UNDER THE HAMMER
Some few minutes elapsed before Mr. Gray, descending from the
platform, furious at such sudden interruption of his business, was
able to gather vaguely from excited persons what had occurred.
The throng were passing around the steps, so that he, in charge of the
auction, could not get near.
Of a sudden, an excited man, tall, thin-faced, and wearing a faded
blue rain-coat, a type of low-class dealer seen at every auction all
over the country, rushed up to him, saying:
“Ain’t it terrible, Mr. Gray?”
“What’s happened?” asked the auctioneer, who was so well-known and
popular in that riverside district.
“Why, a poor little chap--a telegraph boy! ’E fell down the steps, and
they say ’e’s dead!”
“Fell down? What? Stumbled?”
“They say ’e came ’ere with a wire for somebody named Long, a chap
from Birmingham. Somebody saw Mr. Long go into the ’ouse, and, hearing
the lad shout the name, sent him inside. He found him, and as he went
out to get his bike, which ’e left at the steps, he fell down, and
they say he’s dead!”
Mr. Gray stood staggered at the story. And well he might, recollecting
his own strange experience, followed by that of Doctor Otway and the
death of Farmer the caretaker.
The unconscious lad was quickly carried up the steps into the
dining-room by willing hands, and soon a doctor was present.
“He’s still alive,” the medical man declared. “But he’s suffering from
some violent shock, I think.”
Meanwhile the police were warned by telephone, and in a car belonging
to a West End dealer the poor lad was hurried away to the Richmond
Hospital.
Fully half-an-hour elapsed before calm reigned among the crowd of
buyers.
The incident was discussed by everyone. Some of those present
remembered what had appeared in the papers concerning the long-closed
house and the evil upon it, and began to talk of curses and of the bad
luck which might follow those who bought any of its contents. They
were members of what is known in auction circles as “the knock-out”--a
ring of dealers who were there to rope in all they could get at lowest
prices, by not bidding against each other, one of the most insidious
and dishonest forms of purchasing.
This reached Mr. Gray’s ears, and when order was at length restored,
by a telephone message from the hospital, which announced that the lad
was simply in an epileptic fit and would recover, he again mounted the
rostrum.
“Gentlemen!” he cried, striking the table with his mallet, “the
interruption upon our day’s proceedings has been a most unfortunate
occurrence--the more unfortunate because a certain ring of
ill-disposed people have circulated an utterly fantastic story that
upon the contents of these premises there exists an evil influence--a
curse it has been called. This is a further illustration of the low
depths to which our friends of the ‘knock-out’ will descend. I put it
to you, gentlemen, is this not hitting us all, myself included,
beneath the belt? I am open, as the majority of you here are, for a
fair and honest deal. We are all out to make a margin of profit for
ourselves--myself included. The more commission I get, the happier I
shall be!”
Whereat a great laugh resounded through the garden, and a man’s voice
cried: “Good old Gray! You’re one of us!”
“I am,” declared the auctioneer, laughing, and putting everyone in a
good temper. “So don’t let us waste any further time, gentlemen. Let’s
get to business.”
The next lot was a Charles the Second day-bed, cane-bottomed with
spindle legs, in preservation so perfect that it might have been made
but forty years ago. All specimens have the canes damaged or holed,
but in this case it was flawless.
“Now, gentlemen! How much for this perfect specimen?--a museum piece.
Nobody here has ever set eyes upon any day-bed as fine as this. We’re
not dealing with Curtain Road stuff to-day, gentlemen, but museum
pieces. What shall I say for this magnificent specimen? Two hundred
and fifty guineas?”
A little, grey-faced old man in the front of the crowd nodded in
assent. He had not bid before, and the crowd of dealers, looking
eagerly at him, saw he was not of them--an amateur, no doubt.
Another voice instantly cried “Two-sixty!”
“Two hundred and sixty guineas I am offered for this lot!” cried Mr.
Gray. “Come, gentlemen,” he said in his ordinary voice. “The figure is
ridiculous. Please don’t let us stay here all the afternoon. Three
hundred pounds is offered. Three hundred! Any advance?”
“Guineas!” said the little old stranger in a high-pitched, squeaky
voice, as he glanced round apprehensively to see if anyone was about
to outbid him.
“Three fifty pounds!” came good-humoredly from a well-known Kensington
firm of antique dealers.
“Three-sixty,” added the diminutive old stranger.
“Seventy,” replied the man from Kensington.
“Four hundred pounds,” said the little old man quite calmly.
“Four-ten,” was bid by the other.
“Fifteen!” exclaimed somebody at the back, whereupon the manager of a
well-known firm in Wigmore Street, perhaps one of the greatest dealers
in first-class antiques, whispered to a friend:
“Not worth more than that!”
To which his fellow dealer agreed.
“Twenty!” exclaimed the old amateur.
“Four hundred and twenty pounds for this perfect Charles the Second
day-bed!” cried the man with the hammer. “Four-twenty-five!
Four-twenty-five? Now, Mr. Lewis,” he went on, looking at the
Kensington dealer. “Four-twenty-five. A unique piece you must
acknowledge!”
The dealer from Kensington nodded.
“Four-twenty-five is offered sir,” exclaimed the auctioneer, fixing
his eyes upon the little old man.
But the latter shook his head, and when the hammer fell his shiny face
relaxed into a triumphant smile, for he had never had any intention
whatever of buying it, and had simply run up the price out of mere
devilry.
The auction proceeded, but the old gentleman, who was evidently a
person of discretion and knowledge, elbowed his way into the house and
went upstairs from room to room, examining the contents of each
apartment--which would occupy three days in the selling--with critical
eyes.
Presently, in descending, he passed for the second time into the long,
old drawing-room where the faint wintry light came through the dingy,
old, glass windows.
He was alone. For the moment the crowd were all eagerly excited at the
sale below.
Glancing apprehensively around, he suddenly clenched his hands, and,
raising his face to the ceiling, began to utter some words in
gibberish that was quite unintelligible. “The great mystery,” “the
strife of Lucifer,” “the all-powerful King,” “the Evil which is Ruler
of the Universe,” “the Death God of the Humans!” and such-like
expressions were all that were distinguishable.
In those few minutes his breath came and went in short, hard gasps as
he lifted his skinny hands and grasped the air in his excitement and
fervor.
In language which was cryptic and unintelligible he seemed to be
invoking evil upon the place, though no one was present to see him.
Two women suddenly entered that room in which Mr. Gray had been
attacked upon the reopening of the disused house, when suddenly the
stranger ceased his imprecations, and, pretending to closely examine
one of the pictures, a portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence, he strolled
out and down the wide stairs. On returning to the crowd he found a set
of ancient wrought iron fire-dogs being put up, but evinced no
interest in them. For a quarter of an hour he idled about the grounds,
and then left to stroll back to the station.
As he ambled along, absorbed apparently in his own thoughts, he took
no notice of a tall, rather thickly-built man of middle age who had
been present at the sale, and who, like himself, was on his way to the
station to take the next train back to London. The pair arrived at the
station almost at the same moment and passed the ticket collector one
behind the other. The elder man entered a first-class carriage, but
the other went third, yet on arrival at Waterloo about half-past four,
the younger man watched the other’s movements closely, and, when he
entered a taxi, the other followed him across Waterloo Bridge in
another cab.
It was a case of cat-and-mouse, for the elder man who had made such a
close bid for the Carolean day-bed was none other than the promenader
at Monte Carlo, in whose movements François Lebeau had been so deeply
interested, while the man who had travelled up to London was Albert
Ashe, the ex-butler of the Countess of Wyndcliffe!