Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

“Oh, no, not at all. Do come in! Can I offer you a cup of tea, or something a little stronger?” Mr. Clauson was made welcome and invited to look round while she made a cup of tea.

Clauson did look round. There was no doubt he had struck gold dust. None of the stuff would bring newspaper reporters to Sotheby’s, but it was all good solid furniture, such as would fetch many pounds from other dealers and even customers. His mouth positively watered at the sight of what he saw.

Mrs. Stammers was used to company, if only the company of the general and his wife. She felt lonely in their absence, and welcomed the arrival of this very charming, very well-spoken gentleman. She hoped he would stay for a while and perhaps even come back. When he had finished his brief inspection, the most delicate sandwiches, the most delicate cakes, and a pot of tea awaited him. A bottle of whisky and two glasses stood by, in reserve.

Clauson beamed his delight, said how very tasty the sandwiches were, passed unkind comments on the younger generation that couldn’t even turn out a sandwich without it tasting like cardboard, and sipped the tea. He complimented her on her taste, her foresight in having bought such beautiful things, and how lucky her friends and relatives were to have such a hospitable friend and such a very, very beautiful home to visit.

“Oh, I’ve hardly any family left, except my Aunt Pru, and she can’t travel,” she said.

“Oh, I say, what a shame,” he said.

“My husband died in the war, and here I am, and lucky to be here.”

“And lucky am I to be here, too,” he beamed.

When the tea had been drunk, she offered him something a little stronger. He accepted, but only on condition she had a little too. Mrs. Stammers was beginning to enjoy her role as hostess. She wondered why Mrs. Thundackaray-Harding did not seem to enjoy it, and got so many headaches when guests were due. Slipping into the role of lady of the house, she enjoyed being complimented not only on her taste, but also on her ability to arrange the furniture, as well as the china, not to mention tapestries.

“I say, wouldn’t it be marvelous if you’d help me buy for my house,” said Mr. Clauson. “With your taste and my bank manager, what a lovely house I’d have. Nearly as lovely as yours.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly,” protested Mrs. Stammers, not knowing where to start looking and afraid of being found out.

“Oh, but look what super taste you have. You must be a very astute buyer,” said Mr. Clauson.

“Well, I’ve got a little confession to make to you,” she said. “You won’t think any the worse of me for it?”

Mr. Clauson protested his utter devotion (his conversation would not have shamed Mrs. Cartland’s villains).

Mrs. Stammers took a deep breath and began her confession, “Actually, it’s been in the family for centuries. I just keep it polished...”

“And a splendid job you do,” said the unsuspecting Mr. Clauson. “But look here, wouldn’t it be very nice if you’d sell me just one of those things to start me off, just one, to start me off with.” (Mr. Clauson diphthonged the o

in “off” because someone had told him it was the right thing to do in some circles.)

“Oh, but I couldn’t... I really have no right...”

“Ah, yes, how well I understand, and very commendable in this day and age. You are the guardian of the past, and you wish to see all these very beautiful things preserved for posterity. What a very commendable thought. But my dear lady, I promise you I will look after it with the same devotion, I would keep it just as well polished...”

“Oh, how could I!”

“I know what you are thinking, but you are absolutely wrong. You see, I do know something about antique furniture. I wouldn’t just give you the right value. I’d give you more than what a dealer would pay. After all, a dealer has to make a profit. Did you know, dear lady, that an antiques dealer has to make a profit, whereas I do not? Did you know, dear lady, that an antiques dealer sells his wares for double what he pays you? I shall pay you exactly what a dealer would sell it for, not what he would buy it for, not what he would sell it for to another dealer. Because these horrible chaps have a special price for each other, not what they would charge an unsuspecting collector like you or me.”

At this point he brought out a wad of twenty-pound notes. Most people are used to a few fives and tens, but a wad of twenties is something else. It produces the worst possible effect on the soul (or the psyche). It makes the most generous grasping, the most disinterested in the material goods of this world rapacious. Mr. Clauson saw all this in her face.