"Lewis Padgett - What You Need" - читать интересную книгу автора (Padgett Lewis)

WHAT YOU NEED

Lewis Padgett

DEEN UOY TAHW EVAH EW

That's what the sign said. Tim Carmichael, who worked for a trade paper that specialized in economics,
and eked out a meager salary by selling sensational and untrue articles to the tabloids, failed to sense a
story in the reversed sign. He thought it was a cheap publicity gag, something one seldom encounters on
Park Avenue, where the shop fronts are noted for their classic dignity. And he was irritated.

He growled silently, walked on, then suddenly turned and came back. He wasn't quite strong enough to
resist the temptation to unscramble the sentence, though his annoyance grew. He stood before the
window, staring up, and said to himself, "We Have What You Need. Yeah?"

The sign was in prim, small letters on a black painted ribbon that stretched across a narrow glass pane.
Below it was one of those curved, invisible-glass windows. Through the window Carmichael could see
an expanse of white velvet, with a few objects carefully arranged there. A rusty nail, a snowshoe, and a
diamond tiara. It looked like a Dali decor for Cartier's or Tiffany.

"Jewelers?" Carmichael asked silently. "But why what you need?" He pictured millionaires miserably
despondent for lack of a matched pearl necklace, heiresses weeping inconsolably because they needed a
few star sapphires. The principle of luxury merchandising was to deal with the whipped cream of supply
and demand; few people needed diamonds. They merely wanted them and could afford them.

"Or the place might sell jinniflasks," Carmichael decided. "Or magic wands. Same principle as a Coney
carny, though. A sucker trap. Bill the Whatzit outside and people will pay their dimes and flock in. For
two centsтАФ"

He was dyspeptic this morning, and generally disliked the world. Prospect of a scapegoat was attractive,
and his press card gave him a certain advantage. He opened the door and walked into the shop.

It was Park Avenue, all right. There were no showcases or counters. It might be an art gallery, for a few
good oils were displayed on the walls. An air of overpowering luxury, with the bleakness of an unlived-in
place, struck Carmichael.

Through a curtain at the back came a very tall man with carefully-combed white hair, a ruddy, healthy
face, and sharp blue eyes. He might have been sixty. He wore expensive but careless tweeds, which
somehow jarred with the decor.

"Good morning," the man said, with a quick glance at Carmichael's clothes. He seemed slightly surprised.
"May I help you?"

"Maybe." Carmichael introduced himself and showed his press card. "Oh? My name is Talley. Peter
Talley." "I saw your sign."

"Oh?"

"Our paper is always on the lookout for possible write-ups. I've never noticed your shop beforeтАФ"