The Judas Pair l-1

by Jonathan Gash

"I'll be all right, Lovejoy," she said, smiling. She pulled down my hands and kissed me. "I think you're sweet."

  "How can I be sweet when I'm a hard nut?" I said angrily, pulling away. "You don't realize how versatile dealers, collectors can be. We'll do anything—any thing—to get what we want. It may only be a couple of old matchboxes, but if we collect matchboxes we'll do anything to get them."

  Her face was back in its previous solemn, worried expression. "But that can't be true."

  "It is true."

  "It can't be," she said doggedly.

  "It is."

  "But, Lovejoy," she said, almost pleading, "that's so unreasonable."

  "Of course it's unreasonable. All collecting's unreasonable. But it's real." I shrugged and beckoned her to her feet. We strolled on. "You're not really taking notice of me, are you?"

  I could see I had upset her.

  "You aren't telling me all collectors are like that, are you?" she said, hesitating beside a white-flowered bush set between large rocks.

  "I am."

  "All?"

  "All," I said firmly. "That's what makes a collector special. Unique. Your husband must have been like that too."

  "Well, yes," she said, "but he was—"

  "Eccentric?" the sardonic note struck.

  She swung on me. "How did you know I used to—?" she blazed, looking momentarily more frightened than angry.

  I kissed her lightly. "All wives call their husbands that, Muriel, love," I said, smiling.

  "Oh."

  "Beware of collectors," I warned again.

  She glanced obliquely at me as we walked. "And what about you, Lovejoy?"

  I gave her my frankest avaricious leer. "I'm the worst dealer there ever was, as far as you're concerned," I said hoarsely.

  "I doubt that."

  "The greediest, the cleverest, and the randiest," I admitted, thinking, What am I doing? "So don't trust me, especially me."

  "I don't believe that, either," she said. "But I'll do as you say."

  "Right," I said with finality, disengaging my arm. "That's it, then. Madam, before I rape you under this elm tree, show me the door."

  "I like you, Lovejoy," she said.

  "Don't push your luck, Muriel." I watched the heron stab and crook in a swallow again. "You've only been safe so far."

  She tried to laugh again, but something had gone from the day. We waited for the next ripple to reach the steps, then set off back toward the house as the boat slowly began to tug at its mooring.

  Seddon's, I was thinking. They sent his antiques to Seddon's for auction.

  Chapter 8

  Sheila said Dandy Jack had phoned but left no message, that Margaret had too but said not to bother.

  "And a strange gentleman who seemed annoyed," she added.

  "Pansy?"

  "He had that… mannerism."

  "Adrian."

  "Will you call, please. And that's the lot." She made coffee better than I did, but only Yanks do it properly in my opinion. I drank it for appearance's sake. "What's she like?"

  "Who?" On guard, Lovejoy.

  Sheila curled on the divan. "Whoever it was you've been to see."

  "Oh." A measure of truth was called for, I thought. Always dangerous stuff to handle. You know where you are with a good old fable, so much more adaptable.

  "Pretty?"

  "Yes. Her husband died in odd circumstances some time back."

  "Was it a box gambit?"

  "Sort of." I eyed her unkindly. "You're learning too much for your own good."

  She blew a kiss. "I won't split." Dated slang, I noticed. Pity there's no market for it.

  "Finish up," I told her. "We're going to the arcade, then Adrian's."

  Instantly she was all about getting ready. Now, there's a difference for you. I knew a dealer in Manchester once who said that the only real difference between us and women was that they strike matches in an away direction, while men did it in a cupped hand toward themselves. But you can list a million things. Say to a chap, "Come on, I'll give you a lift. It's time to go," and he'll say, "Fine. Thanks," but not move for a while. A woman's immediately all bustle, hardly bothering to listen to the destination. Funny, that.

  We pulled up near the arcade, doing the "Delivery" bit. I was proud of Sheila. She looked good enough to eat, as some of our local Romeos perceived. I went straight to Dandy Jack's. He was tilting a bottle.

  "For my chest," he explained, grinning. "Hello, Lovejoy. Sit down, love."

  His tiny shop was a ruin as usual. Everything lay under a coating of dust. He had two fire screens which would have been superb except that filth made them look like pieces of cladding, all that splendid granular coloring obscured.

  "Why don't you spruce your place up, Dandy?" I couldn't help asking.

  "Oh." He grinned. "Well, I would, but it takes time, doesn't it?"

  Sheila sat gingerly on a Victorian piano stool, knees together and heels off the ground, with the air of a quack in an epidemic through no fault of his own.

  "Bonny girl you got there, Lovejoy," he said.

  "Thanks."

  "Dandy Jack and Randy Lovejoy." He gave out a cackle and swigged again, wiping the bottle neck on his tattered sleeve.

  "And they say wit is dead."

  "No harm intended, love," he confided to Sheila, his hand on her shoulder.

  "None taken," she said bravely without recoiling.

  "You phoned," I reminded him. "But before you tell me why, have you still got those jades?"

  "Of course." He delved into a pile of open trays and pulled one out. A jade tumbled off. He picked it up, rubbing it on his tatty pullover.

  I snatched them all off him irritably and took them toward the light. It was still there, an unreal lustrous netsuke masquerading among jade and agate. I pulled off the ticket I'd written for it. A netsuke is a little carved figure of ivory, jade, or other decorative material. The Japanese made them for embellishing sword handles. We, of course, rip them out and ruin the entire setting.

  "I've had second thoughts, Dandy." I tried not to feel guilty and avoided Sheila's eye.

  He crowded close, stinking of rum. "It's not duff, is it, Love-joy?" he asked anxiously.

  "No. It's superb."

  The bitterness in my growl made him cackle with glee. "You're too bloody soft for this game," he croaked.

  "Don't keep saying that," I snapped. I wrote out a new ticket upping the price five hundred per cent. "Here. Now," I said ferociously, "move them, Dandy. Move them! They should be treated with velvet gloves, not rattled around this cesspit of yours, and sold fast."

  He cackled again and offered me a swig, which I declined. He glanced toward Sheila as a caution, but I nodded.

  "Well," he said, reassured. "Some geezer phones me early. He'd heard I was putting the whisper out for flinters and rings to ask what sort. Wouldn't leave a name."

  "That's useless, Dandy."

  "Wait. He asks after a Mr. Lovejoy, did I know if he'd anything for sale in that line."

  "Eh? Are you serious?"

  "Straight up."

  There was nothing more. Now this smacked of some amateur sleuthing on somebody's part. No dealer would tackle A about B's intentions so directly. I cast about for Margaret on the way out of the arcade but didn't see her. Her small den across the shopping arcade was unlit and carried its "Closed" sign. I don't know what I'd done wrong.

  We pushed down the High Street among buses and cars toward Adrian's. It's a cut above the arcade. He has a spruce display, tickets on everything. Today's offerings included a series of Adam-style chairs, good copies, a lush mahogany Pembroke table by Gillows—a great name—of Lancaster about 1820, and a run of Byzantine icons on the walls among English watercolors.

  Incidentally, remember that the watercolor game is a characteristically English art. Continental light is too brilliant. It's the curious shifting lights in our countryside that imparted a spontaneity and skill to the art that made it a feature of this lan
d as opposed to others. Praise where it's due.

  Adrian had a Rowbotham (moderate value, great skill), a Samuel Palmer (much value, brilliant skill), an Edward Lear (moderate value, moderate skill) and a minute Turner that must have taken less than a minute to do. I touched the frame just to say I'd done so, not kneeling, and recoiled stunned by bells. Huge value plus the skill of genius.

  "Now, dear boy," Adrian was saying when I could concentrate. "You're not going to tell me it's phony. Don't you dare."

  "It's perfect, Adrian."

  "Isn't he sweet?" he cooed at Sheila. She concurred while I looked daggers.

  "You wouldn't by any chance have popped in one of the local auctions, Adrian?"

  I waited, but he stayed cool. "All the time, sweetie."

  "Seddon's." Still not a flicker.

  "Fortnightly." He smiled. "To remind myself how low one can sink, dear boy. They have rubbish and rubbishy rubbish, just those two sorts."

  "You wouldn't have bought some gadgets about maybe a year ago? A collection of card cases, early nineteenth century… ?" My lies flowed with their usual serenity.

  "No luck, love." He sat and thought. "Not heard of them either."

  "Started out from a box job, so word is."

  "Not even a whisper." He was sympathetic. "Ask Jane Felsham. It's more in her line. Got a buyer for them?"

  I gave a rueful shrug. "I would have if I could find them."

  "How many?"

  "Ten—some mother of pearl, black lacquer, engraved silver, one silver filigree, and a couple chatelained."

  He whistled. "I can understand your concern. Shall I ask about?"

  "If you would, Adrian. Many thanks."

  He cooed a farewell, waving a spotted cravat from his doorway as we went back to the car. I'd got a ticket from a cheerful traffic warden and grumbled at Sheila for not having reminded me about putting up my infallible "Delivering" notice.

  Seddon's is one of those barnlike ground-floor places full of old furniture, mangles, mattresses, rotting wardrobes, and chairs. The public come to see these priceless articles auctioned. Dealers and collectors come to buy the odd Staffordshire piece, an occasional Bingham pot, or a set of old soldier's medals. The trouble is, the trade's nonseasonal at this level. To spot the public's deliberate mistake, as it were, you must go every week and never let up. Sooner or later there'll be a small precious item going for a song. It's not easy. To see how difficult it is, go to the auction near where you live. Go several times and you'll see what dross is offered for sale and gets bought! Now, in your half-dozen visits by the law of averages you could have bought for a few coppers at least one item worth a hundred times its auctioned price. The people who actually did buy it weren't simply lucky. They study, read, record, assemble information and a store of knowledge. It's that which pays off eventually. That, and flair—if you have any.

  I stress "nonseasonal" because almost all of the antique business at the posher end is seasonal. It's too complex and full of idiosyncrasies to give it my full rip here, but in case you ever want to buy or sell anything even vaguely resembling an antique, follow Lovejoy's Law: All things being adjusted equally, sell in October or November to get the best auction price; buy between May and early September for the lowest prices.

  It was viewing day, when you go around the day before the auction and moan at how terrible the junk is, and how there's cheaper and better stuff in the local market. That way, innocents hear your despair and go away never to return. Result— one less potential buyer. Also, it provides the auctioneer's assistants with an opportunity for lifting choice items out of the sale and flogging them in secret for a private undisclosed fee. We call it "melting down," and deplore it—unless we can get our hands on the stuff, in which case we keep quiet.

  I took Sheila in and we milled around with a dozen housewives on the prowl and a handful of barkers. Tinker was there and came over.

  "Any luck?"

  "Yes, Lovejoy. Hello, miss."

  Sheila said hello. We left her leafing through a shelf of drossy books and went among the furniture where nobody could listen in.

  "I've got a cracker, Lovejoy," Tinker said. "You won't believe this, honest."

  "You're having quite a run," I commented.

  He got the barb and shook it off. "I know what you're thinking," he said, "but it's a whizzer. Listen. You're after a mint pair for that Field I put onto you—right?" I nodded. "I've found a cased set going."

  "Where?" My mouth dried.

  "Part exchange, though." This was Tinker creating tension. "Not a straight sale."

  "What the hell does that matter?" I snarled. "Who the hell does a straight sale for the good stuff these days anyway? Get on with it."

  "Keep your hair on." We chatted airily about mutual friends while an innocent housewife racked herself over a chest of drawers before marking it carefully on a list and pushed off steeling herself for tomorrow's auction.

  Tinker drew me close. "You know that boatbuilder?"

  "Used to buy off Brad down the creek?"

  "Him. Going to sell a pair of Mortimers, cased."

  "I don't believe it, Tinker."

  "Cross my heart," he swore. "But he wants a revolving rifle in part exchange. Must be English."

  I cursed in fury. Tinker maintained a respectful silence till I was worn out.

  "Where the hell can I get one of those?" I muttered. "I've not seen one for years."

  I actually happened to have one in my priest hole, by Adams of London Bridge, a five-chambered percussion long arm. There's bother with a spring I've never dared touch, but otherwise it's perfect. I cursed the boatbuilder and his parents and any possible offspring he might hope to have. Why can't people take the feelings of antique dealers into account before they indulge in their stupid bloody whimsies? Isn't that what all these useless sociologists are for? I came manfully out of my sulk.

  Tinker was waiting patiently. "All right, Lovejoy?"

  "Yes. Thanks, Tinker." I gave him a couple of notes. "When?"

  "Any time," he answered. "It'll be first come first served, Lovejoy, so get your skates on. They say Brad's going down the waterside early tomorrow. Does he know—?"

  "The whole bloody world knows it's me that's after flinters," I said with anguish.

  When a punter puts money on a horse at two-to-one odds, as you will know, nothing happens at first. Then, as more and more punters back it, the odds will fall to maybe evens, which means you must risk two quid to win only two, instead of risking two to win four as formerly. In practically the same way, the more people want to buy a thing, the dearer it becomes. Naturally, merchants will explain that costs and heaven-knows-what factors have pushed the price up, but in fact that's a load of cobblers. Their prices go up because more people want a thing. They are simply more certain of selling, and who blames them for wanting to make a fortune?

  Gambling is a massive industry. Selling spuds is too. Buying flintlocks or Geneva-cased chain-transmission Wikelman watches is not a great spectator sport, so the field is smaller. A whisper at one end therefore reverberates through the entire collecting world in a couple of weeks, with the effect that those already in possession of the desired item quickly learn they are in a position to call the tune. They can more or less name their terms. Hence the indispensable need of a cunning barker.

  "I'll go and see him," I said. Nothing makes humanity more morose than an opportunity coming closer and closer as the risks of failure simultaneously grow larger.

  A toddler gripped my calf crying, "Dadda! Dadda!" delightedly. I tried unsuccessfully to shake the little psychopath off and had to wait red-faced until its breathless mother arrived all apologetic to rescue me. The little maniac complained bitterly at having lost its new find as it was dragged back to its push chair. Sheila was helpless with laughter at the scene. The fact that I was embarrassed as hell of course proved even more highly diverting.

  "Oh, Lovejoy!" she said, falling about.

  "You can go off peo
ple, you know," I snarled. "Very funny. A spiffing jape."

  "Oh, Lovejoy!"

  "Mind that apothecary box!" I pushed her away just before she knocked it off a side table.

  This gave her the opportunity to ask about it I saw through her placatory maneuver, but for the life of me I couldn't resist. It gave me an excuse to fondle the box, a poor example it was true, but they are becoming fairly uncommon and you have to keep on the lookout.

  Watch your words. Not an "apothecary's" box. It wasn't his, in the sense that he carried it about full of rectangular bottles and lovely nooky felt-lined compartments for pills and galenical "simples," as his preparations were called. It belonged usually to a household, and was made to stand en a bureau, a medicine cabinet if you like. You dosed yourself from it, or else hired an apothecary, forerunner of the general practitioner, to give advice on what to use from it. The current cheapness of these elegant little cabinets never ceases to amaze me. I wish they would really soar to a hundred times their present giveaway price, then maybe the morons who buy them and convert them into mini-cocktail cabinets would leave well alone and get lost.

  You find all sorts of junk put in by unscrupulous dealers and auctioneers besides the bottles. This one had a deformed old hatched screwdriver thing with a flanged blade and a pair of old guinea scales imitating the original physic balance. I dropped them back in, snorting scornfully Sheila heard my opinion with synthetic attention and nodded in all the right places.

  "If I catch somebody doing it, darling, I'll smash it on his head," she promised as we strolled around.

  "You'll do no such thing."

  "No?"

  "Smash a brick on his head, and bring the apothecary box to me."

  "For you, Lovejoy, anything."

  After an hour Sheila was protesting Inspecting stuff's best done by osmosis. Don't rush, stroll. Be casual. Saunter, wander, learn.

  "We keep going round and round, Lovejoy," she complained, sitting to take off a shoe to rub her foot like they do.

  "Shut up," I said, wandering off.

  Jim, one of the elderly attendants, guffawed. "Chivalrous as ever, eh, Lovejoy?" he said, and I was in with an excuse.

  "This junk's enough to make a saint swear," I groused. "Never seen so much rubbish since Field's stuff came through."