The Cat Who Turned on and Off Read Online Free PDF

“I was nowhere near the silly thing.” He shifted the equipment that hung around his neck and over both shoulders, and his tripod whacked a bust of Marie Antoinette. Qwilleran flung his arms around the white marble.
    “Oops,” said Tiny.
    The auctioneer was looking at the remains of the Sèvres vase, instructing the porter to gather the shattered fragments carefully, and Qwilleran thought it was time to introduce himself.
    “We want to get a few candid shots during the bidding,” he told the auctioneer. “You can proceed normally. Don’t pay any attention to the photographer.”
    Spooner said, “I’d like to get some elevation and shoot down. Do you have a stepladder?”
    There was an awkward pause. Someone laughed nervously.
    “Skip it,” said the photographer. “I see there’s a balcony. I’ll shoot from the stairway.”
    “Take it easy,” Qwilleran cautioned him. “If you break it, you’ve bought it.”
    Spooner surveyed the scene with scorn. “Do you want form or content? I don’t know what I can do with this rubbish. Too many dynamic lines and no chiarascuro.” He waddled toward the stairway, hisphoto equipment swinging, and the wagging tripod narrowly missed the crown glass doors of a breakfront.
    Back in his seat, Qwilleran explained to Mrs. Cobb, “He’s the only press photographer I know with a Ph.D. in mathematics, but he’s inclined to be clumsy.”
    “My goodness!” she said. “If he’s so smart, why is he working for a newspaper?”
    The gavel rapped, and the second half of the auction began, bringing out the most desirable items: an English bookcase, a Boule commode, a seventeenth century Greek icon, a small collection of Benin bronzes.
    Occasionally there was a flash from the photographer’s lights, and women in the audience touched their hair and assumed bright, intelligent expressions.
    “And now,” said the auctioneer, “we have this beautiful pair of French chairs in the original—”
    There was a shriek!
    A shout: “Look out!”
    A porter lunged forward with arms outstretched, barely in time to steady a teetering mirror—the pier mirror that almost reached the ceiling. In another second the towering glass would have crashed on the audience.
    The spectators gasped, and Qwilleran said, “Whew!” At the same time he scanned the crowd for Spooner.
    The photographer was leaning over the balcony railing. He caught the newsman’s eye and shrugged.
    Mrs. Cobb said, “I’ve never seen so many accidents at an auction! It gives me the creeps. Do you believe in ghosts?”
    The audience was nervous and noisy. The auctioneer raised his voice and increased the tempo of his spiel. Waving his hand, jabbing his finger at bidders, jerking his thumb over his shoulder when each item was sold, he whipped the spectators into a frenzy.
    “Do you want this or don’t you?—Five hundred I’ve got—Do I hear six hundred?—What’s the matter with you?—it’s two hundred years old!—I want seven—I want seven—I’ll buy it myself for seven—going, going—take it away!” The thumb jerked, the gavel crashed on the lectern, and the excitement in the audience reached a crescendo.
    The two-hundred-year-old desk was removed, and the spectators waited eagerly for the next item.
    At this point there was a significant pause in the action, as the auctioneer spoke to the attorney. It was a pantomime of indecision. Then they both nodded and beckoned to a porter. A moment later a hush fell on the crowd. The porter had placed a curious object on the platform—a tall, slender ornament about three feet high. It had a square base topped by a brass ball, and then a shaft of black metal tapering up to a swordlike point.
    “That’s it!” someone whispered behind Qwilleran. “That’s the finial!”
    Beside him, Mrs. Cobb was shaking her head and covering her face with her hands. “They shouldn’t have done it!”
    “We have here,” said the auctioneer in slow, deliberate tones, “the