A Lesson in Dishonesty

by Ben Stevens

  A Lesson in Dishonesty

  1977

  Maurice Copper-White sniffed disdainfully as the shabbily-dressed and ill-looking man entered his shop. The raised veins on the man’s nose and cheeks suggested an alcohol problem, which pleased Maurice considerably. He would be desperate for money, giving Copper-White a distinct advantage for when the time came to put a price on whatever it was that the man was to trying to sell.

  Maurice dusted a small china cat with an affected air of concentrated study as the man approached him.

  ‘You the guv’nor?’ the man growled, and Maurice stepped back as the stench suddenly hit him.

  ‘Yes, yes – I am the proprietor. Can I help?’ he asked quickly. The smell was rapidly becoming unbearable, filling the shop with its pungent miasma.

  The man looked around him at the assorted goods on sale in the shop, and produced a small pouch from inside his soiled brown leather jacket. He winked slyly at Copper-White, who smiled uneasily in return.

  ‘Got something you might like,’ he stated.

  Maurice fought against an overwhelming desire to gag as the man moved to the counter at the back of the shop, emptying his pouch onto it.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded impatiently, and Maurice reluctantly went to see what rubbish the man was trying to off-load.

  What he saw made him forget all about the man’s dreadful smell.

  Well done, old boy he thought, while studying the silver chain he’d picked off the counter with feigned nonchalance. The man’s expectant grin, revealing broken and discoloured teeth, had completely disappeared by the time Copper-White finished his charade.

  ‘Cheap knick-knackery, I’m afraid,’ he said finally, letting the chain fall back onto the counter.

  The man stared at him in disbelief for a moment.

  ‘Don’t give me that!’ he erupted. ‘That’s proper silver, I know it is!’

  Smiling ruefully, Maurice shook his head.

  ‘It’s silver-plated. Honestly, it’s worth next to nothing. I’m sorry.’

  The man was about to continue his protestations, but then decided to give up – Copper-White’s skilful lying convinced him that what he’d found in the local park was indeed worthless. Feeling a rapidly increasing desire for a drink he changed tack.

  ‘Got to be worth a score, ain’t it?’ he pleaded.

  Maurice suppressed a laugh. Idiot – it was worth perhaps five times twenty pounds. He was thoroughly enjoying himself now, liking the feeling of control that the man’s grovelling afforded him.

  ‘Come on mate – you can sort me out something, can’t you?’ the man pleaded.

  Maurice sighed, and said, ‘I’ll give you five pounds, but I really don’t know why.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ the man said quickly, anxious to get the money before the shopkeeper possibly changed his mind.

  Walking behind the counter Maurice took a note from the till and handed it to the man.

  ‘There. I’ve done you a favour here,’ he said sadly.

  ‘Cheers guv’,’ the man replied, and he whistled as he walked towards the door and out of the shop.

  Upon his departure Copper-White eagerly studied his latest acquisition, revelling in the performance he’d just given. He found something inordinately satisfying in duping people like that; in making them feel as though he was doing them a favour when purchasing their valuable goods for some paltry amount...

  His shop sold anything and everything, from radio sets to the china cat he’d been dusting when the man had entered, and it was all second-hand. It was one of seven junk or ‘White Elephant’ shops owned by Copper-White, and contrary to his usual meanness he paid his employees well.

  They were instructed not to buy anything that they even suspected was stolen, and to ask for two forms of identification from people wishing to sell. All good, honest advice, and all routinely ignored by Maurice himself.

  He often filled in during staff holidays, always working on his own in one of his shops. And he found that he would frequently be buying (for ludicrously small amounts), items which his expert knowledge of antiques and jewellery told him were not worth asking too many questions concerning the person’s actual right to sell them,

  Where he was working at the moment was a haven for this. The shop was situated in a run-down suburb of London, its disproportionately high number of drug addicts and alcoholics frequently attempting to use the shop to obtain cash for whatever they fleetingly had in their possession, legally acquired or otherwise.

  But unless the woman who usually ran the shop was completely satisfied that the items were theirs in the first place then they were unsuccessful. If they were lucky enough to try when Maurice Copper-White was working, and what they were trying to sell attracted his interest, then they were generally successful – if the derisory amount he gave them could be termed success.

  Maurice had had some real results over the years, keeping a few nice pieces and selling the rest to any of a number of dubious contacts, as he intended to do with this newly acquired solid silver chain.

  He was a wealthy man, both the shops and his more illicit dealings generating a sizeable income. This allowed him to own a luxuriously large house on a private road in a leafy Surrey village.

  It also allowed him to indulge in his favourite hobby: collecting rare and expensive guitars, his latest purchase a twenty-year-old ’57 Fender Stratocaster. Unlike some of the guitars he’d bought previously he’d been forced to pay its going rate, as the seller had known exactly what she’d had.

  Maurice’s mouth twisted down as he considered the amount – five hundred pounds was a lot of money! Still, considered Maurice philosophically, it was a beautiful instrument, with the catalogue described ‘Lake Placid Blue’ finish. A perfect addition to his stringed family.

  Thinking of his latest guitar reminded Maurice to update his insurance, and he opened his bag behind the counter to get the relevant documents he’d brought from home, placing them on the counter as he read. He checked the replacement values were correct on all the others, before adding the Fender guitar.

  The rest of the morning passed agreeably enough. He made only one other purchase: a sturdy oak chair that would sell quickly and for ten times as much as he’d paid for it. Unlike his previous purchase he’d asked to see two forms of identification from the seller, and only when this requirement had been satisfied did he complete the transaction. A steady stream of customers had kept the till ringing and himself very busy.

  It quietened down as the clock struck midday, giving Maurice the chance to make a much-needed cup of coffee. He stood behind the counter drinking it as he read the morning’s headlines. Half-an-hour later the door opened and Maurice looked up, his welcoming smile fading as he recognised the man who entered.

  ‘Morning,’ said the man cheerfully, looking around the shop, Maurice immediately noticing he was carrying a sports hold-all.

  The man was tall, his wiry black hair unfashionably cut. His head was an odd, elongated shape, and the ears stuck out nearly at right angles from his skull. His thin body was encased in faded and flared blue jeans (Yuk, thought Maurice), a white T-shirt, and a black bomber jacket.

  ‘Hello,’ Maurice replied, deciding not to inform the man that it was now half-past-twelve and so no longer morning.

  The man unnerved him. The last two times Maurice had been in this shop, over an eighteen-month period, the man had been in selling. Both times Maurice had contained his excitement within an outwardly reserved demeanour as he’d paid next to nothing for items which would have paid his mortgage for the month.

  Now the man was in for a third time, still as cheerful as ever, and from his coherent appearance neither a weakness for alcohol or drugs was the cause of
his happiness.

  ‘Own a few of these places, do you?’ the man asked suddenly.

  Maurice was momentarily taken aback by the directness of the question, and then grew angry at its impertinence.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he replied shortly, restraining the desire to ask the man just what possible business it was of his.

  The man smiled easily as he recognised the bald and diminutive shopkeeper’s anger.

  ‘Sorry mate, not being nosy. It’s just that I’ve sold stuff to you before, and I never see it on the shelves later on.’

  The smile faded as the man gazed at Maurice, who shrugged as his expression became impassive.

  ‘I don’t remember, I’m afraid, and anyway a lot of merchandise is moved between different stores to ensure an even distribution of stock.’

  It was Maurice’s turn to smile now: the bastard was onto him. He’d have to be careful.

  The man merely shrugged in return.

  ‘Oh, right. Anyway, I wonder if you want to make me an offer on what’s in here,’ he said, opening the bag he’d placed on the counter and motioning for Maurice to have a look inside.

  Maurice did so, producing something that was wrapped in newspaper and bubble-wrap.

  ‘May I?’ asked Copper-White politely.

  The man nodded.

  Only Copper-White’s carefully nurtured restraint prevented him from revealing his excitement when he discovered just what was inside the wrapping: a ten-inch high china figurine of a women in a dress who held her four-winged cloak outstretched, giving the silhouetted appearance of a butterfly.

  The ’Butterfly Girl’ – as the art deco figurine was popularly and obviously known – had first been produced by The Royal Doulton in 1925, and was still being made now, over fifty years later.

  Maurice knew from looking that the Butterfly Girl in his hand dated from the early ‘thirties and was worth between three-hundred to one-thousand pounds. It was in excellent condition: even the points of the cloak – which in most other examples had at some point broken off – remained intact.

  With apparent casualness but in fact with extreme care he placed the piece on the table and looked in the bag again. The other items consisted of two clocks, one to be wall mounted and the other attractively finished in brass, and a nearly new frying pan.

  ‘What a bizarre assortment,’ Maurice said, smiling. He noticed with unease that the man’s face did not reflect the expression, and that his alert brown eyes were staring intently at him.

  ‘How much?’ he asked tonelessly.

  Copper-White pretended to give the question some consideration for a few moments before he answered, ‘It will all sell, I suppose. I’ll give you ten pounds for the lot.’

  With a burst of humourless laughter the man shook his head.

  ‘Come off it, mate. What about the statue?’ he asked.

  Maurice tried desperately to keep the charade going.

  ‘The price includes the statue, I suppose,’ he sighed, as though reluctant to take it.

  ‘Make it a hundred and you’ve got a deal,’ the man said bluntly.

  Copper-White stared at him, astonished at his words.

  ‘I – I beg your pardon?’ he managed to stammer.

  ‘Oh – stop it,’ the man snapped irritably. ‘God alone knows what you’ll get for that statue. Stop taking the piss.’

  Maurice was in a dilemma – having never been approached like this before, he was at a loss for what to do now. He doubted that the man knew the real worth of the statue, but assumed that he still knew enough to realise that it was worth much more than he was offering for it.

  Was the man in the bomber jacket with the police? Was this some sort of set-up? Maurice instantly dismissed this suspicion: he could recognise plod a mile off, whatever clothes they were wearing.

  No – this was undoubtedly stolen goods, and Maurice Copper-White was the fence. He really didn’t like this idea: it was common. He didn’t mind buying stolen items when people didn’t know what they were selling – that was an exhilarating game – but this was different.

  Caution told him to stop, but he thought of the potential profit for himself, even with paying the man the requested sum, and his reticence was overcome.

  ‘All right,’ he said begrudgingly, angry at being forced to pay so much. He considered telling the man to keep his bloody watches and frying pan, but didn’t. Those sort of things always sold quickly – and it was all money at the end of the day.

  ‘Excuse me for a minute,’ Maurice requested, and he walked through a small corridor that led from the back of the shop to the storage area and a little kitchen. It was here that he kept a thousand pounds hidden beneath a loose floorboard, as he did in every one of his seven shops.

  He never knew why, always assuming that it was a good idea just in case he ever urgently needed cash. He ensured that he wasn’t being watched before lifting the floorboard, producing the wad of notes and peeling off the required amount. Replacing the remainder in the cavity he put the board back.

  The first thing Maurice saw on his return into the shop was the man studying the insurance documents he’d thoughtlessly left on the counter, and anger again flared within him.

  ‘Do you mind?’ he asked loudly.

  The man looked up, an apologetic look on his face.

  ‘Sorry, mate. Just couldn’t help but notice the value of some of these guitars. Incredible,’ he said in explanation.

  Maurice felt his anger abate as the subject of his treasured collection was raised.

  ‘Yes, well, such guitars are antiques really, and are priced as such,’ he said quietly. The man nodded his understanding.

  ‘Your missus all right about it?’ he asked suddenly, grinning.

  Again Maurice’s anger flared – he’d never been married, and had spent most of his life in fleeting, unhappy relationships that did not involve women.

  ‘I live alone, actually,’ he replied tersely, before handing the man his money.

  ‘Thanks,’ the man said, bemused at Maurice’s petulance. He held out his hand.

  ‘My name’s Tony. We might see each other again.’

  I certainly hope not, thought Maurice, although he shook the proffered hand and said out loud, ‘Maurice Copper-White – it’s been a pleasure.’

  Tony’s sharp-featured face hardened at these words.

  ‘Yeah, for you,’ he said.

  There was an uneasy silence before he smiled again.

  ‘Well, so long.’

  Copper-White stood in a troubled state of mind for a few minutes following the man’s departure. Tony had displayed his anger at the deal that had taken place and this concerned him. Maurice did not like upsetting people, and especially people whom he didn’t know.

  He then looked down at the statue and smiled – who cared? He had it now, and thinking extremely conservatively he would make at least two-hundred pounds profit when he sold it.

  Not bad.

  Not bad at all.

  Maurice checked his watch: one o’clock. He decided to shut shop and to have a pub lunch and several drinks to celebrate his good fortune.

  ...One hour later he was sat digesting his meal in The Lamb and Star, a pleasant little pub curiously out of keeping with its surrounding area. Despite his mellowed mood – the result of two large glasses of a particularly fine red wine – Maurice grimaced as he thought about this dismal town. There were still ten days to go until Mrs Grimsby, the stoic widow who usually ran the shop, returned from her annual visit to see her grandchildren in Brighton.

  Maurice sighed dejectedly: if only he’d a workforce with his knowledge, caution and utter lack of scruples when it came to buying stolen property! He’d make a fortune.

  He sighed again, thinking of how Mrs Grimsby would have handled matters. Suspecting the alcoholic and Tony to be thieves she would have told them that she was not interested in buying, thank you very much, which was exactly as per Copper-White’s instructions – and approximately four-hun
dred pounds would have been lost.

  It really was a shame – God only knew how much money Copper-White was losing when he wasn’t filling in for absent staff. But he could never take anyone into his confidence, as he now reflected with wine-fuelled pride that it took a lot of knowledge, intuition and guts to deal the way in which he did and always had.

  No, for better or for worse, he would always be on his own.

  Draining his glass Maurice decided against having another. The excitement of the day, coupled with the large meal he’d just eaten and the wine he’d drunk had made him drowsy, and so he decided to return to the flat above the shop for a nap.

  ‘You deserve it,’ he told himself softly.

  ...It was two o’clock on a grey Wednesday afternoon, six days since Maurice’s good fortune, and he was growing increasingly bored. No more valuable items had come to his attention, and he longed for Mrs Grimsby to return, realising with considerable dismay that this was still four days away. He was despondently polishing a small wooden table when he heard the door open, and looking round he saw Tony.

  Copper-White felt a tingle of fear as he realised that Tony was scowling, and then noticing the guitar case the man was carrying he instead felt a sudden surge of excited curiosity.

  Tony broke the silence by saying, ‘Got something you might want to make me an offer on.’

  There were no greetings or smiles as there had been previously. His tone was hard and business-like as he lay the case on the floor and, undoing the catches, opened the lid.

  Maurice was rendered speechless by what he saw: it was without doubt a ‘59 Les Paul Standard – he’d one himself, although it was in much better condition than this example. Scratches adorned the neck and several frets were missing.

  The body of it had been sprayed; the disgusting purple paint was shiny. Maurice had no idea as to what colour the original finish was, but he knew that with painstaking patience he could find out.

  He then realised that Tony was watching his reaction with a smirk; he blustered, ‘You must excuse me – I think that’s the same type of guitar I had when I was a younger. Basic catalogue model – brought back some memories.’