The Cat Who Turned on and Off Read Online Free PDF Page A

good,” Mrs. Cobb whispered to Qwilleran. “Wait till he really gets wound up!”
    Every sixty seconds another item went down under the hammer—a silver inkwell, pewter goblets, a pair of bisque figures, a prayer rug, an ivory snuffbox. Three assistants were kept busy up and down the aisles, while porters carried items to and from the platform.
    “And now we have a fine, fat, cast-iron stove,” said the auctioneer, raising his voice. “We won’t lug it to the platform, because you eagle eyes can see it on the stair landing. Who’ll give me fifty?”
    All heads turned to look at a sculptured black monster with a bloated silhouette and bowlegged stance.
    “Fifty I have—who’ll say seventy-five?—it’s a beauty . . . . Seventy-five is bid—do I hear a hundred?—you’re getting it cheap . . . . I have a hundred—what do I hear? . . . Hundred and ten—it’sworth twice the price . . . . Hundred-twenty is bid . . . . Hundred-thirty back there—don’t lose this prize—a nice big stove—big enough to hide a body . . . . Hundred-forty is bid—make it a hundred-fifty . . . . Sold for a hundred-fifty.” The auctioneer turned to the assistant who recorded sales. “Sold to C.C. Cobb.”
    Mrs. Cobb gasped. “That fool!” she said. “We’ll never get our money out of it! I’ll bet Ben Nicholas was bidding against him. The bids were going up too fast. Ben didn’t want that stove. He was bidding just to be funny. He does it all the time. He knew C.C. wouldn’t let him have it.” She turned around and glared with unseeing eyes in the direction of the red flannel shirt and the Santa Claus cap.
    The auctioneer was saying, “And now before we take an intermission, we’ll unload a few items of office equipment.”
    There were reference books, a filing cabinet, a portable tape recorder, a typewriter—mundane items that had little interest for the crowd of junkers. Mrs. Cobb made a hesitant bid on the tape recorder and got it for a pittance.
    “And here we have a portable typewriter—sold as is—one letter missing—who’ll give me fifty?—do I hear fifty?—I’ll take forty—I think it’s the Z that’s missing—I’m waiting for forty—thirty, then—who’ll say thirty?”
    “Twenty,” said Qwilleran, to his own surprise.
    “Sold to the astute gentleman with the bigmoustache for twenty smackers and now we’ll take a fifteen-minute break.”
    Qwilleran was stunned by his windfall. He had not expected to do any bidding.
    “Let’s stretch our legs,” Mrs. Cobb said, pulling at his sleeve in a familiar way.
    As they stood up they were confronted by the man in the red flannel shirt. “Why’d you buy that stupid tape recorder?” he demanded of his wife.
    “You wait and see!” she said with a saucy shake of her head. “This is a reporter from the Daily Fluxion. He’s interested in our vacant apartment.”
    “It’s not for rent. I don’t like reporters,” Cobb growled and walked away with his hands in his trouser pockets.
    “My husband is the most obnoxious dealer in Junktown,” Mrs. Cobb said with pride. “Don’t you think he’s good-looking?”
    Qwilleran was trying to think of a tactful reply when there was a crash near the front door, followed by exclamations and groans. The Fluxion photographer was standing at the entrance.
    Tiny Spooner was six-feet-three and weighed close to four hundred pounds, including the photographic equipment draped about his person. Added to his obesity were cameras, lens cases, meters, lights, film kits, and folding tripods dangling from straps and connected by trailing cords.
    Mrs. Cobb said, “What a shame! Must have been the Sèvres vase on the Empire pedestal.”
    “Was it valuable?”
    “Worth about eight hundred dollars, I guess.”
    “Save my seat for me,” Qwilleran said. “I’ll be right back.”
    Tiny Spooner was standing near the door, looking uncomfortable. “So help me, I’m innocent,” he told Qwilleran.