An Art Shop in Greenwich Village

by Ray Cummings

An Art Shop in Greenwich Village

By Ray Cummings

The little shop was dimly lighted—a lurid red glow at one side and a faint amber radiance from above. For a moment I stood looking around uncertainly—at the slovenly display-cases and tables, the unframed paintings on the walls, and the long shelves crowded with curios.

“Perhaps something in particular the señor would wish?” suggested the little old man ingratiatingly.

I glanced back into the black shadow that shrouded the farther end of the room, and then turned to meet the snakelike little eyes that were roving over my figure appraisingly.

I shook my head. “No,” I said; “nothing in particular.”

The little old man straightened his bent back with an effort, reaching a skinny hand toward the shelf above his head.

“The señor plays chess, perhaps?” His hand held a little white figure carved in ivory; he dusted it off against the faded black of his coat-sleeve. “A wonderful game, señor. This set is of the Moors—they carve superb in ivory, the Moors. Perhaps in the London Museum of Victoria and Albert the señor has seen the work before?”

“No,” I said, and moved away down the length of the table. “I lived in Spain a year. Your place interests me.”