Conman

by Richard Asplin

  I hung up.

  “Mr Cheng?” I hissed out of the side of my mouth. “Mr Cheng, pssssst.”

  Cheng, on his usual morning spot, peering and humming at Robert Redford through Perspex and pursed lips, turned.

  “You rea to may a dea? You tay fye hundreh?”

  “What?Yes, yes all right, I’ll take the five hundred. Just … just keep an eye on this guy. He was in yesterday. He might make some trouble.”

  The man got closer. His woollen hat was the same. As was the greasy coat. His shoes, however, were considerably smarter. Brown half brogues. Polished. Leather laces. They didn’t go with the look at all.

  “Truhb?” Cheng said far too loudly and turned to look at the visitor, now at the desk, peeling off his gloves. He had small, surprisingly clean, neat hands.

  “Hello a-again,” I said, flapping nervously about the desk.

  “Indeed. Right, as it were, back at you,” the man said. His voice was different. More clipped. Straight out of a Gieves & Hawkes display case. Maybe he’d got it as a free gift with his new shoes. I didn’t know.

  The three of us stood there for an awkward moment.

  “I goh go,” Cheng said finally, slipping off his spectacles and heading back out of the shop. “I come bah on Sundah wih the fye hundreh. You be heeh, yeh … ?”

  “Wait.”

  Cheng left, leaving the shop in an eerie silence.

  “Ahh, but if you love him, set him free, Mr Martin,” the man said, unbuttoning his coat and revealing a leather belt struggling with a pot belly. He whipped his scarf over his head. “Gahh, this wool gets in my throatlet. Would a glass of water be treading on the toes of your hospitality slippers?” The man placed his scarf on the desk and swept off his hat. A dark, oily fringe fell back over his face, which he tidied away expertly. He was younger than I’d first thought. Mid forties? His eyes, droopy and kind, had a wet twinkle to them. He was ruddy cheeked and chubby but something about him sparkled lightly like a panto finale.

  With a hmnn on my lips and a what-the-hell? on my mind, I went and splashed water into the least grimy mug I could find.

  “Ahhh, god bless you and your kin,” he smiled and took a tiny sip, smacking his lips. “London tap. Sewage and mud. Still, nothing quite like it for infecting the blood. Now then, to beeswax,” and he produced a pipe from inside his coat, a pouch of tobacco from his corduroy trousers and fixed me with those twinkly eyes of his. “Mr Martin. How are you fixed for tomorrow?” He was filling his pipe expertly with small delicate movements, a smile lurking somewhere beneath his expression.

  “I’ll be wading about in the basement all day I expect.”

  “Mnyess,” the man said, wrinkling his nose a little. “I noticed that yesterday. A mite pongy.”

  “Is this about yesterday? The photographs you sold me? Because –”

  “Fiffle. Fret ye not, young man,” he smiled, a warm, crooked smile, showing half a mouth of neat teeth. He had the disconcerting way about him of an unsigned Valentine’s card. “Would thou be willing to usher the baying hordes from your emporium for a hundred and twenty minutes? Say betwixt one and three? What do you say?”

  Popping his unlit pipe into his mouth, he undid his overcoat and reached inside. I caught a glimpse of tweed, club tie and fine check as he produced a packet of Dunhill cigarettes, a silver Zippo, a box of matches and finally with a small “a-ha”, the object of his search – a black Moleskin notebook. He slid a silver pencil from its elastic binding and held it poised over the page.

  “I would very much like to stand you lunch,” his pipe bobbed. “Shall we say Claridge’s? They do the most scrumptiful chocolate cheesecake. Say you’ll pull on your Friday shoes and join me?”

  “Uhmm, can I ask, y’know … can I ask why?”

  “A proposition, Mr Martin. Or dare I presume to be at the Neil stage?”

  I gave a stilted nod.

  “Splendiful. If it fails to interest, then we depart with tummies full of cheesecake and the warm glow of port and camaraderie. What do you say? Hmm? What do you say?”

  “Business? You’re what, a dealer?”

  “Everybody is a dealer in something, Neil. Anyhap, I’m pencilling in one o’clock?” This done, he lit his pipe with matches and a soft sucking sound, sweet smoke beginning to plume into the shop and then extended a powder-dry hand. I shook it because it would have been odd not to.

  “Until tomorrow then. Affretando,” and with a bob of his pipe and a twinkle of the eye, he gathered his things, turned briskly and walked towards the door. As he did so, it gave a jangle and Laura wandered in, cigarette in her lips, a cardboard tray of coffees in her hand and a bulge of a greasy paper bag in her apron pocket. “So sorry about your toe,” the man said as he passed her. “Not too throbblesome I hope?”

  Laura’s mouth fell open, cigarette wobbling on her lip like the bus at the end of The Italian Job. The man reached the open door and then turned.

  “Oh and Neil, I took the liberty of perusing that webular site of yours. The signed Siegel & Shuster snap you relieved me of yesterday? It’s worth double what you’re asking for it,” he said with a wave. “Make yourself a tidy sum. Call it an advance. Toodle-oo.”

  Laura proceeded to unpack elevenses with a fuss of questions and lids and napkins and more questions as I hauled a sopping split black bag up the cellar steps and dumped it dripping by the bins out back. When I returned to the shop floor, she had undone her apron, tossed it onto a rack and was perching on the corner of the desk, crossing her legs and straightening the thick black seam of her stocking. She was in a sleeveless dress today. Grey wool it looked like. She had a single red flower in her hair and red ballet shoes.

  “But you’re not going to have lunch with him, right? The guy’s clearly a fruitcake. I mean, what business? And what sort of businessman sets up meetings like that anyway?” She took a long draw on a fresh Lucky and held my look.

  “Uhmm,” I said, and pulled a handbrake on the world. Was I going? I didn’t remember agreeing. But then I definitely didn’t recall telling him to sod off either.

  Laura was right, the guy was definitely a cake of the fruitiest variety. Toys in the attic, no question. And that voice? Usher the baying hordes from my emporium? Was he a vagrant pretending to be Little Lord Fauntleroy? Or some eccentric peer having topping larks posing as one of the plebs, fwarr fwarr, Rupert you’re a thcream!

  “I should listen to what he has to say at least,” I said. “I’m not in any position to start turning away business, whatever it is.”

  “But he said toodle-oo. Who goes to lunch with people who say toodle-oo?”

  Well, twenty-four hours later, closed sign swinging on my door, half out of bewilderment, half out of guilt and let’s say a lot out of the fact it meant I would be out of the shop should a summons arrive, it turns out that I did.

  Claridge’s foyer is a huge light room, tall and pale. Embroidered chairs, chandeliers and dark wood tables set around a massive floral display. As I was escorted among the other well-to-do diners the following afternoon, I bowed my head a little, attempting to blend in with the carpet. But as the carpet was a dark flowery thing rather than a pattern of short, badly dressed men in misjudged ties, I didn’t do as well as hoped.

  My host was sitting at a corner table, back to the wall. Thankfully, he seemed to be out-cognito this time, sporting a pale pink shirt, paisley cravat and the glint of cufflink. A clear glass of something and an open newspaper sat at his elbow. He caught sight of me and bobbed his eyebrows, reaching up quickly to pop out two small Walkman earphones.

  My jacket was taken and we were left to our introductions.

  “My dear sir,” the man said as I sat down, slipping his earphones into his pocket. “May I make so bold as to address you with some polite conversation? For although you are not in a condition of eminence, experience tells me you are a man of education, unhabituated to the beverage.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” I said. A blond, waistcoated waiter cam
e and sighed at my order for a glass of house red, returning with a wine list. My lunch date hadn’t stopped.

  “I personally have always respected education, united with the feelings of the heart and am, if I may so inform you, a titular counsellor. Marmeladov, such is my name.”

  “Right,” I said. There was an awkward pause. “Is that Russian?”

  “Indeed, my dear Raskolnikov,” he said with a twinkle, and then seemed to drop out of character smoothly. “I apologise. Silly habit. That the pop list?”

  “Pop? Oh, uhh yes.”

  Marmaladov? Pop list?

  The waistcoat was sent off for a ninety-nine Latour and some more water.

  “Neato li’l diner they got here, huh?” my host said in a half decent New York drawl, throwing a look about the room.

  “Yes,” I nodded like a schoolboy. “Yes it’s very swanky.”

  “Swankity swank chequebook and pen, I’d say. First time?”

  I nodded.

  “Me too. Your glamorous assistant keeping her beadies on the store for a mo is she?” he said, the waiter returning with the wine and water.

  “Assistant? Oh Laura. No, she’s just a-a … just someone I met recently. Works nearby. Popped in, that’s all.”

  “Ahh. Someone you met,” he said, and suddenly with a flap of elbows, his black moleskin book was open on the table and he was licking his silver pencil nib, jotting. “Met … I see.”

  Seemingly happy with his notes, the man nodded to himself with a tiny harump noise and sat back, his chair giving an antique creak. He sipped his water and smiled.

  “So. Neil Derek Martin. Oh do tuck in by the way,” and he pushed a plate of exotic breads at me. “Let’s have it lad. Curriculum vitae. Births, deaths, marriages?”

  “Me?”

  “A name I call myself. Fa, a long, long way to hop. Tell me all.”

  “Er, look sorry,” I said. If he was just some inbred gent who liked to wine shop assistants who took his fancy, then I thought it was best we got that out in the open. “You said you had some business for me, is that right? Is that what this is about?”

  He looked at me. He seemed to be deciding something, one way or the other, tossing a mental coin. With a little nod, it clearly landed Neil side up as he put down his bread and wiped his fingers on his serviette.

  “Indeed. Does Ecclesiastes 3:17 not tell us there is a time for every activity, a time for every deed? And more importantly, was it not Douglas Adams who stressed that time was an illusion and lunchtime doubly so? So in that spirit, I will allay your fears at the outset. I am in need, Mr Martin, of a consultant. An expert. Somebody who knows their, as it were, onions, and many in your field assured me Heroes Incorporated was the emporium to frequent and you, its welcoming proprietor, a man whose brains were pick-worthy. Hence my interest in your credentials. All very straightforward.” He licked his lips, eyes shining. “So. Are they to be trusted, these peers of yours?”

  “Consultant?” I said. Behind my eyes little men in green visors began to set mental abacuses a-clacking with fat commission percentages. “Well …” and I sat up, cleared my throat, and proceeded to persuade him exactly how spot-on my peers had been.

  The blond waiter arrived back during my school days, and I had lobster salad with mango and lime ordered for me. My host chewed bread through my university years, nodding with the occasional I see, the odd righty-ho and at one point a frankly upsetting indeedy-dumplings. The waiter returned to top up my wine glass as I was leaving university killing time at Brigstock Place.

  “Owned by a Mr Taylor back then I understand,” my host interrupted.

  “Y-yes that’s right. Do you … ?”

  “Your part-time became full time eight years ago and when Taylor retired, you borrowed a hefty deposit from a certain Ear-lin-law and bought him out. Which was … forgive me,” and he was back flipping through his notebook. Every page was full to the edges with tiny blue handwriting. “… three years ago.”

  “Right,” I said, a little disconcerted. “Sorry, how do you know … ?” But he didn’t look up from the book. Just stuck his tongue out a little, flipping the pages back and forth.

  “Jointly run stall at Earl’s Court every year with another dealer. One Maurice Bennett. Fairly reliable mail order. Clunky website that could do with updating. Stock-wise, perhaps an over-reliance on Golden Age comic books and Superman memorabilia they tell me, but otherwise, pretty much exactly what I’m looking for.”

  “Right. Good,” I bounced. “I-I mean, I’m glad I come recommended.”

  The lobster arrived in its dressing and we spent a silent minute or so deciding exactly how to wrest its secrets from its shell. My host expertly dissected it like a graceful surgeon. I plumped for the all-out overhead attack, shrapnel flying, hundreds wounded.

  “Can I ask at this point,” I said, “who you are?”

  “Who indeed,” he said, in exactly the cryptically playful manner I was hoping he wouldn’t. “Well how shall we begin this, Neil? Shall we perhaps say I’m two people? Or is that tricksy and playful and liable to have you opening my throat with your butter knife?”

  “Tuesday’s character with the suitcase being your other self?”

  “Quite,” he smiled. “My grumpy seller routine. I sometimes wonder if the hat’s a bit much. Let’s call that rather rude man … Rudy, shall we?”

  “Rudy?”

  “And we’ll call this me … Mr Whittington.”

  “And that’s your name? Whittington?”

  “Good heavens, no. I’m merely riffing, as I believe old jazzers used to say, on a mayoral theme. But Rudy and Whittington, for the time being, are who I are. Anyhap, pleased to break shellfish with you, Neil. Here’s to swimming with bow-legged women,” and he held out a glass to clink. I clunked it obediently.

  “But you’re not actually Mr Whittington,” I said, head beginning to thud a little.

  “Well it would seem I am. Thanks to you, dear fellow. The moment you deigned to pick out a tie and polish your shoes, in fact, you cast me as Whittington. You’ve treated me politely. You let me order your food, choose your wine without complaint. For all the room to see,” and he wafted a knife at the other mumbling tables, “we are two well-brought-up gentlemen enjoying a well-brought-up lobster. Mr Martin and Mr Whittington.”

  He wiped his mouth and lifted his glass with a small smile.

  “I know I cannot be Rudy today, Mr Martin,” he said. “This is not how Rudy is treated. Rudy is used to receiving sighs, eye-rolls, tuts and threats. He is used to being ejected from shops, not joined at lunch tables.”

  “Right. Right, I see what you’re –”

  “He is used to being cheated, Mr Martin. Usually, mentioning no names just yet, by unscrupulous dealers who are shrewd enough to spot a half-buried Siegel & Shuster autograph in a case full of junk.”

  “Yessssss,” I said slowly, putting down my knife and fork. I felt the lights were beginning to dim for the main feature. “Yes. Look I’m sorry about that. I don’t know –”

  “If I was Rudy today, Mr Martin, you would by now have presumably asked our preposterously blond waiter to rifle through my jacket while you distracted my attention? So you could meet him in the lavatory and cut up the score. You haven’t done this, so I presume today I’m Whittington.”

  I felt my face colour, my underarms prickle.

  “Sorry,” I began. “I don’t know why I did that exactly –”

  “Some unseen force guiding your hand perhaps? Your female friend working you with wires? A spectral –”

  “No, I mean … I don’t normally do that sort of thing.”

  “Ah. Out of character.”

  “Right, exactly.”

  “Hmn. In my experience Neil, we are never ‘out of character’. It is a contradiction. The fact one has done a thing means it’s surely part of one’s character to do it. Your character simply hadn’t got round to it yet. Your character it turns out, is one who, when the right opportunity ari
ses, likes to make a dishonest buck fleecing rude and smelly fellows out of their heirlooms. That’s who you are, Neil. And try as one may, one can’t escape who one is.”

  Shit, I thought. The whole damned lunch was a set-up. He was no dealer, no collector looking for expert evaluations. Just a bored aristo, whiling away his yawning afternoons by egging harried shop staff into impropriety, only to enjoy ticking them off about it in fancy hotels at a later date. I crumpled my serviette and tossed it to the table.

  “You feeling guilty now, Neil?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. Which was true. I didn’t. Not at that point. I was too cross.

  No fat consultancy fees. No two per cent commission. No lifeboat.

  Shit.

  “Or do you just feel caught?”

  I sighed. Whittington was topping up my wine glass.

  “You really want to know?” I said.

  “Even more than I want to know where you got that rather fabulous tie from.”

  So I thought about it for a silent minute, the restaurant around us fading to quiet, and then really told him.

  If you’re wondering why I bothered, why I didn’t just tell the mad old fool to get stuffed, head back to the shop and begin nailing out-of-business signs over the windows, then I’ll tell you. And I can be sure of this because I’ve spent a great deal of time recently asking myself that very question.

  It was because … hell, because the truth was I didn’t feel guilty. I knew I should. But I didn’t. Even with him sitting there in front of me. I mean he’d come into my shop, yelling, shoving, shouting the odds. Criticising this, pointing at that, knocking over displays. And despite her protests during our massage, I had Jane to support. A young family to think of.

  Frankly, it had served him right.

  “Of course it served him right,” and my host gave a shiver of disgust. “I’m surprised you went as easy on him as you did. Most people just hide the Siegel & Shuster under their desk and throw me out.”