“Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place. What did you have in mind?”
“I’m entirely in your hands.”
“Avid collector is he, this friend of yours?”
“Oh yes, very.”
“Then I suggest the easiest thing to do would be for you to name a price range, and I can tell you what we have that fits the bill.”
The ponytailed man mentions a figure that causes Moyle to raise his chin and purse his lips in a silent whistle.
“A most generous birthday present, sir. A close friend of yours, I take it?”
“Very close.”
“Well then, let’s see what we’ve got, shall we?” Moyle turns to the baize-covered board behind him to which are pinned several dozen more of those vinyl wallets containing matchbooks of various colours and sizes – prime specimens all. He plucks three down.
“This is no less than a Purple Pineapple Club matchbook,” he begins, holding the first wallet up delicately by the corner for the ponytailed man to view its contents at close quarters. “As your friend will no doubt be able to tell you, the Purple Pineapple Club was shut down three days before it was due to open when the principal member of the backing consortium filed for bankruptcy and took his own life. Fifty specimen promotional matchbooks were printed up, but only about half that number are believed to be currently in circulation. Note the use of purple metallic ink for the logo and the cheerful cartoon illustration.”
“All of your matchbooks have had the matches removed.”
“Oh, sir, one never leaves the matches attached. Oh no.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, the phosphorus discolours the card. Mainly, though, it’s because matchbooks are better stored and displayed flat.”
“I didn’t know that. All right, how much?”
Moyle picks up a scanning wand from the desk and runs its winking red tip over the barcode sticker attached to the back of the vinyl wallet. The price appears on the readout of the credit register linked to the scanning wand by a coil of flex. He draws the ponytailed man’s attention to the figure.
“I see,” says the ponytailed man. “Anything slightly more expensive?”
“More expensive,” says Moyle, with poorly disguised eagerness. “Well, there’s this one.” He picks up another of the wallets. “A special edition released to coincide with the official coming-out of a member of the royal family. Note the coat-of-arms motif featuring a pink crown and an entwined pair of human bodies. Rampant, as a heraldry expert might say. The story behind this one goes that the royal in question got cold feet at the last minute, hence the public proclamation of his sexual proclivities was never made, but a small number of the special edition matchbooks were pocketed by an equerry and thence made their way into the hands of private collectors. Naturally the palace press office denied there ever was going to be a coming-out announcement of any description and implied that the matchbooks must have been issued by an anti-royalist faction in order to discredit the royal family.”
“Like they need discrediting.”
“As you say, sir. Regardless, palace-authorised or not, a tiny quantity of these matchbooks exist, and the story attached lends them a certain novelty, don’t you think?”
“I don’t suppose there’s any way of guaranteeing its provenance?”
“None at all, I’m afraid, sir. That’s the trouble with what we call curio matchbooks.”
“Pity. My friend’s a stickler for provenance.”
“All the best phillumenists are.”
Frank, hovering close by, observing all this unnoticed, makes a quick check of the security cameras. Every one he can see is trained on the ponytailed man. Good.
Eye?
Still here, Mr Hubble.
Is there a guard on standby?
I’ve alerted one. He’s two departments away. Name of Miller.
Well done.
You see? We’re not all incompetent idiots down here.
I wish I could believe that.
There is a spurt of sarcastic laughter. You’re on form this morning, Mr Hubble!
Thinking thunderclouds, Frank returns his attention to the scene being played out at the counter.
“What about that one?” says the ponytailed man, pointing to the third matchbook Moyle has selected.
“Ah, this one. The Raj Tandoori, an upscale Indian restaurant. First printing. Lovely design but, as you can see, there was a typographical error. ‘The Rat Tandoori.’ Unfortunate oversight or malicious printer’s prank? Who can say? Either way, the restaurateur felt, understandably, that the association of rodent and food might not encourage repeat custom and ordered a new batch printed up and the originals pulped. A few, however, survived. Much sought-after. Almost unique. But there is some slight damage to the striking pad, as you may have noticed, and the cover hinge has a tiny split in it.”
“May I take it out and have a look anyway?”
“Certainly. Just be careful with it, I beg of you.”
“Of course.”
The ponytailed man slips the matchbook out of its wallet and looks it over. Moyle watches with a concern that is not wholly proprietorial, which is almost that of a parent for a child, his hands poised to catch the matchbook should it happen to drop, but the customer seems to know how to handle precious artifacts such as this, holding it by the corners only, touching it with his fingertips alone, treating it with the kind of awed respect usually accorded a venerable, crumbling religious relic.
Satisfied that the man isn’t about to damage the matchbook, Moyle turns back to the baize-covered board. Tapping a thumb against his lips and humming, he casts an eye over the stock, then reaches up decisively and unpins two more wallets, which he lays in front of his customer just as the ponytailed man is resealing the “Rat Tandoori” matchbook into its wallet.
“Interested?” Moyle enquires.
“Not in that one, no.”
“Any particular reason why, might I ask?”
“My friend has a penchant for the immaculate.”
“For a mint-condition ‘Rat Tandoori’ original you’re looking at a price considerably higher than the admittedly handsome sum you mentioned, sir, but I could try to track down one in slightly better health if you like. One’s bound to turn up at an auction sooner or later.”
“Bound to,” agrees the ponytailed man. “But in that case, I’d rather buy it myself and avoid your outrageous mark-up.”
“Then I’m afraid neither of these will suit you,” says Moyle, puzzled by his customer’s sudden bluntness.
“They both look a bit tatty,” the ponytailed man agrees, glancing briefly at the new offerings.
“Remember, we’re dealing with ephemera here,” Moyle points out. “The appeal of matchbooks as collector’s items is their very lack of durability. I’m sure that’s the way your friend feels about them.”
“I’m beginning to think I’d be better off spending my money on something else for my friend,” the ponytailed man says. “Thanks for your time anyway, but no sale.” He turns to go.
Moyle’s shrug doesn’t adequately hide his obvious dismay.
Eye?
Yup.
Get Miller to intercept. He’s heading back out of the Peripheries into Oriental Weaponry.
He boosted? I didn’t see a thing.
Let’s hope one of the cameras did.
Cunning devil, thinks Frank as he dogs the ponytailed man out of the department.
9.19 a.m.
THE PONYTAILED MAN has stopped to admire a pair of katana in beautiful black-lacquered scabbards when a hand grabs his upper arm, fingers digging into his biceps with a polite but insistent pressure.
“Excuse me, sir.”
The ponytailed man looks round into a crinkled, saturnine face into which are embedded a pair of eyes the colour of rainy twilight. He fails to recognise a man he has seen at least twice already in the last quarter of an hour.
“Tactical Security,” says Frank. “Would you mind if
I had a word?”
The ponytailed man immediately starts looking for an exit, and in doing so catches sight of a security guard ambling towards them. The guard is over two metres tall and as broad at the waist as he is at the shoulders, packed densely into his nylon dollar-green uniform like minced meat into a sausage skin.
The ponytailed man tenses. With a weary inward sigh Frank realises he is going to make a run for it.
“Please, sir. It’ll be so much better for everyone if you stay put.”
Miller, the guard, is still ten metres away when the ponytailed man wrenches his arm out of Frank’s grasp and makes his bid for freedom. Miller moves to intercept him, and the man blindly dashes right, running headlong into a rice-paper screen on which has been mounted an array of shuriken. The screen folds around him and collapses, and the ponytailed man collapses with it. Throwing stars fly off in all directions, spinning like large steel snowflakes.
Miller rushes forward, but the ponytailed man scrambles to his feet, snarling and brandishing one of the shuriken like a knife.
“Get away! Get away from me!”
Shrugging, Miller raises his hands and backs off a few paces.
“False arrest!” the ponytailed man shouts. “I haven’t done anything! False arrest!”
A small crowd of spectators swiftly gathers.
“I haven’t stolen anything!” The man gesticulates frantically with the throwing star.
Frank is by Miller’s side. “Can you take him?” he asks.
“Course I can,” Miller growls. “When I was inside, I used to kick seven shades of shit out of blokes like him all the time. Just for fun.”
“What about the throwing star?”
“He doesn’t know what he’s doing with it. You get ’im on disc?”
Eye?
I’m searching, I’m searching. Hang on. Yeah, there it is. Shit. That was fast.
Frank nods to Miller, and the guard breaks into a huge, humourless grin.
He moves swiftly for a man of his bulk. Three brisk strides, and he is inside the arc of the ponytailed man’s arm. Before the man can bring his weapon around, Miller’s hand flashes out, encloses the fist holding the shuriken, and squeezes. The ponytailed man shrieks as the star’s points pierce his palm. He falls to his knees, and Miller twists his arm behind his back, still squeezing. Blood streaks the ponytailed man’s wrist and smears the back of his jacket. He tries to writhe his way out of the hold Miller has him in, but the guard only tightens his grip on the shuriken-wielding hand, forcing the throwing star’s points further into the flesh of the ponytailed man’s palm until they grind bone. The man bends double, snivelling with the pain, unable to think about anything except the pain, the riveting, sickening pain.
Frank has his Sphinx out. He hunkers down beside the agonised shoplifter and recites the Booster’s Blessing.
“For the record, sir,” he says, “at 9.18 a.m. you were spotted removing an item from the Cigars & Matchbooks Department without having purchased it and with no obvious intent to purchase it. For this offence, the penalty is immediate expulsion from the premises and the irrevocable cancellation of all account facilities. If you wish to take the matter to court, you may do so. Bear in mind, however, that we have the following evidence on disk.”
Frank holds the Sphinx’s screen up before the man’s face and the Eye duly transmits a recording of the theft.
It was a skilful piece of sleight of hand, one no doubt practised countless times until it was honed to perfection. While Moyle’s back was turned, the ponytailed man whipped out a duplicate of the “Rat Tandoori” matchbook from his pocket, simultaneously palming the original into a slit cut in the lining of his jacket. It was the duplicate he was reinserting into the vinyl wallet when Moyle turned back to the counter, and were it not for Frank the substitution would most likely have gone unnoticed until the day a genuine matchbook aficionado with money to burn chose to add that particular rarity to his collection.
The crime is replayed on the Sphinx’s screen in two short clips from two different angles. The first clip shows the fake matchbook coming out but not the real one going in. The second leaves little room for doubt, although, even when slowed to half-speed, the exchange seems to take place in the blink of an eye. Much as he hates to, Frank has to admire the shoplifter’s dexterity. Just as he thought: a professional.
“Do you understand what I’m showing you?”
Frank isn’t certain the ponytailed man was looking, but when he repeats the question, the man nods and says yes.
“Good. Now, I need to see your card.”
“Come on, you, on your feet,” says Miller, hoisting the ponytailed man upright. “Get your card out. Slowly. No tricks.”
His face is livid and streaked with tears but the ponytailed man’s eyes are still defiant as he reaches into his inside pocket with his uninjured hand and produces a Silver.
“Cheap sod,” mutters Miller. “Couldn’t score better than that?”
“Fuck off,” says the ponytailed man, without too much enthusiasm.
Having extracted the shuriken from the ponytailed man’s palm, the guard proceeds to handcuff him. Frank, meanwhile, runs the card through his Sphinx. Central Accounts has no record of the card being reported as stolen, but when the account-holder’s picture appears on the Sphinx’s screen it doesn’t take Frank long to deduce that the man standing in front of him is not Alphonse Ng, aged 62, a balding, jowly, pugnacious-looking Korean.
“How much did you pay this man Ng?” he asks the shoplifter.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And how long did he agree to wait before reporting it missing? A week? Two weeks?”
The man does not answer.
“OK, fine. We’ll have a word with Mr Ng, see what he says.”
But Frank and the shoplifter both know what Mr Ng is going to say. He is going to say either that he lost the card or that it was stolen from him, and he will express delight at having it back, and he will swear to look after it more carefully in the future, and nothing further will be done about the matter. The store’s policy is always to reunite cards with their owners, whatever the circumstances, no questions asked. To do otherwise would not make commercial sense.
“Now,” Frank tells the ponytailed man, “the guard is going to take you downstairs for processing and eviction. If at any time you attempt to resist him or to escape, he is within his rights to subdue you using any means necessary, up to and including lethal force. Do you understand this, sir?”
The shoplifter gives a short, weary nod.
“Very good. Don’t come back.”
Yet even as he utters those last three words, Frank knows it is useless. The shoplifter will be back just as soon as his hand heals, if not sooner. The ponytail will be gone, as will the earrings and the blue suit, and he will be disguised – as a Burlington, perhaps, or a foreign diplomat, or a priest (it has happened) – with yet another black-market card in his pocket and yet another legerdemain tactic for obtaining goods without payment. If only the Days administration didn’t cling to their belief that permanent banishment from the store is suitable punishment for any crime committed on the premises and didn’t refuse to prosecute shoplifters through the courts, professionals like this one wouldn’t exist and Frank wouldn’t feel as if he is trying to bale out a leaky boat with a sieve. As it is, all he can do is make the arrests, have the thieves thrown out, and catch them at it again the next time. The most he can hope for is that one person in the now-dispersing crowd of onlookers, just one, having seen how shoplifters are treated when they are caught, will think twice before succumbing to the temptation in the future. It’s a slim hope, but what is the alternative?
None of this, of course, will matter after today, and that is why Frank is calmer than he might have been as he pulls back the flap of the shoplifter’s jacket and fishes out the purloined matchbook from the slit in the lining. It gladdens him to think that tomorrow he will no longer have
to be stoically playing his part in this cyclical exercise in futility; that tomorrow he will be free.
9.25 a.m.
“OH MY,” SAYS Moyle. “Oh dear.” He holds up the two matchbooks side by side for comparison, switching them over, switching them over again. “That’s a skilful piece of forgery, that is, and no mistake. He must have had it made up from the picture in the catalogue. A perfect copy right down to the split in the cover hinge. You can see why I was fooled, can’t you?”
“Yes, I can,” says Frank, “but what I can’t see is why you turned your back on him. That was negligent in the extreme.”
“He seemed legitimate.”
“They all seem legitimate, Mr Moyle.”
“True. And you know, now that I think about it, the way he suddenly changed his mind about buying a matchbook was rather odd, wasn’t it? It was as if he couldn’t wait to get out of here.”
“He couldn’t.”
“Well, you’ve caught him, that’s the main thing,” Moyle says. “You’ve caught him and I get my Raj Tandoori original back. All’s well that ends well, eh?” He raises his eyebrows hopefully.
“It’ll have to go down in my report that you turned your back on him.”
Moyle nods slowly to himself, digesting this information. “Yes, I thought as much. That’s the sort of mistake that can cost a chap his job, isn’t it?”
“I’m sure it won’t come to that. A few retirement credits docked. A slap on the wrist.”
Moyle gives a resigned laugh. “That I can live with, I suppose. The main thing is that you recovered the matchbook, for which I and all other genuine phillumenists thank you, Mr Hubble, from the bottom of our hearts.”
“Just doing my job.”
Moyle carefully slots the genuine matchbook into its wallet and tosses the replica contemptuously into the waste-paper basket.
“It must seem rather odd to you, my interest in these little cardboard trifles,” he says with a self-deprecating smile. “Most people find it incomprehensible. My former wife, for one. Though that surely says more about her than it does me.”
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