The Auctioneer

“Give us a chance,” said Ezra Stone. The big deputy sat on a high stool near the wood stove with his arms folded. “Don’t worry. We’ll catch him.”

“And,” said the doctor, without even turning to nod to Stone, “as the doctor around here, I’d like to know how come the more cops we get, the more accident prone we seem to become.”

Perly had returned to the center of the stage and stood there, his eyes glistening on the doctor.

Dr. Hastings peered back unflinching behind his glasses. “And incidentally,” he added, “I’d also like to know why so many of my longest-standing patients are moving out of town.”

“If you want to make comparisons,” Perly said in his cool luminous voice, “have you looked at the per capita statistics for New York City on arson—let alone mugging, rape, murder, armed robbery? Why a New Yorker can hardly expect to get through a month in peace. Harlowe may be facing the first serious problem in its history, but most places are exploding with crime. And the reason, Doctor, that we’re better off than most, is that in a country town like this people act promptly before things get out of hand.” Perly held out his arms to include all the people in the hall. “People in the country know what brotherhood means,” he said.

“Everyone takes an interest in his neighbors. It’s the good will in a town like this that’s going to help us put an end to these fires. And, as for moving around, people still don’t move around half as—”

“There he goes again,” shouted Ma. “Standin’ words on their head. Down comes out up. Wrong comes out right. Shoot you in the back comes out the Sermon on the Mount.”

Perly shook his head at Ma. “Slipping,” he commented to the doctor.

John sprang from his seat and stood facing the auctioneer.

“Ask him about the auctions,” Sam Parry growled before John could think what to say.

The auctions? asked Perly, breaking into a jaunty smile and ignoring John. “Now you’re on my favorite subject. What about them? Never a town loved an auction like Harlowe. When I came here, I had in mind three—maybe four—auctions. But you folks just wouldn’t let me quit. Oh, I paid for everything. Maybe that’s why you kept showering stuff on me. All I did was float along on the crest of the wave. And a wonderful ride it was—the most American experience anyone can have. It’s like the very eye of a hurricane—where the sellers and buyers come to terms.”

“Ask him how bloody much he paid,” Sam Parry shouted.

Perly turned on him with his quick black look, then gestured to the people in the hall with quiet control. “Nobody has ever complained,” he said slowly. “Of course, I am a newcomer. My knowledge of prices around here is limited. But just let me ask. Is there anyone here who ever complained?”

In the silence, a log settled in the wood stove with a crash. Perly, standing light on the toes of his boots, leaned down over the people spread out below him. “Did anyone ever complain?” he repeated.

Finally, he put his hand on Dixie’s head and turned to Mudgett with a smile.

Ma had been shaking her head. Now she started to bang her cane on the floor, her gray head bobbing angrily over it. Everyone turned again to look at the Moores. Mim sat perfectly still. She felt she’d been caught in this moment a dozen times before, with the jacklight and the gunsights trained full on her. “Ma, please,” she murmured.

“I complained,” Ma cried, her voice hoarse. I complained loud and clear. Just like I’m a complainin right this minute.”

Mim put a restraining hand on her knee, but she brushed it off.

“Mrs. Moore...” said Perly, raising his brows and lowering his voice. “You didn’t complain when I made you a gift of a more comfortable couch.” He raised his head to the hall and said, “Mrs. Moore’s losing her grip... .”

“The hell she is,” John cried, still on his feet.

Nearby, Cogswell lifted his flask to his mouth in a sudden sweeping motion, tipped it back, and drank. Then he put the cover on, wiped his face on his sleeve, and pulled himself to his feet. “She complained all right,” he said. “And if there ain’t too many did, it’s because the pickup men had their orders. We had to make sure every soul knew about them accidents. Every time people got in a mood to complain, they heard about another accident.”

Perly straightened up in horror. Good God, Mickey, he cried. “You are muddled. We had to demote Mickey,” he announced to the townspeople. “I offered to send him on a cure, but he insisted he didn’t have a problem. In fact, he’s been nursing a grudge against me for even suggesting it.”

Cogswell swayed slightly as he faced the auctioneer.

“You see...” Perly said, gesturing sadly.

But the people kept their eyes on Perly.

“He turned us into a pack of thieves,” Mickey muttered.

“Well, why’d you let him?” shouted Arthur Stinson, clapping a hand over his mouth before he was quite finished. Stinson had married four years ago at sixteen, and, despite a reputation as a hothead, he had settled down and managed to support his young wife and then his child as a general repairman.