There are loads of measurements you can take that might differentiate between a clear fake and a genuine antique. Like, acrylics weren’t known two hundred years ago, but that didn’t stop the forger Tom Keating from faking Samuel Palmer’s watercolours in ten-year-old acrylic paint. I saw them sold for the price of a new saloon motor car in galleries off Piccadilly, London, before he got arrested. He was a neighbour of mine, and I used to watch him do them. Acrylics shine on the paper in a way different from watercolours. So while some elegant salesman talks gunge about “perceptual style interrogating the natural world’s emotional stresses”, just carry the painting to the door where you can see how it sheens (or doesn’t!) in ordinary daylight.
Once I’d got going, sitting there while Lustig sipped his bourbon, I told him what beginner antiques hunters should carry with them.
“Assemble an antiques-buyer’s kit, to start out. It only costs a few coppers. Buy a tape measure marked in metric and imperial. Get a X 10 loupe (a higher magnification’s no use at all), and a little pair of old-fashioned brass weighing scales in a velvet case – complete with weights, it’ll cost you the price of a cup of coffee, because India exports them as trinkets. Then nick your wife’s eyebrow tweezers.”
With a twinge of sorrow, I remembered I usually nick my tweezers from Margaret Dainty.
“Then a solar-powered calculator – you get them free in Christmas crackers; a colour chart – free from art shops; I like Daler-Rowney because it folds small and there’s space to write the dates each colour came in. Then a midget plastic microscope for examining surfaces of furniture – also free in Christmas crackers; the battery is always dud. A pen-torch. A few carob seeds to remind you how heavy one ‘carat’ weighs.
“Make a small case for them all from the covers of a hard-back book, small enough to go in your pocket. I include a midwife’s spring balance. It’s the size of a pencil stub – not because I’m likely to leap into action and start delivering neonates, but for weighing Old Masters, porcelains, jewellery, any of those antiques that keep on coming round time after time in country auctions. If, say, a familiar painting’s suddenly twice as heavy as when you last saw it, it’s a clue that it’s a fake because age dries, right?”
He tried to interrupt but I was motoring.
“With that cheapo kit, you’ll save yourself from a whole series of blunders. I also carry a couple of small wooden rulers made up of different slices of polished heart-woods, all named. Ecology groups give them out free in village fêtes. They’re good for identifying woods when you’re new to the game. I always get American and Japanese oak wrong, dunno why.”
He listened, smiling. “You’ve been around antiques.”
“More fakes.” Especially on this voyage, I thought but did not say.
“I might market it! I’ll call it the Antiques Hunter’s Pack, price ten ninety-five!” His splendid evening suit expanded with his magnificent baritone chuckle. “Marketing’s what I do. Selling, buying. Otherwise, I’m only good at poker. Fancy a game?”
Graciously he allowed me to say no, ta. I didn’t tell him my job and didn’t ask his, because asking about jobs is nosey. He told me anyway.
“Dry goods, bulk buys and imports – as long as the Almighty Dollar stays out of intensive care!” More mellifluous laughter. The two women at the bar smiled and exchanged more glances. “Incidentally, Lovejoy, I shouldn’t ask that Lauren lady for the next dance! See the way she looked at you?”
“Didn’t notice.”
“Would you write me down those measurements for that Imari vase? I’d be obliged.”
Another person on the make. I felt tired, and it was only getting on for noon. Was it anxiety? I said no, left him and went to the main desk, asking if any messages had come for me.
“You’ll find them in your cabin, sir, or on your telephone.” I went round behind the band, and saw an odd thing, only coincidence but I’d had too many to like yet another. I saw Ivy enter the Atrium, give a quick glance round, then step forward and sit with Victor Lustig. You can always tell, can’t you, or have I already said that? I went to my cabin, to find one phone message.
“Lovejoy? Come to Suite 1133 immediately. It’s time you earned your keep.”
This, note, was the silly old bat I’d taken pity on in Benjo’s Emporium, now sounding like Napoleon. And I’d paid for garden lights for her grandbaby’s birthday, which was how I’d got myself into this mess. I made myself as presentable as I could, and headed for servitude. As I went, I thought of Napoleon, then France, then Paris. The train of thought helped me, because I suddenly remembered.
Victor Lustig was the name of a famous old conman, long since deceased. He’d once sold the Eiffel Tower.
Going upstairs, I thought well, well.
Chapter Eleven
That afternoon I wheeled Lady Veronica about the ship. I felt a right prat, but kept up the farce, her a cripple and me her serf. She played deck quoits, squealing when she got one of those little rope rings near the dot. She gambled on one-arm bandits in the casino and lost money hand over fist. She played blackjack, at which I learned you hadn’t to touch your cards. I hadn’t known that. For a whole hour she put tokens into slot machines, losing the lot and exclaiming, “Oh, all I needed was a seven for the jackpot!”, the cry of the eternal gambler. She played roulette, sternly telling me, “Gambling’s a mug’s game, Lovejoy.” From a phoney geriatric going to take on Russia?
Her grim nurse Inga was absent, thank God. When Lady Vee wanted to go to the loo I got a passing lady to take her. Then it was back to bingo, six cards every game and marking off the numbers like lightning. She called out audience responses (“Twenty-two, two little ducks!” to which the entire mob shouted, “Quack! Quack!”and so on) while I tried to keep awake. How did they know what to yell?
She didn’t win there, either. Lord Montgomery, victor of El Alamein, used to play bingo on the Queen Elizabeth and was always shouting for the bingo caller to slow down. Lady Vee could have taught him about speed.
As I rolled her to the Conservatory for tea she said, “The ship takes a percentage. I’ve never won yet. Get me tea and three cakes, not those jam things. No egg-and-cress sandwiches, either. Egg binds you.”
And the ship sailed gaily on.
Passengers discussed how far the ship had gone – you gambled on the distance and won yet another jackpot. Somebody said the Melissa had sailed 400 miles since leaving Amsterdam. The thought made me feel lonelier, Amsterdam a hell of a way off. We sat in the open air by the stern bar, where karaoke music played and eager Aussies – always the best – bawled into a microphone.
“Are you lot serious about St Petersburg?” I asked outright. Nobody could overhear in the din.
That extraordinary youthful look returned to her eyes, the coming thrill bringing it on.
“Nothing’s certain, Lovejoy, except death, taxes, and the Hermitage.”
“How?”
“Why, you’ll do it for us, Lovejoy. It’s why we chose you!”
I could have clocked the daft old bat, except she laughed, her complexion younger still. I marvelled. Women’s faces are a miracle. No wonder they spend so much time staring at themselves in mirrors. I always fall head over heels when I paint a woman’s portrait, can’t help it.
“No, love. You’ve got that wrong.” Time I told her the facts of robbery. “There’s only four questions in any burglary – who, when, how, what. Four. You had me abducted from Benjo’s, so I know I’m the who. And the Melissa Today says we’ll spend two days in St Petersburg, so the whole world knows when. That leaves two questions: how and what.”
“What a mistrustful person you are!” She whaled into her tea. I managed to grab a small sandwich, a tooth-filler, before she engulfed the lot. “I tell you it’s all arranged! Think of the jolly celebrations we shall have homeward bound!”
She leant and whispered, “It will be the easiest thing imaginable. Russia is porous. You can bribe anyone to do anything! With your skil
l, the climbing will be simple!”
Okay, so she wouldn’t say how. I pressed on.
“That leaves what. The loot.” I felt unreal, like talking about some child’s midnight feast in the dorm, such a spiffing jape, Hazel. “What do we steal?”
“You and your silly details!”
And she sent me for some more grub. There’s supposed to be this newly discovered set of slimmer’s hormones, isn’t there, that stops you eating. Drug firms intend to synthesise them, so we can all be skeletal. She can’t have produced any. I’d never seen an old bird scoff so much, yet she stayed miniature. She noshed like a stoker frantically raising steam.
We went to the art auction in the Harlequin, a lounge with the inevitable bar and stewardesses trolling for drinks orders. And in there I finally started thinking. One sudden question arose: how come she knew I could climb when doing a robbery? I remembered the crone looking out into the night carrying a Norfolk lantern, me clinging to the wall of a certain mansion house.
In the lounge thirty works of art lay about, two svelte girls wafting among us saying how marvellous the items were. The stuff was dross. Even the frames were gunge. The main lass, a Russian maiden called Irina, assured us she’d worked for impressive European auctioneers. She pointed out a Rembrandt etching, a Picasso engraving, Impressionist works, and prints by everybody. She used the term serigraph every second. Even as a con it was ridiculous. I didn’t guffaw, just manoeuvred Lady Vee into position so she could see.
Somebody waved, Victor Lustig, placing himself across from us. Soon after, Ivy entered but didn’t even glance Victor Lustig’s way, simply sat consulting her catalogue.
Irina (“Everybody say hello to Irina!”) began the auction, describing each offering in saccharine detail. Lauren worked as her assistant, mounting the paintings on stands then replacing them when nobody bid. Irina was embarrassing. She actually muttered in some foreign tongue when the third item died unsold. Victor Lustig at that moment hid a smile. So he knew Russian.
I leant back, relieved I’d found at least one piece of the jigsaw. I’d been floundering, running scared until now, because some pieces were starting to fit. I watched Victor Lustig.
* * *
Every crook or copper who scribes his autobiography “reveals secrets” of how they functioned. It’s an old game. They pretend they’re saying something original. Very few are worth listening to. I always think that unless a crook – forger, thief, conman, trickster, footpad, counterfeiter – has actually pulled off some famous scam, he’s whistling in the wind.
Once upon a time a long time ago, there was a fraudster so famous he was admired the world over. He formulated the infamous and widely published Ten Commandments for Conmen. He was a real bloke, in his day famous as any king.
Victor Lustig sold the Eiffel Tower for scrap. Unbelievably, he duped the gangster Al Capone. He awarded himself the title of Count Victor von Lustig, and swanned about the US in a Rolls driven by a Japanese chauffeur. Arrested forty-eight times, he became a great escaper, using everything from the traditional knotted sheets and drainpipes to threats, bribery and abject confession to get away. Fellow hoods said he was the greatest-ever passer of counterfeit money. A super linguist, our Victor spoke every European language including Russian. He started out by duping rich passengers on cruise liners (a clue here!) and specialised in works of art. He was an expert gambler, cards his speciality. The original Victor Lustig is sadly no more, yet is still famed in legend for his monocled persona and myriad monikers. I couldn’t help thinking that the suave Yank smiling across the auction floor might be proof that heredity actually worked. Grandson, perhaps?
Maybe my expression revealed my thoughts, because he raised his eyebrows in derision when Irina made Lauren walk round showing the small Rembrandt etching. Victor didn’t quite sneer, but came close. Like grandpa, like grandson? I reflected on the man opposite.
These are Lustig’s Ten Commandments for Conmen (he really did call them that). I think they’re a lot better and more explicit than Oscar Wilde’s five rules for confidence tricksters, though Oscar’s aren’t bad. Whichever you prefer, statistics prove that over ninety per cent of us – you and me included – will sooner or later be duped, so they’re worth a minute. Here’s how we’ll lose our shirt:
Listen with patience; no fast talking. Don’t look bored.
Agree with the victim’s politics and religious convictions.
Hint at sex, but be ready to drop it quick.
Never mention illness.
Never ferret personal details – the victim will offer plenty.
Never boast – just exude importance.
Be tidy; be sober.
Count them up, and they make ten. They are the same now as when Count Victor formulated them. He knew what he was talking about. Incidentally, the only significant one Oscar Wilde added was this: smile! Even as I watched, I saw Ivy nod to a stewardess to bring her coffee, and I saw her gaze casually take in the audience and touch on Victor. She did that clever non-smiling smile I’m always on about. He smiled and looked away. Same as me, while Irina tried to talk us all into bidding for a “genuine serigraph” of some crud.
“What are you smiling at?” Lady Vee asked tetchily.
“Nothing,” I told her, narked with myself. See? We can’t do it.
“Yes, Lauren, I think it’s lovely,” she told the girl.
“I’ve seen better oil slicks, love,” I said. Lady Vee tittered and gave Lauren an apology. The lass stalked away in fury.
Delia Oakley came in late with her friend Fern. They sat on lounge seats and sipped tea, making catalogue notes. Unbelievably, they actually bought a watercolour, of four horses approaching along a rainy boulevard, the sort you get by the truck load in Continental flea-markets for half a groat. Delia gave a pleased smile at her success, raising her eyebrows like they do. I wouldn’t be visiting her new antiques business when she finally got it going, that’s for sure. I dozed. Roll on Oslo.
And found myself thinking of strange Middle East tales. In the West we call them suffees, from the word sufi, a wise man. He’s always called Nasruddin, in stories invented to teach students to think. One tale went round in my mind. Every month, Nasruddin crossed a particularly difficult border. Officials stopped him to examine the panniers on his donkeys, and found only three straws in each box. On Nasruddin’s return, the boxes were empty. Next month same thing – three straws per box going in, empty coming back – yet each passing month Nasruddin grew richer. In time he became a wealthy man. The officials took the boxes apart, found nothing. They tested the donkeys’ hooves for gold, found zilch. Years passed. Eventually the officials heard Nasruddin, now aged 100, was dying, and went to ask what on earth he had been smuggling.
Nasruddin, expiring with a smile, whispered, “Donkeys.”
I dreamt of climbing into the Hermitage Museum, after landing from a ship that carried only a load of donkeys. By the time the stupid auction ended, I’d planned my escape by jumping ship in Oslo.
The best ideas come in daydreams.
That evening at dinner, Lauren brought round a Russian ikon. I noshed on, ignoring her prattle (“A genuine Muscovite ikon, completely authentic, fifteenth century…”) She kept pausing, challenging me. I said nothing. It felt dud. No bongs in my chest, so it was fake.
“Well, Lovejoy?” Holly prompted, her gambler’s eyes a-glow. “Aren’t you going to tell us the value?”
I looked up. Quite a drama. The next tables had also fallen quiet, Fern and Delia Oakley trying to look casual with those directional ears women have perfected over aeons. Even the stewards slowed near us.
“No.” A daubed plank has no value.
“He says no,” I heard Ivy say. I was having a hard time with something called pan-fried orange roughy on mushy peas under sauce Robert. I’d not known it was a fish until they brought it.
Lauren exclaimed and flounced off. The table discussed the possible value, while Henry Semper glowered and limped, trying
to exude confidence. A few people stopped as they left early for the first floor show, one bluntly asking me outright if the ikon was genuine.
“Never looked at it, wack,” I said, which was true.
As I left, though, I thought what the hell, and pencilled in another zero for Lauren’s stack of cards, and left.
Delia and Fern were in the corridor where Irina and Lauren had arranged easels and stands displaying their so-called antiques. I love a good laugh. They saw me coming.
“You hate ikons, then?” Delia said.
I wouldn’t have bothered to give the wretched fake a look, except I’d taken to Delia. A woman is worth almost everything, even if she’s only using you to learn, so I paused. Secretly, I didn’t want her to start up yet another antiques shop. The reason our creaking old kingdom is creaking is that it’s littered with dud antiques shops, most of them not worth crossing the road to visit.
“He didn’t even look,” Fern said, scathing. “He’s just taken against Henry Semper the world expert. At least Henry knows what he’s talking about.”
That narked me. She was the antiques dealer, and obviously thought highly of the ikon. I was jumping ship Oslo next morning, leaving them all to it, so what the hell. I could see I’d need to find some reason to prove the ikon’s phoniness.
“Please don’t be annoyed, Lovejoy,” Delia apologised. “Fern specialises in – ”
“What did you say it was worth, Fern?” I asked.
“Eleven thousand.” She was defiant. “That’s the rule for a genuine ikon. Three thousand for each century before 1900. Henry said I was close.”
For the first time I looked at the ikon, pathetic on its stand. It showed the Saviour, gaunt with those stencilled eyes. I saw red and went for it.
“They used cypress wood, a good point. Lime’s as good, but cypress darkens with age. Reddish streaks, close grain, resists insects.”
“See? It’s lovely!” Fern said in triumph. Delia looked wary.
“The sheen’s good. Sniff the painting – no scent of oil, so it’s older than three years. The halo’s real gold. The blue is genuine lapis lazuli.” I had to smile and went on as Fern preened, assuming success.
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