The Very Last Gambado

by Jonathan Gash

  "Oh, Lovejoy!” Her eyes glistened rapturously. "Idyllic! How often I have pretended things were unchanged!”

  “Your mementos, countess. Did you bring all of, er, papa’s things?”

  “Many. Dear papa. He couldn’t foresee the coming storm, though even we children knew change was in the wind.” Her eyes pierced me through. “You ask me about antiques, Lovejoy? Agafia can provide you with as reliable an account as I. Quite a collection of jewelry, wasn’t there, Agafia? And rather formidable Tula cut-

  steel ornaments. Kiev cloisonne enamel pendants, earrings. Damascened wall plaques. Pottery figurines, sets of birds and horses. A group of flasks, really rather large and horrid with little feet..

  And on she rattled, a fortune in every breath. Vinogradov’s early figurines of the 1750s, the faience wares of Kuznetzov—who later bought Francis Gardner’s factory and outdid all China and the whole East with his delectable porcelains. And the lidded glass goblets from St. Petersburg, the lacquerwork and lace, the embroidery . . . just listening was a feast. (Tip: Russian antiques, and Indian, are tomorrow’s moneybag finds, so keep an eye open.)

  it was only when Agafia moved to take the cup and saucer from her lap that I realized how long she’d been going on, that she was calling me Ivan Ivanovitch and occasionally lapsing into Russian. Agafia shushed the old lady into a nodding sleep and smiled a mute apology, indicating that I should leave. Tiptoeing, I made a natural mistake, attempting to leave by the wrong door, which let me have a quick glimpse of the room Countess Natalia had indicated. No Prussian cabinet stuffed with rare bratinas, quaiches, kovski. It was sparsely furnished, modern auction-bought junk.

  "No, Lovejoy.” Agafia joined me. She wasn’t taken in. "We’ve nothing left. Only the kovsh you have seen.”

  “Nark it, love. I don’t know my way about, that’s all.” "Then allow me to show you.”

  “Outside, eh?” I suggested. “I’ve been cooped up all day.” I waited for her to get a shawl. We strolled into a blustery wind and started round the house on the path. She slipped her arm through mine, pleasant. “Of course, Countess Natalia has age against her.” That woman’s mistake again: age acts for them, not against.

  “Yet she made out a detailed list for Ben Clayton’s exhibition.”

  “No. She forbade any such list.” Agafia paused to point out a handsome piece of topiary work. I’m used to women’s wiles so admired it, though topiary’s tough on even a humble privet. “But you made one out, Aggie.”

  Her head raised, stung: “I obeyed the countess’s orders!” “Aye, love. The list?”

  "Well.” She was defensive, walking us on. “We didn’t know this Clayton. He could have been anyone, any background. Nor Mr. Meese and his thin angry girl, Lorane. It all happened so fast.” “Who decided to hand over the countess’s heirlooms?” “Why, the countess, of course!”

  “Ready for it, Aggie?” I waited for her to nod. “Tell me this. How came they here? I mean, did they just arrive? A syndicated film company, complete with crew, writer, production team, plus Clayton, a rollerman antique wholesaler? What made them walk in your gateway with their megathink movie? Why nobody else’s?” I stopped us, made her face me. I want to see eyes when my life’s on the line. She met my gaze. I liked her.

  “Because the countess had the heirlooms, Lovejoy.”

  It’s embarrassing when a woman tries to be evasive and fails. “Look, love. I’m a nerk but I’m not daft. You’re not in the phone book. You’re not members of the Women’s Guild. You don’t belong to the Village Wives. You don’t do basketweaving at the Adult Education. You keep yourselves to yourselves.”

  “Your quiet little apprentice researched us, I suppose?” “What the hell’s it matter who sussed you out?” I thumbed at the house. “Many family houses like the countess’s are thrown open to the public, make money on the side, do a little souvenir-touting. But you don’t.”

  "We’re refugees, Lovejoy. We have to be quiet.”

  “Balls, Aggie. Sixty years ago, yes. Now? I ask you, love. Who cares about origins except maniacs?"

  She stared over the gardens. It was a lovely windswept view, right down the estuary. I looked down at the grooves in the grass near a copse. The grass looked ploughed yet well nourished, really odd.

  “The countess wanted an estimate of value on some heirlooms. Thinking to make a money gift on a Russian immigrant foundation.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “No, Lovejoy. I’m sorry.”

  I reached round her, an embrace just for closeness. “Then shall I tell you? You got Sam Shrouder.” Her start told me I was on

  track. I kept hold, both of us looking at the view. "Sam drove his bus in here, parked it there out of sight of the road, by yon copse, where the grooves in the grass are. He did an estimate. Maybe took an antique or two to work on, a bit of restoration. Then he started coming often. He did a deal of work.”

  “Yes.” Her admission was so quiet it went with the wind. "Then a lady came. Happen she delivered a piece of silverware one day, saying Sam wasn’t too well. She was his wife.”

  “Yes.” Almost inaudible. “We were so afraid of burglars. Old Mikhail’s not strong.”

  “And Mrs. Shrouder suggested that the countess capitalize on her heirlooms?”

  “Yes.”

  "She was the go-between. Then Sam stopped coming.”

  “His work was finished, Lovejoy.”

  And so was poor Sam. I let her go and we strolled on. "When did you know something was wrong, Aggie?”

  "Countess Natalia and I were talking it over. We suddenly realized how vulnerable we were. We grew frightened. It had been so exciting, giving our possessions from motives of true patriotism!”

  That old con, still going strong. “And Sam died.”

  "We were so relieved to encounter you, Lovejoy.”

  “Eh?”

  "The way Lydia looks at you, the trust you seem to engender. And your divvying gift. The way you are . . . separate. We feel you’re like us.”

  Aye, missus. But when Parson vanishes or Sam gets topped it’s me the Plod hauls in, not your posh countess. And burglaries are pinned on my back, nobody else’s. If that famous secret smuggler Thomas Chippendale were alive today, I swear the police would do me instead. Well, at least I’d now got most of the story, except Ray Meese’s big finish. Maybe I’d better opt out of the last scenes, catch flu the day before.

  "Right, ally,” I said. We’d gone all round the house and reached the front steps. “Let’s make two promises, eh? One: We tell each other, night and day, whatever happens. Agreed?”

  “Yes, Lovejoy. And two?”

  "You give me the rest of that grub. I’m starving.”

  She exploded a laugh, pulled at my arm. "See? Crooks don’t think like you, Lovejoy.”

  I stayed silent. Suddenly you can get too fond of a woman. When that happens, silence is a man’s only denial. We went in to scoff the rest of the nosh. Maybe it was the analogy with fuel, or maybe only remembering the Rotunda, but suddenly I was thinking of a weapon. As in gun. Not for using, understand. Comfort.

  A lawyer’s messenger was at the cottage when I got back. He was posting a lawsuit through my door. It was from the Building Society, for nicking my own cottage deeds. Can you believe these people? And a note from Lydia to say that she’d spent every penny I was to earn over the next week on a private detective to ensure my safety, and had procured thereby some significant tidings—only Lydia uses words like tidings nowadays, so I didn’t question the note’s authenticity. Also she had obtained some sound furniture for me, cheaply, to render my cottage more comfortable. It would all be delivered next morning.

  When it comes to wasting money, trust a bird.

  S

  MOKE,” I said aloud to nobody in particular.

  Lydia was driving. Whether she didn't trust me with her mum’s motor or simply wanted me on a short leash, I don’t know. But today’s decision was no Lovejoy behind her wheel.

>   "Smoke, Lovejoy? In what context?”

  "Nothing. Sorry.” We were pulling into a breaker’s yard in a village in Essex’s wet lowlands. Cars were heaped everywhere, hollow hulls and rust-dried russet metal. "I went to Woolwich, saw a rifle range. Reminded me they train riflemen with smoke blowing across the face of the target.” I looked about. We stopped beside the plank hoarding. It was broken in several places. A tavern stood opposite, the Cherry Tree. "What are we doing here?”

  “This, Lovejoy, is where Mrs. Shrouder is having lunch. Her car is that small red Metro.”

  "So? Getting peckish happens to the best of us.”

  "We are here to recognize her companion.” She was sure of herself.

  "Can’t we just go in and have—?”

  “Lovejoy. ” Which shut me off. "Why the concern with smoke on rifle ranges?”

  "They used smoke at the studio.” I made a gesture to show how it had fumed from machines on the floor. “It’s whitish mist, so cameras can see through.”

  She found a notebook from her handbag. “Do we need a smoke machine, Lovejoy?”

  “No, love.” Bless her. She’s absolutely no idea. But I kept wondering about those smoke canisters. Probably hadn’t changed much since my day. I seemed to recall you pulled a tag on the top and stepped upwind. They were easy to carry.

  “Attention, Lovejoy.” She indicated the tavern opposite. A long black limousine was arriving.

  Ray Meese got out. Here in the wilds, miles from anywhere. Surprise, surprise. He entered the pub and the limo cruised away. What was going on? Lydia was penciling the time into her book. She passed me a bulky envelope, big and brown.

  “You can open it now, Lovejoy.”

  Photographs, with times, dates, and locations on each reverse; typed sheets of place names alongside columns of initials. The penny dropped.

  “This is why I haven’t eaten for a fortnight?”

  She flared. "You’ve had quite sufficient, Lovejoy, and well you know it! Your expenditure on the private investigator was necessary!” See? My expenditure.

  The woman was pretty, from any angle. It was her, the one I’d seen at Doc Lancaster’s surgery the time I began my People game. And at Ledger’s police station. The photographs showed her with Ray Meese in a dozen places. Twice the photo was blurry, almost a negative. “Those are taken at night, Lovejoy. A special camera. They . . . they appear to have stayed at the same motel.” A long pause, turbulent with difficulty. "Possibly together, Lovejoy.”

  Shock horror gasp. “Who’s the agent?”

  “Eminently trustworthy. I obtained references from sources that need not concern you, Lovejoy.”

  “I’m paying, yet they need not concern me?”

  "Correct.” She colored a litde. "There was a tape recording .. . their nocturnal sojourn.”

  “Any chance of getting hold of it, love?” I was sarcastic. "No.” Cool as you please. Sometimes women take your breath away. "I had it destroyed.”

  I erupted. “Of all your frigging nerve! Lyd, I swear one day I’ll give you a sodding good belt! I’m paying with blood for this info and you—”

  She faced me, fierce. “That tape contained intimate, well, communications between them in, well, circumstances.”

  “Okay, love,” I said, broken. “What am I allowed to hear?” “This is an abstract.” She passed an envelope.

  “Thanks.” A few lines:

  Mrs. S: He’s got to be blown away, darling, [a deletion] Totaled.

  R.M.: Who’s telling me this here? It’s all on. Truly, truly.

  Mrs. S: It’s pure genius. Then clover, honey.

  R.M.: It’s [a deletion] success. Truly megamax.

  Mrs. S: No talk. Celebration time for my Oscar-winning [a series of deletions].

  Translation: Mrs. S.S. and Meese were in league, to put it at its most charitable. I said to Lydia, “You said Meese has never come near an Oscar.”

  “He hasn’t, Lovejoy. She-means he’s about to.”

  "From this film? Even the people on it say it’s duff. What’s deleted?"

  She turned aside, coloring up. "Intimacies, Lovejoy.”

  “So for the sake of chastity we erase the most important and expensive bits, in love and vino being veritas?”

  “Lovejoy, the evidence suggests that Ray Meese and Mrs. Shrouder are mutually enamored, and that Lorane is being sadly deceived as to Meese’s intentions.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me this Jane Austenese gunge? Why bring me all this way?”

  “You never believe me, Lovejoy.”

  Narked, I looked away from her candid blue eyes. People who are right all the bloody time give me a real pain, and that’s the truth. But I had bigger problems now than Lydia. To blow away=to kill. To total=ditto. Now, who on earth could they mean, I wonder?

  “Let’s go,” I said. I had a sense of things closing in slightly quicker than I wanted. Even on a good day I didn’t want to meet Lorane. Once she found out Meese was two-timing her, I didn’t want to be in the same galaxy.

  The gold service was ready, Hymie sent word, so please collect. That meant the deeds of my cottage were due for redemption, or I was homeless. I was legally homeless anyway, so what the hell. The building society and Hymie could fight it out between them. Hymie knew I’d not default on the gelt, but he was covered anyway. Well, more or less—the Ruby was crisped, so his logbook was worthless, but is it was my problem if aggropaths burn my car to cinders? People blame me for everything.

  Lydia dropped me off at Castle Park. Sorry Malone arrived at the gateway as arranged. Sorry’s a safe elderly locksmith who dresses like a taxman and only does one-off jobs, fixed price. He’s called Sorry because he once broke into somebody’s house in Romford only to find it was the wrong place. Quickly, he said, “Oh, sorry,” to the astonished man and wife he found staring at him in the hallway, and left with an apologetic smile. I made our meeting a deliberate accident, literally bumping into him.

  “Keep being glad to see me, Sorry,” I said. “Give me something. Anything.”

  “Oh, right.” He grinned, nodded, held my arm, and rummaged in his pocket, passed me a penny. I pretended gravity, very theatrical, studying it on my palm but making sure I shielded our object from passersby. I returned it, pointing ostentatiously to the bus stop.

  “Come to the cottage, soon as you like, Sorry.”

  “What lock is it, Lovejoy? I've tools to bring.”

  “A car, sort of.”

  “That all?” He went off, chuckling. I went through the Castle Park rose garden and round to the bus stop at the top of North Hill, calling in the Arcade as I went. I paused at the alcove stall temporarily belonging to our loudest mouth, Harry Bateman.

  "Hey, Harry. You flog Sorry that Iserlohn box?”

  “Me? No, Lovejoy. Genuine, is it?”

  "Lovely. Really rare, in that form.”

  "You buy it, Lovejoy?”

  "Course I bought it. Well, genuine Adolph Keppelman, 1762. Mint, virtually.” An Iserlohn’s only a tobacco container, decorated brass and copper. “This has those lunatic Seven-Years-War characters on it.”

  "How much, Lovejoy?” he offered.

  I pretended to be narked. “Gawd, Harry. Give me breath. He won’t bring it to my place for a couple of hours yet.”

  He rummaged into catalogs, notes, yearbooks. “Here, Lovejoy. I’ll give you half the current catalog price, eh? Only, collectors are screaming for any tobaccianca.”

  “Take it easy, Harry.” I went all exasperated.

  We settled on seven-tenths the listed price for a mint Iserlohn. Wondering idly where on earth I’d get one from, I took the money and caught the Maldon bus and got off at the Bell. Sorry could wait a while if he reached the cottage early. The Bell taproom was crowded. Several squaddies from the garrison were swilling and talking. I went in, carefully staying to one side, and meekly used the phone after glancing about. The man himself entered the saloon bar after a few minutes and came over. He wore a staff se
rgeant’s uniform.

  "Wotcher, Lovejoy.”

  “Jock. All right?” I bought him a pint.

  "Never better. Got another set?” Jock collects military medals of African campaigns before 1900. His mates think he's eccentric. Only he and I know how bright he is. When he retires he’ll be able to buy his own army, what with the number of antique military decorations he’s bought. He has a valuable and superb collection, and paid peanuts.

  “Sorry, no. It’s me. I need help.” I smiled a cheery disclaimer. “Nothing naff. It’s just that I want an effect. Children’s pageant at, er, the girlfriend’s village.”

  “What, a couple of thunderflashes?”

  “Er, aye. For a start, Jock.” I hadn’t thought of thunderflashes, those big military fireworks. “Strip-igniters, aren’t they?”

  “All sorts. What else?”

  “Smokies.” He grinned at my use of the name. Back home in his Scotch shire a smokie’s a fish. "How many to blanket, say, a marquee?”

  “Oh, two.”

  “Four, then. Are they bigger than they used to be?”

  “Aye, Lovejoy.” He was guarded with his next question. “Can I let the old man know? He’s strong on public relations.” His field officer.

  “I’d rather not, Jock. Till it’s over.”

  “Cost a few quid then.”

  “Money’s right here.” We haggled amiably, then I passed him Harry’s money and went to catch the bus home. Jock’d get them to me during the candle hours. I’d paint them some flashy color to match the studio gear, emulsion paint so they’d dry before dawn. Sorry was waiting with his locksmith’s patience at the cottage. “It’s round the back, Sorry. A bus. No word, eh?”