"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 big moustache 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 Sevres 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. "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 Sevres 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, his photo 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 — l 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 finial from a rooftop — probably an ornament from an old house in the Zwinger reclamation area. The ball is solid brass. Needs a little polishing. What am I offered?" The people seated around Qwilleran were shocked. "Makes my blood run cold," one whispered.

"I didn't think they'd have the nerve to put it up." "Who's bidding? Can you see who's bidding?" "Very bad taste! Very bad!" someone said. "Did Andy actually fall on it?" "Didn't you know? He was impaled!" "Sold!" snapped the auctioneer. "Sold to C. C. Cobb." "No!" cried Mrs. Cobb.

At that moment there was a spine-chilling crash. A bronze chandelier let loose from the ceiling and crashed on the floor, narrowly missing Mr. Maus, the attorney.

It had been a splendid Victorian mansion in its day — a stately red brick with white columns framing the entrance, a flight of broad steps, and a railing of ornamental iron-work. Now the painted trim was peeling, and the steps were cracked and crumbling.

This was the building that housed the Cobbs' antique shop, The Junkery, and the bay windows on either side of the entrance were filled with colored glass and bric-a-brac.

After the auction Qwilleran accompanied Mrs. Cobb to the mansion, and she left him in the tacky entrance hall.

"Have a look at our shop," she said, "while I go upstairs and see if the apartment is presentable. We've been selling out of it for two months, and it's probably a mess." "It's been vacant two months?" Qwilleran asked, counting back to October. "Who was your last tenant?" Mrs. Cobb looked apologetic, "Andy Glanz lived up there. You don't mind, do you? Some people are squeamish." She hurried upstairs, and Qwilleran inspected the hallway. Although shabby, it was graciously wide, with carved woodwork and elaborate gaslight fixtures converted for electricity. The rooms opening off the hall were filled with miscellany in various stages of decrepitude. One room was crowded with fragments of old buildings-porch posts, fireplaces, slabs of discolored marble, stained-glass windows, an iron gate and sections of stair railing. Customers who had drifted in after the auction were poking among the debris, appraising with narrowed eyes, exhibiting a lack of enthusiasm. They were veteran junkers.