of that banister-back chair; it has a loose leg. And don't forget, you're entitled to strangle every third customer who tells you about her grandmother." The traffic in and out of the shop was heavy, but the buyers were less plentiful than the lookers and askers.
QwilIeran decided to keep a log for Mrs. Cobb's benefit: — Sold two blue glass things out of window, $18.50.
— Woman asked for Sheffield candlesticks.
— Man asked for horse brasses.
— Sold spool chest, $30.
— Kissed female customer and sold tin knife box, $35.
The customer in question had rushed at QwilIeran with a gay little shriek. "QwilI! What are you doing here?" "Rosie Riker! How are you? You're looking great!" Actually she was looking matronly and somewhat ludicrous in her antiquing clothes.
"How've you been, Qwill? I keep telling Arch to bring you home to dinner. Mind if I sit down? I've been walking around for three hours." "Not in the banister-back, Rosie. The leg's loose." "I wish they'd turn those carol singers off for five minutes. How've you been, Qwill? What are you doing here?" "Keeping shop while Mrs. Cobb's at her husband's funeral." "You're looking fine. I'm glad you've still got that romantic moustache! Do you ever hear from Miriam?" "Not directly, but my ex-mother-in-law puts the bite on me once in a while. Miriam's in that Connecticut sanitarium again." "Don't let those vultures take advantage of you, Qwill. They're plenty well off." "Well, how've you been, Rosie? Are you buying anything?" "I'm looking for a Christmas present for Arch. How are your cats?" "They're great! Koko's getting smarter all the time. He opens doors, turns lights on and off, and he's learning to type." "You're kidding." "He rubs his jaw against the levers and flips the carriage or resets margins — not always at the most opportune time." "He's cleaning his teeth," Rosie explained. "Our vet says that's how cats try to clean their teeth. You should take Koko to the dentist. Our gray tabby just had a dental prophylaxis…. Say, have you got any tin? I want to buy something for Arch." She found a tin knife box, and Qwilleran — torn between two loyalties — guiltily knocked two dollars off Mrs. Cobb's asking price.