by Paul Gallico
By these fraudulent means he had amassed a good deal of the only thing he cared about – money. Now, after the lorry driver had departed, he removed Manxmouse from his cage and holding him up by the nape of the neck said, “Well, someone has certainly diddled you up and that’s for sure.” For being such a cheat himself, he simply could not imagine that such a creature as Manxmouse existed.
He moistened his finger, rubbed it along Manxmouse’s fur and was surprised to see that no colour had come off. “Hmmm! Good dye job,” he commented. “But however did they get those ears stuck on?” And he pulled them until Manxmouse squeaked because it hurt. Then he turned him around and added, “I can see where they cut off his tail – that was clever, but what about those feet? Well, whoever put this together certainly knew his stuff,” and popping Manxmouse back into the cage, he went into the back room for a moment.
Whereupon all the pets increased their racket, shouting and talking at once, and all querying simultaneously as to what Manxmouse might have been originally before someone had disguised him, as most of them had been tampered with.
“I’m a Manx Mouse,” said Manxmouse. “And this is the way I am, honestly.”
All the animals except the mice began to hoot, shout and shriek with laughter, since they didn’t believe him at all. The mice, on the other hand, made him welcome and hoped that he would be bought by a nice child who would look after him well.
At this point Mr Smeater returned carrying a sign which he had just lettered and which he hung from Manxmouse’s cage. It read:
TIBETAN TAILLESS LOP-EARED BLUE MINI-KANGAROO MOUSE. VERY RARE. 10/–
The mice were thrilled to have one of themselves, so to speak, so expensive since they were the cheapest items in the shop. But all the other animals thought that Manxmouse was ridiculously overpriced and would be giving the other mice ideas, which indeed was the case.
It had all happened so quickly that he had not yet had a chance to think or reflect upon the fix he was in, shut away in a small box of a cage with a mesh front and up for sale to goodness knows whom. At this point the bell over the entrance door jangled, which was the signal for all the pets to set up their racket again. A customer entered – a gentleman with a small boy in tow.
Mr Smeater at once put on his most oily smirk and advanced, rubbing his hands together. “Good morning, sir! Good morning, my little man! And what can I interest you in today? A Burmese rabbit? They make very fine pets. A sweet singing canary?” and here he secretly switched on his canary recording. “Or a Paradise monkey from the island of Bali? A most unusual specimen – just came in yesterday.”
Mr Smeater was a past master at inventing lies. The monkey was an ordinary organ grinder’s kind. He had bought it the week before for a few shillings because the organ grinder couldn’t afford to feed it any more.
But the customer’s eye seemed to be caught immediately by Manxmouse, for he went over to the cage and, after examining him and reading the sign, said, “Hmm, that’s certainly interesting. How would you like that one, Peter?”
“Oh, yes please, Dad!” replied his son.
The gentleman nodded in the direction of Manxmouse and said, “Good. We’ll have him then.”
“He’s not for sale,” said Mr Smeater quickly. For he had been sharp enough to detect the gleam that had come into the father’s eyes as he had examined the creature and at once the thought shot through his cunning mind: Perhaps it is something very odd and I’ve priced him too low.
“What do you mean, he’s not for sale?” queried the customer. “What’s he up there for?”
“Just on exhibition.”
“Well then, why has he got a price – ten shillings?”
“That’s not his price,” said Mr Smeater. “That’s his catalogue number – ten stroke dash.”
“Come on, now,” said the man, “that’s nonsense! What do you want for him?” And the more eager the customer was to buy Manxmouse, the more Mr Smeater was convinced that he might indeed have something rather rare and worth a great deal.
“He’s a family pet. Belongs to my daughter.” (Mr Smeater had no family and certainly no daughter.) “We couldn’t think of parting with him.”
“Well then, bother!” said the customer. “Come on, Peter, we’ll go somewhere else.”
Immediately he had left, Mr Smeater tore down the sign, rushed behind to his office again and made a new one, this time marking it ‘10 guineas’. He was certain the first person wouldn’t have paid that, but somebody might.
At this juncture a white-haired gentleman arrived to buy food for his goldfish. He was an old client of Mr Smeater’s and a scientist who wrote fairy tales for children when the things he discovered in science began to worry him too much.
He bought his box of fish food, paid for it and was just about to depart when he noticed Manxmouse. “Hello,” he said. “What have we got here?”
“What do you think of it?”
“Splendid little fellow,” said the old scientist. “But of course, it isn’t at all what that says it is. It’s a Manx Mouse: Musculus Lividus Sine Cauda.” For scientists like to give long Latin names to animals and all this one meant was, ‘Little Blue Mouse Without a Tail.’
“Hmmm,” said Mr Smeater. “It was sold to me as a Tibetan Miniature Kangaroo Mouse. But that just goes to show you can’t trust anyone these days, doesn’t it? Is it worth anything?”
“My dear man…” said the scientist, for he did not know that Mr Smeater was crooked and filled half his fish food boxes with sawdust, since his goldfish could not tell him. “My dear man, worth anything? I think you may have hit upon something unusual. If it’s genuine, as it seems to be, you may have the only specimen in existence. Well, I’ll be getting along now. Two more of my fish died this morning. I can’t imagine what can have got into them.”
Mr Smeater had a momentary twinge, since he knew what was getting into the scientist’s goldfish, namely sawdust. But it was immediately overcome by his joy at having, through some incredible stroke of luck, apparently hit upon something very valuable. As soon as his customer had left, he rushed into the back room, cooked up two new signs and attached them on Manxmouse’s cage, where they caused a sensation. For one now read:
‘BLUE TAILLESS MANX MOUSE. ONLY ONE IN EXISTENCE.’ and the other: ‘20 GUINEAS.’
In a way, Manxmouse was pleased at having been recognised by such a knowledgeable man, and by learning that there were no others like him.
The mice, of course, were quite hysterical with delight, since this had put up their standing tremendously. Indeed, Mr Smeater now raised the price of all the mice on the pretext of their being cousins to his Manx Mouse.
But the other animals were furious and kept shouting, “Absurd!” “Nonsense!” “Ridiculous!” “Twenty guineas for that silly-looking thing!” “What’s the world coming to?”
The scientist must have talked, shortly upon leaving the shop, for it was not long after that a rather breathless young man, wearing a badge which identified him as coming from the Zoo, rushed in and said, “I hear you have a Manx Mouse. Ah, there he is! Twenty guineas – I’ll have him,” and reached for his pocket.
This was too easy for Mr Smeater. If a man from the Zoo was willing to hand out twenty guineas without so much as a second look, the animal must obviously be worth a great deal more.
“Not so fast, my friend,” he said, “it’ll cost you fifty pounds.”
“What?” said the Zoo man. “Fifty pounds? Why, you’ve got it written there – Twenty guineas. I’ll pay you—”
“Fifty pounds,” repeated Mr Smeater. “That’s not the price there. That just refers to the fact that I’ve twenty guinea pigs for sale. You know, twenty guineas, there they are over there in that window.”
“That’s robbery!” said the Zoo man. “I won’t pay it.”
Before he could leave, another chap dashed in and spotting Manxmouse cried, “Oh, good! Then you haven’t sold him yet. How much is he?”
&
nbsp; The Zoo man said, “He wants fifty quid for him.”
“Right you are,” said the second man, who was from the Museum, and produced his wallet.
“He couldn’t have heard me right,” said Mr Smeater. “I said a hundred.” For he was certain that, if the Zoo would pay twenty guineas and the Museum fifty pounds, the Manx Mouse must be worth double.
The two went away disappointed, for neither could meet the new price set by Mr Smeater. Yet this was only the beginning.
It is surprising how, when there is something rare and unique in any field – in painting, sculpture, china or stamps and animals as well, the word gets around like magic and collectors appear from all sides, frantically competing to acquire the prize for themselves.
Soon Mr Smeater’s shop was in an uproar as both men and women, from various parks, laboratories, institutions, circuses and freak show proprietors attempted to buy the Manx Mouse. Each time the price was put up higher and higher, with Mr Smeater growing more and more excited with every new offer. Sometimes he would go faint as he thought how close he had come to refusing to give the lorry driver five bob for this treasure.
The mice by this time were in an absolute fever, while the other pets were too stunned even to make noises any more.
Naturally, Mr Smeater no longer attached any price card to Manxmouse’s cage, but merely quoted what he thought nobody could be so foolish as to pay and when they reached for their money, he at once raised the fee again. He knew such a treasure as this came into one’s hands only once in a lifetime.
Even though greedy, he was on the point of closing a deal for a thousand pounds with an industrialist who had a private zoo. He could not imagine that anyone could possibly offer more for such an ugly little thing, when the door burst open and a messenger appeared with a fist full of telegrams.
The first one he opened was from Australia and said, ‘AM FLYING LONDON DONT SELL MANX MOUSE UNTIL MY ARRIVAL WILL OFFER FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS MORE THAN ANYONE ELSE’, and it was signed, ‘J. W. WOOLMAN.’
The next, from South Africa read, ‘ARRIVING LONDON TOMORROW 1900 HOURS HOLD MANX MOUSE FOR HIGHEST BID. P. G. DIAMOND.’
A third was from an oil magnate in Texas, another from a millionaire in New York and so it went.
Mr Smeater now saw riches beyond his wildest dreams: retirement, purchase of a large Rolls Royce, an eighteen-roomed house, travel, caviar and champagne every night. But how to be certain that he had been able to squeeze every last penny out of Manxmouse’s value? How to be absolutely one hundred per cent sure that he had obtained the top price and that there was not someone who would give more?
Then, in a blinding brainwave, the idea came to him: put up the Manx Mouse for auction. Let them come then, one and all, the collectors, the crazy millionaires and fight it out amongst themselves. Thereupon, logically, the name of the greatest auction house in London, Bidemup’s of Bond Street, entered his head.
To the crowd now milling about in his shop shouting and waving money at him, he said, “Sorry, gentlemen, the Manx Mouse is not for sale at the moment. I have decided to put him up for auction at Bidemup’s, where you will be able to attend. I want to be fair to everybody.”
For, not long before, there had been a great to-do in the press over a painting by a Mr Fricasseo which had fetched the fantastic sum of £190,000. If some daubs with paint on a bit of canvas could fetch such a price, what a fabulous amount could be realized for the only existing specimen of a genuine Manx Mouse!
However, Mr Bidemup, the owner of the firm, was not at all pleased with either Mr Smeater’s idea or Mr Smeater, when the latter first presented himself at his office with the Manx Mouse in his box cage under his arm.
Mr Bidemup was a very dignified gentleman with a black ribbon attached to his eyeglasses. He was wearing a most expensive suit of clothes, the kind Mr Smeater hoped to buy by the dozen after he had sold Manxmouse.
He looked at Mr Smeater most severely as he said, “My dear sir, our establishment doesn’t sell livestock. We auction valuable paintings, sculpture, china, old silver and jewellery. But animals…? And a mouse? Really, my good man, I suggest you take it to Petticoat Lane, or perhaps some pet shop will give you a few shillings for it.”
Mr Smeater, however, was not to be put off, since he had already had evidence of its value. He said, “I don’t think you realise, sir. This is hardly an ordinary mouse.” Here he opened the box and took out Manxmouse who sat in the palm of his hand and regarded Mr Bidemup with that mixture of gentleness, affection and tenderness which was always a part of his expression.
The auctioneer was startled to say the least. In the first place he had never seen such a delightfully pleasing and heart-warming look on the face of any animal before, and in the second, he had never seen any such animal. “Hmmm,” he said. “What is it?”
“A Manx Mouse,” said Mr Smeater. “The only one in existence.”
“Charming little fellow,” said Mr Bidemup. “How did you come upon him?”
“An expedition into darkest Borneo, the country of the head hunters,” Mr Smeater began. “After suffering untold privations—”
“Yes, yes! I see,” said Mr Bidemup, not believing a word of it. But the Manx Mouse somehow was exerting a spell over him. Yet rules were rules and he sighed and began to say, “I regret…” when Mr Smeater played his trump card.
He took the cablegrams from his pocket and laid them on the desk before Mr Bidemup, who read each one quite carefully, after which he cleared his throat and said, “Hmmm, well now, it doesn’t do to be too rigid these days, does it? It so happens that next week we are having a sale of small porcelain figures – Dresden, Copenhagen, Staffordshire, Rosenthal, Meissen…”
“Aha!” said Mr Smeater. “Well, if you’re selling Mice-en whatever…” for he had no idea of the names of porcelain or how to spell their makers.
“Exactly what I was going to say,” concluded the Director. “We might include your Manx Mouse under the heading of Meissen. However,” and here he cleared his throat again and waggled his glasses at the end of their ribbon at Mr Smeater, “you understand that you must pay ten per cent of the final sale bid, whatever happens. Is that clear?”
“By all means,” answered Mr Smeater, so thrilled at his success he was hardly listening.
“And Bidemup’s can accept no responsibility for the animal, his state of health, or delivery of same.”
“Yes, yes, of course!” Mr Smeater replied, only too delighted with the result of the interview.
“You’d better read the entire contract carefully, including the part in fine print,” warned Mr Bidemup.
“No, no, not at all necessary,” Smeater replied. He signed all the papers presented to him without even glancing at them and went back to his shop well satisfied with himself. He was about to become a rich man.
And so with the appearance of Manxmouse in Bidemup’s catalogue and advertisements, he very quickly became a celebrity and Mr Smeater already began to take in money hand over fist. On the strength of the excitement he sold out almost all his stock, raising his prices and taking a pound a piece for his mice.
He charged the press photographers a fee for taking Manxmouse’s picture and the newspapers another for publishing it. He collected a good-sized sum from the BBC for letting Manxmouse appear on television and a further large amount by permitting him to be modelled in wax and exhibited at Madame Tussaud’s.
He made even more money by clearing his shop and charging five shillings admission – children under ten, half-a-crown – to see Manxmouse, so that he had already amassed a small fortune before ever the auction took place.
In the meantime, almost every plane that touched down at London airport discharged prospective purchasers from foreign parts, loaded with money and hopes.
Chapter Ten
THE STORY OF THE MARVELLOUS MANX MOUSE AUCTION
AN AUCTION AT Bidemup’s, particularly when something of great value is to be put up, is a most exciting affair. The sa
leroom has chairs placed in rows somewhat like a theatre and the auctioneer operates from a pulpit like that in a church. Attendants bring in the objects to be sold and place them upon a raised pedestal where all can see. The auctioneer describes each one briefly and the bidding begins, sometimes running like wildfire around the room, at others settling down to a duel between two people who cannot even be seen, but who convey their bids by mysterious signals.
Nor is this all. To accommodate the many who wish to attend, other salerooms off the main one are equipped with closed-circuit television sets and a member of the firm transmits any offers made by telephone to the chief auctioneer.
But for the Great Manx Mouse Auction, as it came to be known in later days, there was even a further novelty. Transatlantic television via Telstar was arranged, so that those who could not manage to fly over, could bid via radio phone from such distant places as New York, San Francisco, Buenos Aires in Argentina, and Sydney, Australia.
On the day of the auction, a Friday morning, every important person in London had used his or her influence to gain a ticket of admission and a seat at the sale. There were baronets, viscounts, earls, even a duke, along with stars of stage and screen, owners of diamond and gold mines, property tycoons, two deposed kings and several Middle Eastern sheiks who did not know what a Manx Mouse was, but if it was all that valuable thought they ought to own it.
For the great day, Mr Smeater wore a tailor-made suit as expensive as that which he had seen upon Mr Bidemup but somehow on him it managed to look like all his others. As the owner of the Manx Mouse, he had a seat in the very front row.
The rooms were packed to suffocation by eleven o’clock when the auction began. Manxmouse was Lot No. 87, for the auctioneers always like to warm up the public to a pitch of excitement before bringing out the star item of the day. Moving picture, television and still cameramen waited nervously beside their apparatus for the great moment that was to come.
