"They're in league with him. Granddad!"
The old man smiled. "Now, Caterina. Lovejoy hardly looks affluent. May I?" he added benignly to me.
"Yes," I said, wondering what he was asking.
"Caterina. Lovejoy was given the freehold of his cottage by a lady now living abroad. Subsequently he has raised money on it by two mortgages, fraudulent. Both are now in default. The building society is suing for possession—"
"Here, dad," I interrupted, annoyed. "That's libel."
"You mean slander," he said absently. "Furthermore, he has a police record. I was advised by all six dealers not to employ him. He owes money to nine dealers in Colchester and approximately eleven others."
I found my sherry had emptied itself into me of its own accord. This gentle old man was a deceptive old sod. Well, I had nothing to lose. I was unemployable after that heap of references.
"Which raises the question why you asked me here, dad."
"Quite so, quite so." Too much good literature makes these old characters talk Dickens, I suppose. He girded his loins for the plunge. "I wish you to perform a task on my behalf, Lovejoy."
A sweat of relief prickled me over. Maybe I was back in.
"A valuation? An auction deal?"
"Ah, no." The old man was suddenly apologetic, evading my eyes. And I remembered Caterina's determined bidding for a fake. And in a dealer's ring, that highly illegal enterprise. My throat went funny.
"Bent?" I asked. He gazed at me blankly, so I translated. "Illegal?"
"Ah, well, you might say there is a rather, ah, clandestine aspect to the activities, ah, which . . ."
I stared. Dear God. Geriatrics were in on antique scams these days. Still, a zillionaire with Turners and Canalettos would not think in groats. Whatever it was, I'd soon be eating again. And the ill-tempered lass might revert in time .
"An antique scam?" I struggled to suppress my exultation. Nicking antiques lifts the lowest spirits.
"No." The old man's gnarled hand gestured to calm my alarm at his denial. "Not 'an.' The."
The scam of all time? I could only think of the British Museum and the National Gallery.
"How big?" I asked. Naturally I assumed the old geezer wouldn't want to reveal all, but I was wrong.
"It's Venice."
"Venice, eh? Exactly what in Venice?"
"Venice itself. All. I am in process of, ah, borrowing everything Venetian." His opaque eyes stared into me. God, he was wrinkled.
Well, lose some, win some, I thought bitterly. I managed to smile indulgently. You have to make allowances for idiocy. The daft old sod was rich, a possible future customer whom I couldn't afford to offend even if he was barmy. "Look, Granddad," I said kindly. "You can't nick Venice. It's fastened to the floor in that lagoon. I've always wanted to nick the dome-dialed Castle Acre church clock, but I've more sense. The village bobby'd notice. Get the point? I'd give anything to possess its marvelous dead-beat escapement, but daren't risk trying it."
"I'm serious, Lovejoy."
I got up and said compassionately, heading for the door, "Good luck getting Venice through the Customs, but don't say I didn't warn you."
"Stop him, Caterina," the old bloke quavered.
Some hopes, I thought. Short of undressing there wasn't a lot she could do, but women are wily. "Money," she said casually as I passed, not even bothering to look up.
"Eh?" My treacherous feet rooted.
She gazed calmly at me then, idly perched there on the chair arm, swinging her leg. "How much will you earn in the next hour, Lovejoy?"
"Erm, well," I lied bravely. "I've a good deal on."
"Unlikely. But we'll buy one hour."
"To do what?"
"To sit and listen."
I looked at that walnut visage, then back to the bird. She too was serious. For a family of lunatics they seemed disturbingly sure of themselves. Well, money's nothing, not really. But without it the chances of acquiring any antiques at all very definitely recede. I weakened.
"What's an hour between friends?"
The old man nodded approvingly at the luscious bird as I sat down.
"Lovejoy. You speak fluent Italian, I believe?"
How did he know? "Not really."
"Oh, but you do. You learned the language to, er, rip the Vatican." He leant forward earnestly, the elderly perfectionist. "Rip. The word is correct?"
As a matter of fact he was right, but my past sins are personal property.
"You want to nick Rome as well?" I said cruelly.
'That'll do from you, Lovejoy!" Caterina spat.
"Shush, my dear. Lovejoy, you have never been to Venice." The knowing old sod was reminding me, not asking. His gnat's-whine voice became flutier and dreamier. "You poor man, never seen the Serenissima. It's the ultimate glory of Man." His eyes were on me, but looking through to some distant image. "I'll tell you a secret. Lovejoy."
"Grandfather!" Caterina warned, but he shushed her.
"I've never experienced either contentment or ecstasy for thirty years."
"Don't give me that crap," I blurted, "er, sir. With all these antiques?"
"True, Lovejoy." He seemed near to tears. "Thirty years ago I first saw the Serene Republic, a routine holiday. Within two days I'd bought the palazzo and knew it was for life. Ah, the hours I have watched the traghetto men smoke and talk in the campo below my window on the Grand Canal!" He collected himself. "I saw Venice, the greatest man-made structure the world has ever known. Paintings, architecture, sculpture, clothes, weapons, everything living and vital."
"I know the feeling," I said enviously.
"You do not, young man. You believe I am talking about greed. I am not." Now he sipped his sherry, hardly wetting his lips. "On that visit I learned of something so terrible, so near nightmare that I never recovered. I have never felt happiness since. Despair, too, is absolute."
"You all right, mate?" His nightmare, whatever it was, had turned him gray.
"Yes. I thank you." He replaced his glass and leant back, weary. "To avert that nightmare I am prepared to give everything I own. You see, nightmares should vanish with the dawn, Lovejoy. Mine does not. It is descending upon that magical city with every minute that passes. In your lifetime, you too will suffer it. And when you do, Lovejoy, you will never smile again."
In spite of myself I had to clear my throat and look about to make sure we were all okay. "My nightmares are pretty boring. What's yours?"
"Venice is sinking."
That old thing. "Aren't we all?"
"Silence!" cried the old bloke, enraged.
"That does it!" Caterina was rising, also enraged.
I'd had enough. Even hungry cowards get fed up. "Shut your gums, you silly old sod. And as for you," I said to the bird as I crossed and poured myself sherry entirely without assistance, "dial nine nine nine for the Old Bill if you like. But just remember you invited me here to listen to your lunatic crap. I don't have to agree that it's gospel. Okay?"
After an ugly pause, to Caterina's fury, her grandfather said unexpectedly, "Okay, Lovejoy." I went and sat down.
The bloke was simply watching. The bird was for Armageddon.
"Right, then," I said. "Venice."
He smiled with a gleam in his eye. "Venice. If you saw a lorry carrying a small parcel containing a Verzelini drinking glass accidentally slewed over the wall of the Chelmar Canal, what would you do?"
I wanted to get the hypothesis absolutely clear. "No danger to me?"
The sly old devil shrugged. "Well, Lovejoy. Broad daylight. You can swim like a fish, I'm told. Canals are only a couple of feet from the towpath. Surely . . . ?"
I thought, sensing a trick. Verzelini was a Murano glassmaker from Venice who made it to Good Queen Bess's London and turned out richly valuable Venetian-style glass in his little City factory until the late 1590s. A single glass nowadays would give you enough to retire on. Well, in for a penny . . . "Okay, I'd try and save it."
"Now. Supposin
g that Verzelini glass, in its precarious parcel, was multiplied a million times."
"Still no danger to me?"
His distant-reed voice cut in. "Yes or no, Lovejoy?"
"Well, yes. But there are less than a dozen Verzelini glasses knocking around."
Somebody said, "What's going on here?"
I looked around. A tall countrified bloke was beckoning imperiously from the study door. Caterina was obediently crossing to him. Granddad took no notice, so I thought what the hell. Confidentiality's not today's big issue. I said, "And Venice isn't a little parcel on a lorry."
Granddad smiled then, his face like crumpled kitchen foil. "All Venice's art can be made into many such parcels, Lovejoy. And it is certainly about to fall into water. Lovejoy."
I thought about that. "You mean . . . ?"
"Piecemeal." There was a pause. He added, "Bit by bit," as if I didn't know what piecemeal meant. "A UNESCO expert—"
'They're cretins."
" —says that every year Venice loses six percent of its marble treasures, a twentieth of its frescoes, three percent of its paintings, and two percent of its carvings."
'That's not the sea, Dad. It's collectors."
"Which proves my scheme can be done."
Voices were raised outside. The bloke and Caterina were having a dust-up in the hall. One thing, consistency was her strong suit. She'd take on anybody.
I gave the old fool a fresh appraisal. "That's an awful lot of bits, Dad. One parcel's fine. Two's not beyond belief. But three's just asking for trouble. And nobody on earth could nick four of Venice's precious antiques without all hell being let loose."
"Ah," he said, as if spotting some troublesome little flaw in my argument. "You're apparently assuming, Lovejoy, that we don't replace each, ah, bit by the very best reproduction that money can buy. Paintings, stonework, carvings, statues. You'll no doubt remember your own escapade in the Vatican?"
I wished he would give over about that. I'd made my own repro to do the Vatican rip, so I'd known it was up to scratch. What this old duckegg was suggesting meant trusting a load of other forgers to be as perfectionist as me, and that was definitely not on. You can't trust just any faker.
"You'd need an army of superb forgers. I can only think of three." What worried me was the Carpaccio fake that Crampie and Mr. Malleson had been murdered for. As soon as I got a satisfactory explanation for that, I'd be off out of this loony bin like a shot and he could do what the hell he liked with Venice or anywhere else as far as I was concerned.
"That's no explanation!" The sporty geezer was arguing with Caterina in the hallway. He said the words completely separately, like aggressive teachers used to in school when they thumped you on every syllable. "Listen when I'm trying to tell you!" good old Caterina shot back angrily. I honestly believe she thought she was whispering. Some birds are always in a temper.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my mouth had gone dry.
"I see you're beginning to understand, Lovejoy,"
Granddad said. "There are many, many more than three. And I do assure you they are being produced at a Dunkirk rate, Lovejoy. Money no object."
"But where and how?"
"Ah." He pondered, grimaced, creakily raised a finger and said knowingly, "Are you in or out?"
"In or out to do what?"
"You will check the authenticity of the items involved in our, ah, scam. We've lately had one or two unfortunate events." A frown crinkled his face worse than ever. "One point. I sought the derivation of that word scam: 'scamble' is hardly convincing, yet it's modern currency . . ."
I waited for a bit. The old criminal had nodded off.
I cleared my throat. "Dad?"
He partly roused, muttered, "Ammiana . . . Ammiana . . ."
"Eh? You awake?"
No sound. Outside, the gaberdine bloke and Caterina were still playing hell, but now their voices were receding. The old man was snoring, a squeak of a distant bat. I poured another glass and had a think.
6
Joyce the serf found me padding around the upstairs landing. The first I realized she'd caught me was her abrupt "Downstairs, Lovejoy!" Just shows how sly women are. She led me to the kitchen—takes a serf to spot a serf—and brewed up some repellent broth designed to "warm a man's blood." A learner grannie if ever I saw one. But her tea was good, and from the vestibule window I could see a gilt-framed George Webster seascape in oils hanging on the stairs, so it wasn't all wasted time. The frame, a quite early plaster-gilt job, worried me. Maybe I'd seen one rather like it recently, maybe in an auction. . . . Joyce had an open kitchen fireplace and a lovely old cast-iron Mason's grate of about 1865.
"I was only looking," I told the interfering old cow, in case she had the wrong idea.
"You put the map back?"
The question was offhand, but I smarted inwardly. Women nark me, always suspecting the worst. The hand-colored map, by the Dutchman Dirck Jansz van Santen, was dazzlingly illuminated in gold. The silver had oxidized a bit, but that's only to be expected for something done about 1690. (Tip: Look for deep precise printing—showing the map was an early print from the engraved copper—and the more embellishment the better.) The thought of nicking it honestly never crossed my mind. No, I'm really being honest now.
"You're just like old Mr. Pinder," she told me. Praise indeed.
"Me? Like Granddad?"
"Mad about stupid old things." She wet her wrists and started to attack the pastry. "Of course, Mr. Pinder's so taken with Venice these days he's useless for anything else. Him and Caterina's stepmother alike." Her tone was disapproving. 'Things would have been different if her real mother were still alive, God rest her. This house is like Piccadilly Circus some days. You wouldn't believe the sorts of folk get fetched here. Long-haired layabouts in fast cars, foreigners from boats, every language under the sun."
"What does Caterina do?"
Joyce gave a sharp inquisitive glance. "Helps Mr. Pinder to run the estate."
"And Mrs. Norman?"
"You'll need more tea, ducks."
"Er, ta." I knew a shutout when I heard one. Caterina's stepmother was clearly not to be discussed. "Does the old boy kip most of the time?"
She glanced at the hour, a highly sought Lancashire Victorian wall clock with the familiar keyhole stage and cased pendulum. Five years ago you couldn't give them away as ballast.
"He'll sleep till teatime now. Are you going to help him with this foreign thing? Like Mr. Malleson?"
Like Mr. Malleson? Well, I thought, let's see if her idea of "this foreign thing" is the same as old Pinder's. "Yes,” I lied.
"Then be careful. Mrs. Norman has altogether too many hangers-on if you ask me. Though I must say Mr. Pinder's pleased at how she copes with the big house there, Palazza Whatsit."
"How long do you think he'll want me to go for?"
"You'll have to ask him, dear."
"Can't Caterina decide? She seems in charge."
"Doubt it." Joyce's lips thinned. "That end's always left to Mrs. Norman and her ..." She petered out, maybe deliberately. The old shutout again.
I said I'd better be off unless she had designs on my body, and got another smile. I like smiley women.
"Can I leave Mr. Pinder a note?" Without letting Joyce see the words, I scribbled Thanks, but the task wasn't quite up my street, and maybe some other time, and told Joyce it was private and she wasn't to look inside the minute I was gone, which made her cuff me amiably.
"My husband will run you down the road.'
She gave me an Eccles cake to be going on with, laughingly scorned my offer of thirty quid for her aspidistra— they're genuine antiques nowadays—and shouted her husband from the stables.
Mr. Lusty drove me all the way into town, chatting laconically about the Pinders, benevolent support of poor artists. It seemed the old gentleman ran a sort of complicated trust, which was quite interesting, but not as interesting as the shortcut we made as we left the Pinder estate. A cart track ran down
to the waters of the estuary. Mr. Lusty was so proud of the new stone wharf that he stopped the car to show me. He explained that a sizable ship could come up-river from the sea reaches. I said I'd no idea it was such a responsible job, and was duly amazed at the size of the two boat sheds. There were two biggish yachts moored out in the tiderace, the bigger with two masts.
"Yes," Mr. Lusty said, all modest. "The Eveline came in two nights back. A young painter. Be gone tomorrow. Sometimes we're so busy we can't keep up with the routine estate work."
"Is that so?" I walked onto the wharf.
"It's dredged," he said, seeing me peer over into the river. "The real thing, big dredgers up from the Blackwater."
"It must cost a fortune."
"All comes out of the trust, you see."
"And these artists train here, I suppose, eh?" We walked back to the car. The wind was whipping at us from the sea lands. Beyond the low banks and sedge lay the North Sea and the Low Countries.
"Heavens, no, Lovejoy. Most of them just pass through, except when Mrs. Norman's home. Then maybe her, erm, erm . . ."He coughed. "A right motley mob they are, too. But Mr. Pinder's a perfect gentleman. Always gets himself wheeled down to every boat that calls, even if he's not feeling so good."
"Where do they come from?" "Oh, all round the coast. You name it." He drove us beside a few acres of reforestation and we emerged on the Fingringhoe road, but as we pulled away I couldn't help looking downstream across the marshes. The Roman Empire had shipped its products up this very river. Somebody could ship things the other way, right?
I caught the bus. I'd pick up my rattletrap the next day. All the way back to town I kept wondering about Mrs. Norman and her Erm-Erm, who together seemed to be responsible for the Venice end of the whole scam—if it existed.
One thing was sure. Everybody trod very, very cautiously round Mrs. Norman.
The next two days were hectic. I sent Connie to dig out the Pinder family gossip. She's a cracker at collecting gossip—God knows how, because she never stops talking long enough to listen to anything anyone else says. Tinker's job was to ferret out local antiques which were possible fakes of anything Venetian. My own contribution was to think, read, and find why my private antique world was spinning off its wobbly little orbit.
The Gondola Scam Page 4