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HOLLYWOOD PLUCK 137
was on the buy. The chiselers moved in like a pack of hungry wolves, and in no time at all I was in hock up to my eyebrows.
But I was smart. I didn't buy from high-priced decorators; I bought bargains from little dealers who could afford to sell at ridiculous prices because they didn't have high overheads. Yes, indeed! They were connoisseurs and experts; they sold me the best phony antiques in town for three times what they were worth. They not only plucked me, they tore the hide right off my back.
I think the worst beating I took was on Oriental rugs. That racket makes the shell game look as innocent as hopscotch. I found a fellow who was the greatest expert in the world. He was an Armenian who came from a long line of illegitimate sons of an ancient Persian pasha. This bandit had a direct underground railroad to an old palace in Hindustan or Turkey or some place, and his agents were sneaking out the old antique rugs and replacing them with Sears Roebuck carpets. In this way he was able to sell me a rug for my dining room for only $1,500 that was positively worth not a penny less than $3,000— a genuine Ispahan, very old. Its antiquity I can vouch for; it looked like something the Crusaders had marched across. It was torn; it had holes in it. But the Armenian pointed to those holes with pride.
"Can't you repair it?" I asked.
"Repair thees magnificent rug!" he shouted. "Sacrilege! You do not touch these holes! They are beautiful!"
So, being only an amateur connoisseur of art, I could not argue with this expert. I looked at the rug with some doubt but still with great admiration, believing in its authenticity. In fact, I used to bring my friends into the dining room and point ostentatiously to that rug with the holes.
"Worn by the feet of many beautiful dancing girls," I would explain.
Then, one day we had a fire in the basement. The maid was using some cleaning fluid near a gas burner and the house caught on fire. We turned in an alarm and started moving furniture out