three small tables in the middle of the shop.
‘But of course! Take your time. A pleasant day, is it not? You are visitors to the town, perhaps?’
Without answering, except with a reptilian smile which made the fat proprietor banish his own in favour of a grave inclination of the head and a hastily-sketched gesture designed to counteract the Evil Eye, Dame Beatrice picked up and studied one or two repellent pieces of china and glass and a paper-knife in the form of a fish, asked the price of each, shook her head as though in regret that the amount was beyond her means and then added:
‘Does your stock contain anything from the house which is now called Weston Pipers? I believe most of the furniture and effects were sold when the previous owner died.’
‘You have a connection with the house, madam?’
‘As a temporary tenant, yes. A very dreadful affair, the murder which, I am told, took place there recently, but I believe the police have made an arrest.’ She walked over to the torn lace curtain which only partly screened the collection of which the yataghan formed an item, as though to indicate that she had no further interest in the murder. She peered at the sorry display in the window. The proprietor came and stood at her shoulder.
‘The only things I have from the house,’ he said, in a purring tone which brought the suspicious Laura level with him, a heavy glass paperweight in her hand, ‘are a fine set of fire-irons. With all this central heating and electric fires of the present day, there is little call for such things. If madam would care to have a memento of Weston Pipers I would accept a cheap price.’
‘I have seen something in your shop I like better. I wonder whether
‘I think not, madam, but please to point it out.’
Dame Beatrice turned and faced that side of the room where the wall was partly barred off by a small wooden counter which held a till. On the wall, its only ornament, was a strange little picture hardly visible in the dim light of the interior of the shop.
It depicted a head with three aspects. One was full-face, the other two were in profile. On the top of the head was an erection which looked like a broad-based, rather squat vase and surrounding this were the two horns of the crescent moon. The head was one of dignified, disdainful malignity. It had broad, negroid features and a thick, curved, sensual, cruel mouth. The eyes were set unnaturally high on the forehead, the creature had no ears. Dame Beatrice pointed to it.
‘At my own home I have a little niche where that would go,’ she said. ‘How much are you asking for it?’
‘Oh, that is not for sale, I’m afraid, madam.’
‘A pity. I have a taste for the grotesque. Is it a talisman of some kind? Your good luck sign, perhaps?’
‘Nothing of the sort. Is there anything else you have seen?’
Laura, who had begun to think that she was not to be allowed to make an offer for the yataghan, cut in on him to ask:
‘What do you want for that sword-thing in the window?’
Obviously relieved to have someone other than Dame Beatrice to deal with, the bland proprietor drew aside the curtain, took up the yataghan and handed it over.
‘A very nice piece,’ he said. ‘A duelling sword of best French workmanship of the eighteenth century. Beautiful all-leather sheath.’
Laura drew the weapon out of its scabbard. The blade, although tarnished, was not rusty, and it was damascened in silver whorls and twirls.
Dame Beatrice took the sword and scabbard from Laura and looked them over.
‘A battle sword of Balkan manufacture,’ she said. ‘Nineteenth, not eighteenth, century. The scabbard is of wood covered thinly with leather. Name your price.’
‘I am a very poor man, as you can see, madam. As for the sword, I knew what it was, of course, but people are more impressed by an earlier century of workmanship. I did not expect to come up against an expert in a place like this.’ He pouted childishly and looked away.
‘Dishonesty is
The proprietor glanced at Dame Beatrice and then at Laura.
‘It is a nice piece,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Would ten pounds interest you?’
‘Done!’ said Laura, opening her handbag.
‘Well, well!’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘The collector’s acumen appears to be missing from your make-up! You should not have been so precipitate.’
The proprietor twisted his hands together.
‘The lady has made an agreement!’ he said, in agony. ‘Look, I’ll throw in the fire-irons for you yourself if you do not dispute with me. You shall have the fire irons for nothing!’
‘But not the little picture I fancy so much?’
‘I cannot part with it. It has religious significance. Please accept the fire-irons. They are very nice.’
‘Do you hold services here, then?’
‘Oh, well, as to that—’ He turned away from both of them and put Laura’s notes into the till. Then he rummaged around to find wrappings for the fire-irons and the yataghan. At last he handed over the packages and, bowing and smiling, opened the shop door, saw them out and would have followed them to their car but that the stolid chauffeur was already holding the car door open for them.
‘Did I get stung over the yataghan?’ asked Laura, when they were seated and George had reversed the car.
