Quinneys 22

Quinneys 22

"Bit of all right—um?"

 

Pressland said slowly:

 

"I hope you didn’t pay very much for it, Mr. Quinney."

 

"I paid a thumping big cheque for it. Never paid so much before for a

single bit."

 

Pressland murmured pensively:

 

"I thought you knew your furniture."

 

"Ain’t it all right? There’s no secret about what I paid. It’s been

paragraphed—nine hundred pounds."

 

A soft whistle escaped from Pressland’s thin lips. He said depressingly:

 

"I dare say you know more about those panels than I do."

 

Quinney protested vigorously:

 

"Don’t play that on me, Mr. Pressland. If I knew one quarter of what

you know about pictures I’d be a proud man."

 

"A pedigree bit? What do you mean by that?"

 

"Owner said it had been in his family for more than a hundred years. He

said that the panels were painted by Angelica Kauffman."

 

"Are you quite sure he didn’t say after Angelica Kauffman?"

 

Quinney shook his head. From every pore in his skin confidence was

oozing.

 

"Did he know the value of it?"

 

"No, he didn’t."

 

"Ah! He must have been pleased with your cheque."

 

Quinney explained matters. Pressland’s __EXPRESSION__ became acutely

melancholy; and his silence, as he turned away, was eloquent of a

commiseration too deep for words.

 

"Isn’t it right, Mr. Pressland?"

 

"My opinion is worth little, Mr. Quinney."

 

"I’m prepared to pay for it if necessary."

 

"No, no, no! Not from you. Well, then, I am afraid you have been had.

Did the dealers at the ’knock-out’ suspect that you wanted it badly?"

 

"Perhaps they did. I kept on bidding."

 

"Just so. It’s a little way they have. Very, very jealous, some of

them. You have been successful. Success makes enemies. I have enemies.

There are men in London who accuse me of abominable, unmentionable

things." He smiled modestly, spreading out his hands.

 

"You can afford to laugh at ’em, Mr. Pressland."

 

"I do."

 

"Am I to take it from you, sir, that Angelica did not paint those

panels?"

 

Pressland shrugged his shoulders.

 

"I am of opinion, and I may well be mistaken, that those panels were

painted after Angelica Kauffman’s death, probably by a clever pupil.

But please ask somebody else."

 

He drifted away, promising to call again, assuring Quinney that he would

send him customers.

 

 

*III*

 

Susan had the story red-hot from his trembling lips about ten minutes

later.

 

"I’ve been done—cooked to a crisp!" he wailed.

 

She kissed and consoled him tenderly, but he refused to be comforted.

She had applied raw steak to his injured eye. What balm could she pour

upon a bruised and bleeding heart?

 

"That man knows. He felt sorry for me. He hated to tell me. He

promised that he would tell nobody else—a good sort! What did your

mother say—Sir Humpty and Lady Dumpty. There you are!"

 

She kissed him again and stroked his face.

 

"I was so sure of my own judgment, Susie. The loss of the money is bad

enough, but everybody will find out that I’ve been had. That’s what

tears me!"

 

"He may be mistaken."

 

"Not he. He knows. I’ve a mind to go outside and hire a strong man to

kick me."

 

Next morning there was a wholesome reaction. Susan and he stood in front

of the commode. The sun streamed upon it.

 

"By Gum! I do believe it’s all right. If it isn’t, I’d better go back

to Melchester and stay there." He caressed the lovely wood so tenderly

that Susan felt jealous. "Oh, you beauty!" he exclaimed passionately.

"I believe in you; yes, I do. An artist created you. An artist painted

those panels."

 

He recovered his cheerfulness, and assured Susan that he was prepared to

back his opinion against Tomlin, Pressland, and all other pessimists.

 

Upon the following Monday Gustavus presented himself. For a dizzy

moment our hero believed that the most illustrious male in the kingdom

had dropped in incognito. Gustavus wore a grey cut-away coat, with an

orchid in the lapel of it, and he was smoking an imposing cigar.

 

"I am Gustavus Lark," he said.

 

"Pleased to see you, Mr. Lark."

 

No man in England could make himself more agreeable than the great

dealer. Gossip had it that he had begun life as a "rapper." A rapper,

as the name signifies, is one who raps at all doors, seeking what he may

find behind them—a bit of porcelain, a valuable print, an old

chair—anything. A successful rapper must combine in one ingratiating

personality the qualities of a diplomat, a leader of forlorn hopes, a

high-class burglar, and an American book agent. When the door upon which

he has rapped opens, he must enter, and refuse to budge till he has

satisfied himself that there is nothing in his line worth the buying.

 

Tomlin had the following story to tell of Gustavus, as a rapper. You

must take it for what it’s worth. Tomlin, we know, was a bit of a

rascal, and a liar of the first magnitude, but he affirmed solemnly that

the tale is true.

 

Behold Gustavus in the good old days of long ago, when prints in colours

were still to be found in cottages, rapping at the door of some humble

house. A widow opens it, and asks a good-looking young man what his

business may be. He enters audaciously, and states it. He is seeking

board and lodging. He is seeking, also, a set of the London "Cries."

But he does not mention that. He has heard—it is his business to hear

such gossip—that the widow possesses the complete set in colour, the

full baker’s dozen. He arranges for a week’s board and lodging, and he

satisfies himself that the prints are genuine specimens. In his satchel

he carries thirteen bogus prints, excellent reproductions. At dead of

night he takes from the frames the genuine prints and substitutes the

false ones. Three days afterwards he goes to London, and, later, sells

the prints for a sum sufficient to start him in business. But he does

not rest there, as a lesser man might well do. A rapper’s hands, be it

noted, are against all men. He robs cheerfully the men of his own

trade—the small dealers. Gustavus, then, proceeds to pile Pelion upon

Ossa. He next visits a dealer of his acquaintance and tells him that he

has discovered a genuine set of "Cries," which can be bought cheap in

their original frames. The dealer, who is not an expert in colour

prints, is deceived by the frames and by the authentic yarn which the

widow spins. He does buy the prints cheap, and sells them as genuine to

one of the innumerable collectors with more money than brains. Gustavus

gets his commission and nets a double profit!

 

Quinney had heard this story from Tomlin and others, but the benevolent

appearance of his visitor put suspicion to flight, as it had done scores

of times before. It was quite impossible to believe that an old

gentleman, who bore such an amazing resemblance to one venerated as the

Lord’s anointed, could have begun his career as a rapper!

 

"Anything of interest to show me?" asked Gustavus blandly. He treated

everybody, except his own understrappers, with distinguished courtesy.

He spoke to Quinney, whom he despised, exactly as he would have spoken

to a Grand Duke.

 

"Glad to take you round, Mr. Lark."

 

"I am told that you do not sell to dealers."

 

"That’s as may be. I want to build up a business with private

customers."

 

"Quite right. My own methods."

 

He glanced round the shop, which was divided roughly into sections. In

the first were genuine bits; in the second were the best reproductions

conspicuously labelled as such. The reproductions were so superlatively

good that Lark recognized at once the character of the man who had so

audaciously exposed them. Then and there he made up his mind that

Quinney was to be reckoned with. He smiled as he waved a white hand

protestingly at a piece of tapestry which might have challenged the

interest of an expert. He had sold such tapestry as old Gobelins, and

he knew that the maker of it only dealt with a chosen few.