The newsman ignored him and picked up a book from one of the tables. It was bound in leather, and the cracking spine was lettered in gold that had worn away with age. He opened the book to find the title page.
"Don't open that book," came a surly command, "unless you're buying it." Qwilleran's moustache bristled. "How do I know whether I want it till I read the title?" "To hell with the title!" said the proprietor. "If you like the looks of it, buy it. If you don't, keep your sweatin' hands in your pockets. How long do you think those books will last if every jerk that comes in here has to paw the bindings?" "How much do you want for it?" Qwilleran demanded. "I don't think I want to sell it. Not to you, anyway." The other customers had stopped browsing and were looking mildly amused at Qwilleran's discomfiture. He sensed the encouragement in their glances and rose to the occasion.
"Discrimination! That's what this is," he roared. "I should report this and have you put out of business! This place is a rat's nest anyway. The city should condemn it.
… Now, how much do you want for this crummy piece of junk?" "Four bucks, just to shut your loud mouth!" "I'll give you three." Qwilleran threw some bills on the bar.
Cobb scooped them up and filed them in his billfold. "Well, there's more than one way to skin a sucker," he said with a leer at the other customers.
Qwilleran opened the book he had bought. It was The Works of the Reverend Dr. Ishmael Higginbotham, Being a Collection of Interesting Tracts Explaining Several Important Points of the Divine Doctrine, Set Forth with Diligence and Extreme Brevity.
Mrs. Cobb burst into the room. "Did you let that dirty old man bully you into buying something?" "Shut up, old lady," said her husband.
She had put on a pink dress, fixed her hair, and applied make-up, and she looked plumply pretty. "Come upstairs with me," she said sweetly, putting a friendly hand on Qwilleran's arm. "We'll have a cozy cup of coffee and let Cornball Cobb fume with jealousy." Mrs. Cobb started up the creaking staircase, her round hips bobbling from side to side and the backs of her fat knees bulging in a horizontal grin. Qwilleran was neither titillated nor repelled by the sight, but rather saddened that every woman was not blessed with a perfect figure.
"Don't pay any attention to C. C.," she said over her shoulder. "He's a great kidder." The spacious upstairs hall was a forest of old chairs, tables, desks, and chests. Several doors stood open, revealing dingy living quarters.
"Our apartment is on that side," said Mrs. Cobb, indicating an open door through which came a loud radio commercial, "and on this side we have two smaller apartments. Ben Nicholas rents the front, but the rear is nicer because it has a view of the backyard." Qwilleran looked out the hall window and saw two station wagons backed in from the alley, an iron bed, a grindstone, the fender from a car, some wagon wheels, an old refrigerator with no door, and a wooden washing machine with attached clothes wringer — most of them frozen together in a drift of dirty ice and snow. "Then how come Nicholas lives in the front?" he asked. "His apartment has a bay window, and he can keep an eye on the entrance to his shop, next door." She led the way into the rear apartment — a large square room with four tall windows and a frightening collection of furniture. Qwilleran's gaze went first to an old parlor organ in jaundiced oak — then a pair of high-backed gilded chairs with seats supported by gargoyles — then a round table, not quite level, draped with an embroidered shawl and holding an oil lamp, its two globes painted with pink roses — then a patterned rug suffering from age and melancholy — then a crude rocking chair made of bent twigs and tree bark, probably full of termites.
"You do like antiques, don't you?" Mrs. Cobb asked anxiously.
"Not especially," Qwilleran replied in a burst of honesty. "And what is that supposed to be?" He pointed to a chair with tortured iron frame, elevated on a pedestal and equipped with headrest and footrest.
"An old dentist's chair — really quite comfortable for reading. You can pump it up and down with your foot. And the painting over the fireplace is a very good primitive." With a remarkably controlled expression on his face, Qwilleran studied the lifesize portrait of someone's great- great-grandmother, dressed in black-square-jawed, thin-lipped, steely-eyed, and disapproving all she surveyed.
"You haven't said a word about the daybed," said Mrs. Cobb with enthusiasm. "It's really unique. It came from New Jersey." The newsman turned around and winced. The daybed, placed against one wall, was built like a swan boat, with one end carved in the shape of a long-necked bad-tempered bird and the other end culminating in a tail.
"Sybaritic," he said drily, and the landlady went into spasms of laughter.
A second room, toward the front of the house, had been subdivided into kitchenette, dressing room, and bath.
Mrs. Cobb said, "C. C. installed the kitchen himself. I He's handy with tools. Do you like to cook?" "No, I take most of my meals at the Press Club." "The fireplace works, if you want to haul wood upstairs. Do you like the place? I usually get one hundred and ten dollars a month, but if you like it, you can have it for eighty-five dollars." Qwilleran looked at the furniture again and groomed his moustache thoughtfully. The furnishings gave him a chill, but the rent suited his economic position admirably. "I'd need a desk and a good reading light and a place to put my books." "We've got anything you want. Just ask for it." He bounced on the daybed and found it sufficiently firm. Being built down to the floor, it would offer no temptations to burrowing cats. "I forgot to tell you," he said. "I have pets. A couple of Siamese cats." "Fine! They'll get rid of our mice. They can have a feast." "I don't think they like meat on the hoof. They prefer it well-aged and served medium rare with pan juices." Mrs. Cobb laughed heartily — too heartily — at his humor. "What do you call your cats?" "Koko and Yum Yum." "Oh, excuse me a minute!" She rushed from the room and returned to explain that she had a pie in the oven. An aroma of apples and spices was wafting across the hall, and Qwilleran's moustache twitched.
While Mrs. Cobb straightened pictures and tested surfaces for dust, Qwilleran examined the facilities. The bathroom had an archaic tub with clawed feet, snarling faucets, and a maze of exposed pipes. The refrigerator was new, however, and the large dressing room had a feature that interested him; one wall was a solid bank of built-in bookshelves filled with volumes in old leather bindings.
"If you want to use the shelves for something else, we'll move the books out," Mrs. Cobb said. "We found them in the attic. They belonged to the man who built this house lover a hundred years ago. He was a newspaper editor. Very prominent in the abolitionist movement. This house is quite historic." Qwilleran noticed Dostoyevski, Chesterfield, Emerson. "You don't need to move the books, Mrs. Cobb. I might like to browse through them." "Then you'll take the apartment?" Her round eyes were shining. "Have a cup of coffee and a piece of pie, and then you can decide." Soon Qwilleran was sitting in a gilded chair at the lopsided table, plunging a fork into bubbling hot pie with sharp cheese melted over the top. Mrs. Cobb watched with pleasure as her prospective tenant devoured every crumb of flaky crust and every dribble of spiced juice.
"Have some more?" "I shouldn't." Qwilleran pulled in his waistline. "But it's very good." "Oh, come on! You don't have to worry about weight. You have a very nice physique." The newsman tackled his second wedge of pie, and Mrs. Cobb described the joys of living in an old house.