Paid and Loving Eyes l-16

by Jonathan Gash

  But SAPAR is different. For a start, it’s not listed in any antiques glossy. No list of subscribers, in no phone book. Its employees are practically ghosts. I know antique dealers who’ve been in the business quarter of a century who believe there’s no such incognito mob. If it hadn’t been for an utter fluke—making love to a SAPAR hunter’s missus on the hoof—I’d never have spotted Gerald. Having his wife along with him for cover, and giving me a lucky lift, was possibly the one mistake he’d made in his life as a hunter. I just hoped I’d shaken him off.

  Three-forty in the morning, I made the lane past Almira’s country house. I drove on, collected my wits, had a prophylactic pee against a tree, put the car off the verge in the wood, and walked silently to the gate and down towards the house.

  You can never return. Nobody ever can. It’s one of my infallible rules. Call in at your old school, see the playing fields where you scored that super goal… Mistake: the place is a housing estate. Visit your old church? Hopeless: it’s derelict, tramps lighting fires in the vestry. Detour through your old neighbourhood, all heartaching nostalgia? Don’t: it’s a biscuit factory. Slink, like now, through a French grove towards the holiday home of a lady you awoke night after day for yet more unbridled lust? Error cubed. Even if it’s to nick your own passport, get the hell out. Returning is wrong.

  My other infallible mistake is to disregard my own rules.

  The house seemed still. A high-powered motor stood on the moonlit forecourt. So good old Paulie was here, doubtless boring somebody stiff as usual. No other cars. Was Almira’s at Marc the Nark’s cottage, watched over by his pair of hounds? I stared at the place for a few minutes, dithering.

  The way in, which I’d planned during my drive, was through the rear. The ground sloped up towards the road above at quite a steep angle. It was as if the house was sunk into the earth that side, leaving the front standing free. Split levels always help burglars. They’re easier to climb, which means less of a drop if you have to escape fast.

  No balconies, though, except one looking south towards the lake, so it wasn’t all beer and skittles. Drainpipes, rough stone with crevices. I used the old drainpiper’s trick of filling my pockets with a variety of stones from the ground. Find a space where the mortar’s missing, you can slot a stone in to serve as a mini-foothold. I smiled as I started up. “Swarmers“, as the antiques trade calls cat burglars, are mostly slick. Some I know would have already done the job and been at the Dover crossing by now. The roof over the main bedroom was only ten feet up. But being cowardly does no harm.

  Quiet, careful, I climbed. My belt I’d removed and tied round my neck for a good handhold if I came across any hooks. I must say, when I’m scared I’m quite good. I honestly think I could have made quite a decent living at burgling.

  The roof astonished me by being more of a problem than the wall. Can you credit it? Up there, spread-eagled on a slope of tiles formed like a rough earthenware sea, I found myself baffled, thinking, what the hell do I do now?

  Then I remembered the fanlight. It had figured largely in my daring plan. Never closed, it showed the night sky to anyone gazing obliquely up from the bed. I’d learned that. I began edging across towards the moon’s reflection that defined the window. Odd, I could smell cigarette smoke. I halted.

  Was somebody kipping, or not kipping at all, in Almira’s bedroom? Having a smoke? I heard, definitely heard, a man clear his throat. A resounding yes! I was stymied.

  Choice reared its aggravating head. If the bloke inside was Paul the wimp, it would hardly matter. I could simply walk in, scavenge my passport and off out of it. He was a drink of water, and I’m not. But what if I walked confidently in to find some mauler waiting for me on, say, Marimee’s orders? Did Paul smoke? Oh, Christ. I’d forgotten.

  Within arm’s reach of the louvre window, and nowhere to go. Daft to slither across to silhouette my head against the moonlit sky. Bedrooms? Three others, I knew. What the hell was the bloke doing sleeping in Almira’s bed when the other guest bedrooms were all free? Surely they were?

  And the light came on, blinding me. I almost yelped with fright and cringed, terrified reflexes trying to shrink me into invisibility on the roof. I could be seen by anyone in the woods above the house.

  “Katta.”

  Paul’s voice. Katta? Who the…? Katta? Cissie’s Continental maid. No good staying baffled. I had to risk something, or stay treed for good on Almira’s damned tiles. Two silent shifts, and I slo-o-o-owly peered over the edge. Obliquely, safer now the bedroom was brighter lit than my heavenly space, I looked down. Onto Paul and Katta.

  He was in paradise. I’ve been there, and knew instantly a million things I’d only ever guessed at. Until now. Katta’s vast naked form was kneeling beside him. Him supine, she hugely tumescent, working away, her head raising and lowering like a feeding animal’s. His hand was on her nape, his other cupping her pendulously swinging breast. His neck muscles were straining taut as he arched, striving towards the bliss that is oblivion. She was laughing. How she managed to, God knows. Her hands were on his hips, pinning him to the bed. It was a rape, a gift, Katta’s enormous fatness rocking flabbily over the recumbent man. I’ve made it sound repellent, I suppose, but it was beautiful. Poets should have been there. Was it the contrast, her spreading flesh and his lean length? Or the fascinating incongruity of Katta’s unbelievable mass seeming to chew him into docility? Or her shaking with laughter while he soared towards detumescence—?

  A car door slammed nearby, and another. Footsteps scrunged gravel, and voices spoke casually down on the forecourt.

  And I hadn’t heard a thing, so engrossed by the lovely scene on the bed. I froze, couldn’t for the life of me look away.

  “… have six or seven of them staking it out,” a bloke’s voice pontificated.

  “If that’s enough. You know what he’s like, Jervis,” Almira countered. “I have the key.”

  “Not really,” Jervis said. A good try at wry humour. “You two should be able to advise!”

  “Don’t be offensive.” Jingle of keys, sound of a lock. “Always the politician, Jay.”

  “It has its advantages, my dear.”

  Katta heard the door, quickly lifted her head, mechanically wiped her mouth using the back of her hand. She rose with the strange nimbleness of the gross, evaded Paul’s agonized, stretching hand, and trotted from my sight. Paul groaned, covered himself, put the bedside light off. I ducked away. God, I felt his deprivation, poor sod. Robbed, a second from ecstasy.

  And that was everything. I thought for quite a few moments, up there on the moonlit tiles.

  You see, I’d glimpsed Katta’s face as she’d lifted her mouth, spitting away joy unbounded, and it was wrong. Her face wasn’t right. Oh, it was Katta, sure. But her expression should have been anxiety, worry at being discovered, what the neighbours would think, et familiar cetera.

  It hadn’t been any of those. It had been utter shock, almost fear.

  The sort of revelation that tells all, especially about whom she’s suddenly so scared of walking in through the door.

  When she’d heard the last of Almira’s sentence and Jervis’s rejoinder as they’d opened the front door, she’d been halfway across the carpet. And her swift fright had instantly evaporated. She’d even turned, given Paul a charming rueful smile, blowing his tormented features a kiss from a mouth suddenly formed into an exaggerated tantalizing pout. Katta had slipped out of the room much calmer than she’d shot away from their love-bed. So she’d been frightened to death of someone finding her and Paul—then suddenly not given a damn when the intruders were merely Almira and Jervis. How come?

  It took me quite a while to escape from there, passportless. I didn’t care. I was almost pleased with life, as I made it back to the car and drove back to the trunk-road service station, to wait for the golden pair to come.

  They captured me while I was having some grub in the self-service. The swine didn’t let me finish it, either.

 
CHAPTER TWENTY

  « ^ »

  Lovejoy.”

  Here he came, Narval the Throttler, plonking himself down opposite, extermination in mind. God, but he had the most electric eyes you ever did see. Killer’s eyes, staring, seeing only their own madness. She stood hands on hips, looking for a surfboard and a beach. Why did she have marks on her arms?

  “Kee.” I had a mouthful. “What sort of a name’s that?”

  “G.U.Y.” The girl was cool, languid in a warning kind of way. Bored witless. She’d be at least as much trouble as Kee. I spelled the name to myself. Guy. He was Guy, say Kee. “Guy Solon. S.O.L.O.N.”

  “Up and come, Lovejoy. Now.”

  “Right.” I seized a fragment of grub, and upped and went.

  “You’re in trouble,” Guy said conversationally. “Veronique’ll explain.” This made him laugh, a whine interrupted by giggles that never made it. I felt in sore need of allies. Mercy Mallock?

  “Trouble,” she said, laughing too. We were so cheery.

  “Who from?”

  “A high-ranking officer.” Veronique looked at me. I was shocked. Her eyes were a vigorous blue, so bright they seemed illumined from within. Standing beside this pair of clones as Guy unlocked his motor I felt like the coalman. I’m never well turned out at the best of times. After my climbing efforts, no wonder Veronique’s gorgeous radiant orbs scored me as a tramp.

  “Someone with standards, eh?” I prompted. They only laughed. Their brittle merriment was getting me down. I hoped it wouldn’t last. I longed for Lilian’s seductibility, even Gerald’s anxious friendliness. (No, cancel that. No hunters, please.)

  We took off in a Grand Prix start. Whiplash Willie hit the road like he had seconds to live. Veronique yabbered into some phone while I tried to find the seat belt, seemingly a triumphant account of their recapture of some wayward nerk. I tore my eyes off her. She sat in the rear seat. I was lodged perilously beside Guy. No wonder he was on a permanent high, with a bird like her. But how to keep such a creature? You’d have to be the world’s greatest powerhouse of excitement, handsome, constant dynamite, rich. I glanced at Guy and sighed. He seemed all of those things. We ripped through France, two deities and a scruff.

  And made Troude, and the place we were going to collect the antique silver from. Sometimes, absolutely nothing is true. Ever noticed? This was one of those times.

  It was a garden party. I was astonished, then embarrassed, then mortified. Talk about wealth.

  “Welcome, Lovejoy!” Troude greeted me with such calm pleasure I could have sworn it was nearly genuine. He advanced across the grass beckoning waitresses and acolytes. “So glad you could make it!” He did his merry twinkle. “Your wanderlust is cancelled, Lovejoy. Henceforth, adhere to the schedule.”

  “Henceforth I shall, thither,” I promised. He said schedule the English way, sh, not the American sk.

  The enormous mansion wore lawns like skirts extending in all directions. Groves, garden statues, pools, small summerhouses, it looked a playground. Primary colours everywhere. The house itself was regal, symmetrical, balustrades, wide stone steps up to a magnificent walk. I’d thought Versailles was somewhere else. Or maybe France has a lot of them knocking about.

  The guests were even more ornate. They looked as if they’d brought summer with them. No rain on their parade, thank you. Cocktail dresses the norm. From there, every lady zoomed upward in extravagance, Royal Ascot without the horses. I looked at a statue of a discus-thrower. I could have sworn he was breathing, put it down to imagination. I was nervous in case I was going to cop it for going missing.

  “Now, Lovejoy! None of your famous bashfulness!” he chirruped. A glass appeared in my hand, cold as charity, moisture on the bowl. Ancient Bohemian glass, too. Beyond belief. (Watch out for modern Bohemian fakes—they are our current epidemic. The best are vases, costing half a year’s average wage if genuine, the price of a railway snack if fake. Sixteen inches tall, ornate damson-coloured vases engraved with forests and deer, they’re basically a tall lidded cylinder on a stem, such a deep colour it’ll look almost black. Sinners buy these fake Bohemians, then sell them at country auctions as genuine.)

  “Come and meet some of our visitors!” Troude was saying. “You’ve already met Veronique and Guy, I see!” He chuckled, introduced me to a charming couple from Madagascar who had a yacht. “Lovejoy hates sailing,” Troude told them. “Though his next movie’s about a shipping disaster.” He glanced at me in warning. “That wasn’t confidential information, Lovejoy, was it?”

  “No, it wasn’t.” It also wasn’t information.

  “Lovejoy’s company has four wholly-owneds in LA,” Troude said, smiling. “He changes their names on a weekly basis!”

  The couple from Madagascar laughed. Troude laughed. God, but I wished we’d jack it in and stop laughing. Even Monique, among a crowd of admirers, was laughing. I looked again. That discus-thrower really had actually breathed. Laughing too? Here came Paulie and Almira. How close were they, really?

  “Lovejoy.”

  “Wotcher.” God, I hated Paulie’s name, the swine. I couldn’t help scanning the garden party for Katta. Difficult to hide anybody that fat. “Almira.”

  “Hello, darling,” from Almira, on edge but laughingly. “Sorry I had to dash. But you got here!” She was exquisite in a stunning flared dress of magnolia, usual among this slender clique. And she was getting away with high heels, when the other women had gone for less rakish footwear. I’d have been proud of her, if I hadn’t noticed her husband Jervis Galloway, MP, deep in conversation among a gathering of colourfuls. Nobody introduced me. It was Diana’s paramour Jay, all right. When I drifted his way I got deflected. The statue breathed again.

  “Come, Lovejoy!” Troude was affability itself, steering me round, introducing me, saying I was here to finance movie deals with Italian money. I kept my wits about me, saying the deal was for five movies and all that. I clammed up when people asked who’d star in them, said that was still being negotiated.

  “He’s cagey!” Troude laughed. The people laughed. Even I laughed. And now a statue of The Three Graces, naked women embracing, breathed. And a zephyr gently moved their hair.

  “The movie industry’s crazy,” I laughed, to laughter.

  Talk, chatter in the golden sun, Veronique and Guy being delightedly admired strolling in their magnificent world, everybody loving or lusting after Monique—more sedately dressed than the others, dark green with silver jewellery. And Marimee there, looking not quite at attention. An orchestra played soft airs in a wrought-iron pagoda. Lully? Something that way on. Everything was superficial, no digging deep for motive or disgorging woes. It was so beautiful it troubled me. . I sought out my Madagascar couple. They looked ready for the Olympics. Everybody was gold and gorgeous. I felt sick. They wanted to talk about yachting, sails and motor engines, races I’d never heard of. He was a friend of the Algerian couple, the man explained, brought into this syndicate by the Mexican couple. I wondered, was it one per nation? If no, I was superfluous, seeing Almira’d fetched hubby J for Jervis. They liked the idea, they told me, surreptitiously lowering their voices. I said I did, too. They asked me how long it would take. I asked from what to what. From start to finish, they asked. I liked their intensity—first time anybody had stopped laughing—but said it depended on how soon we got started.

  “Can I take him away?” Troude begged, just as I’d noticed that the shadows cast by the sun hadn’t moved, though the trees in the distance had glided quite a foot or two along the background of the orchestra’s summerhouse. How come?

  “See you later,” I smiled, going with him. I looked at the grass. It was non-grass. Pretty good fake, but definitely bud.

  We headed for the house. Was this whole dump some sort of film studio? A set? I looked forward to getting inside to see if it was real or just a giant doll’s house that turned continually to face the sun just like its garden. A mansion house that stays put while its gardens swivels is in de
ep trouble.

  The house felt real, lovely and genuine. I keep saying how a house responds when you step in through the door. It susses you out and thinks, who’s this newcomer? If it likes you, it welcomes you. If not, then you’ll never be happy there. It’s a person, is a house. Be polite to it. I silently commiserated with it for losing its real garden, in exchange for a look-alike turntable phoney lawn plonked on top. Maybe their antique silver was here.

  Marimee was there before us. “Lovejoy did well with the cover story,” he said. “Lovejoy will receive sanction for the default.”

  Default? Sanction? He meant mistaking my—no, his—assistants. I nodded, received a grateful glance from Troude. Monique came with Guy and Veronique. We reached a conservatory facing a walled yard with roses and trellised arches.

  “Nice.” I broke the ice. “If only it’d stay still.”

  Troude smiled. No laughs now, tension in the air. Maybe they too were to be sanctioned for letting me escape?

  “Why did you return, Lovejoy?”

  “Ah.” Why? I’d got clean away, then come back to find my pursuers. I should have thought this one out, quick. “I’d no passport. I owed it to the memory…” I caught myself, cleared my throat. Start again. ”I promised somebody I’d help.”

  Marimee nodded, one curt sharp depression of the chin to signify approval. For him that was a flag day.

  “It is safe to speak here,” he said. He stood facing, legs apart, back to the window. “Here we plan the robbery. Here we decide the fate of the valuables. Here we allocate duties.”