Firefly Gadroon

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘Taking it up regular, Lovejoy?’ Devlin’s beloved voice boomed in my ear, getting a few laughs at my expense. Nobody hates auctioneers like a dealer.

  ‘Maybe.’ I gave the world my sunniest beam. ‘You got a job yet, Devvo?’ A laugh or two my side this time.

  ‘I’ve a bone to pick with you, Lovejoy.’ He loomed closer. He’s a big bloke and never has less than two tame goons hovering behind his elbows. They follow his Rolls everywhere in a family saloon. They were there now, I saw with delight. It’s at times like this that I’m fond of idiocy. It gives you something to hate. ‘That Russian niello silver pendant. You didn’t see my bid.’

  ‘You bid late,’ I said evenly. ‘I’d already gavelled.’

  ‘You bastard. You nelsonned it.’ He meant I’d looked away deliberately – after Nelson’s trick at Copenhagen – another illegal trick auctioneers sometimes use. The place had gone quiet suddenly. People started spacing out round us. Devlin became poisonously hearty. It’s the way every berk of his sort gets. He prodded my chest.

  ‘Don’t do that, please,’ I asked patiently.

  ‘Gentlemen . . .’ Lily pleaded into the sudden silence. ‘I came especially for that pendant, Lovejoy.’ Another prod. Thicker silence.

  I sighed and put my bottle down regretfully. I’ve never really seen that whisky-in-the-face thing they do in cowboy pictures. Maybe one day. Helen moved, white-faced, as if to stand by me but Tinker drifted absently across to block her way, thank God. I didn’t want her getting hurt.

  ‘Ooooh! There’s going to be blood everywhere!’ That squeal could only be Patrick, our quaint – not to say decidedly odd – colleague in from the arcade. He had his latest widow in tow to buy him pink gins from now till closing time. I saw one of Devlin’s goons turn ominously to face the main saloon. The other Neanderthal was grinning, standing beside his master with a hand fumbling in his pocket for his brass knuckles. You can’t help smiling. Imagine chucking your weight about for a living. I despair of us sometimes. Where I come from, nerks like him would starve.

  Good old Devlin dug my sternum again. ‘I reckon you owe me a few quid, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Don’t do that, please,’ I said again. ‘Last warning, lads.’

  The Neanderthal mimicked me in a falsetto. ‘Don’t do that, please.’ He laughed. ‘Shivering, Jimmie?’ A Glaswegian, if I wasn’t mistaken. He reached out to prod me so I kneed him and broke his nose with my forehead as he doubled with a shrill gasp. He rocked blindly back, clutching himself, blood spattered across his cheeks and mouth. You can’t blame him. It doesn’t half hurt.

  ‘You were saying, Devvo?’ I said, but he’d backed away. His other goon glanced doubtfully from Devlin to me and then to his groaning mate. ‘Look, girls,’ I said, still pleasant. ‘No fuss, eh? The auction’s over with. And everybody knows you’re too stupid to handle antique Russian silver, Devvo.’

  I was honestly trying to cool it but for some reason he went berserk and took a swing at me. A table went over and some glasses nearby smashed. I snapped his left middle finger to stop him. It’s easily done, but you must make sure to bend it rapidly back and upwards away from the palm – keep the finger in line with the forearm or it won’t break, and you’ll be left just holding the enemy’s hand politely and feeling a fool. Devvo’s face drained and he froze with the sudden pain.

  ‘Well, comrade?’ I was saying affably to the third nerk when the crowd abruptly lost interest and filtered away back to the booze. Sure enough, there he stood in the doorway, shrewdly sussing the scene out, the Old Bill we all know and love. Neat, polite, smoking a respectable pipe, thoroughly detestable.

  ‘You again, Lovejoy?’

  ‘Thank heaven you’ve come, Inspector!’ I cried with relief, hoping I wasn’t overacting, because Maslow’s a suspicious old sod. ‘I’ve just separated these two.’

  ‘Oh?’ Sarcasm with it, I observed, and a uniformed constable in the doorway behind him.

  ‘Some disagreement over an antique, Inspector, I believe,’ I said smoothly, staring right into his piggy eyes with my clear innocent gaze. ‘This man set upon Mr Devlin—’

  Maslow asked, ‘True, Lily?’ She reddened and frantically started to polish a glass.

  ‘Aye, Mr Maslow,’ Tinker croaked. ‘I seed it all, just like Lovejoy says.’ With his record that took courage.

  Maslow swung on Tinker and pointed his pipe. ‘Silence from you, Dill.’

  ‘Perhaps I can help, Inspector.’ Helen lit a cigarette, head back and casual. ‘Lovejoy merely went to try to help Mr Devlin.’

  ‘Are you positive, miss?’ He sounded disappointed but kept his eyes on me. I blinked, all innocence.

  She shrugged eloquently. ‘Difficult to see clearly. It’s so crowded.’

  ‘Very well.’ He jerked a thumb at Devvo’s goons. ‘Outside, you two.’

  ‘Here, boss,’ the uninjured nerk complained to Devlin in a panic. ‘He’s taking us in.’

  ‘Be quiet.’ Devlin was still clutching his swelling hand, pale as Belleek porcelain. ‘I’ll follow you down.’

  Maslow turned to give me a long low stare as the heavies went out. He leant closer. ‘One day, Lovejoy,’ he breathed. ‘One day.’

  I went all offended. ‘Surely, Inspector, you don’t think—’

  Maslow slammed out. Patrick shrilled, ‘Ooooh! That Lovejoy! Isn’t he absolutely awful?’

  A relieved babble began. Devlin left for hospital a moment later, the constable delightedly piloting the Rolls. From the pub window I watched them go.

  ‘Hear that, Tinker?’ I demanded indignantly. ‘Maslow didn’t believe me.’

  ‘Yon grouser’s a swine,’ Tinker agreed. Grouser’s slang for an aggressive CID man.

  ‘All clear, Lovejoy?’ Lemuel ferreted between us and clawed my bottle out of my hand. His eyes swivelled nervously as he downed it in one.

  ‘One day I’ll get a bloody drink in here,’ I grumbled, ordering replacements.

  Lemuel wiped his mouth on his tattered sleeve.

  ‘That’s an omen,’ he croaked excitedly. ‘Blood Drinker, tomorrow’s two o’clock race at—’ It was becoming one of those days. I put my fist under Lemuel’s nose. ‘Ah,’ he said, hastily remembering. ‘That bint. I found her, Tinker.’

  I glanced about, making sure we weren’t being overheard, and met Helen’s eyes along the bar. She raised her eyebrows in mute interrogation. Don Musgrave and his two barkers were with her. Don’s antique pewter and English glass, and does a beano among tourists on North Hill. He’s been after Helen for four years, but he’s the kind of bumbling bear type of bloke that only makes women smile. Anyway, he hates cigarettes and Helen even smokes in bed. I gave her a brief nod of thanks and turned back towards the yeasty pong of my two sleuths. Owing women makes me edgy. They tend to cash in.

  ‘Any chance of a bleedin’ drink?’ Lemuel croaked. ‘I had to run like a frigging two-year-old.’

  Irritably I shoved my latest pint at the old rogue. He absorbed it like an amoeba.

  ‘She’s a souper,’ he said at last, wheezing and coughing froth at me. I tried not to inhale but being anaerobic’s hard.

  ‘Eh?’ That couldn’t be right.

  ‘Straight up.’ Lemuel nudged Tinker for support. ‘I was right, Tinker.’

  ‘Souper?’ I couldn’t believe it. Anybody less like your actual starry-eyed social worker was hard to imagine than that luscious leg-crosser. She’d seemed hard as nails.

  ‘I got money from her for my auntie’s bad back.’

  ‘Which auntie?’ I demanded suspiciously, knowing him. He grinned through anaemic gums.

  ‘Got none.’ He and Tinker fell about cackling at this evidence that the Chancellor too can be conned with the best of them. I banged Lemuel’s back to stop the old lunatic from choking. All this hilarity was getting me down. Tinker spotted my exasperation as Lemuel’s cyanosis faded into his normal puce.

  ‘The Soup’s down Headgate, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Here.’ I
slipped Tinker three quid. That left me just enough for two pasties, my nosh for the day. ‘Tell Helen I’ll see her in the White Hart, tennish tonight.’

  ‘Good luck, Lovejoy.’ Tinker made his filthy mittens into suggestive bulbs. This witticism set the two old scroungers falling about some more. I slammed angrily out into the wet.

  Chapter 2

  The rain had stopped but town had filled up with people. I cut past the ruined abbey and across the Hole-in-the-Wall pub yard. Our town has a gruesome history which practically every street name reminds you of. Like I mean Head Gate isn’t so called because it was our chief gateway in ancient days. I’d better not explain further because the spikes are still there, embedded in the ancient cement. The heads are missing nowadays. You get the message.

  I hurried through St Peter’s graveyard, envying the exquisite clock as it chimed the hour. These big church clocks you see on towers are almost invariably ‘London-made’ early nineteenth century, which actually means Lancashire made and London assembled. You can’t help thinking what valuable antiques these venerable church timepieces are, so casually unprotected on our old buildings. The thought honestly never crossed my mind, but don’t blame me if one dark night some hungry antique dealer comes stealing through the graveyard with climbing boots and a crowbar . . . I trotted guiltily on, out into the main street among the shoppers, towards the social security dump.

  You may think I was going to a lot of trouble over a modern bamboo box, and you’d be right. I wouldn’t cross the road for a hundred as a gift. But for a genuine eighteenth-century Japanese bamboo firefly cage I’ll go to a great deal of bother indeed.

  A question burned in my brain: if scores of grasping citizens and greedy antique dealers can’t recognize an oiran’s – star courtesan – firefly cage, then how come this bird can? And she had bid for it with a single-minded determination a dealer like me loves and admires – except when I want the item too. Of course I was mad as hell with the sexy woman, but puzzled as much as anything. I don’t like odd things happening in the world of antiques. You can’t blame me. It’s the only world I have, and I’m entitled to stability.

  You can’t miss the Soup. Our civil servants have naturally commandeered the finest old house in Cross Wyre Street, a beautiful fifteenth-century shouldered house where real people should be living. I eyed it with displeasure as I crossed the road. The maniacs had probably knocked out a trillion walls inside there, true to the destructive instincts of their kind. The smoke-filled waiting room held a dozen dishevelled occupants. I went to the desk that somebody had tried to label ‘Enquiries’ but spelled it wrong. This plump blonde was doing her nails.

  ‘Yes?’ She deigned to look up – not to say down – at me. I peered through a footage of sequinned spectacle trying to spot her eyes. I’m a great believer in contact.

  ‘A young lady, one of your soupers – er, dole workers—’

  She swelled angrily. ‘Not dole! Elitist terminologies are utterly defunct. Sociology does advance, you know.’

  First I’d heard of it. Elitist only means greedy and everybody’s that. I’d more sense than to argue, and beamed, ‘You’re so right. I actually called because one of your, er . . .’

  ‘Workers for the socially disadvantaged,’ she prompted. One of the layabouts on the benches snickered, turned it into a cough.

  I went all earnest. ‘Er, quite. She dropped her purse at the auction an hour ago.’

  ‘How kind.’ The blonde smiled. ‘Shall I take it?’

  ‘Well, I feel responsible,’ I said soulfully.

  ‘I quite understand.’ She went all misty at this proof that humanity was good deep down. ‘I think I know who you mean. Maud Endacott.’

  The bird hadn’t looked at all like a Maud. The receptionist started phoning so I went to wait with the rest. George Clegg had just got in from the auction, and offered me a socially disadvantaged cigar. I accepted because I can’t afford to smoke them often and tucked it away for after. He’s a vannie, mover of furniture for us dealers. He labours – not too strong a term – for Jill who has a place in the antiques arcade in town. Jill too is a great believer in contact. She’s mainly early mechanical toys, manuscripts, dress-items and men. Any order. George leant confidentially towards me, chuckling.

  ‘That tart frogged you, eh, Lovejoy?’

  I shrugged. He meant that she’d got what I wanted, which is one way of putting it. ‘Don’t know who you mean.’ George was shrewder than I’d always supposed.

  The phone dinged. ‘Maud will see you now,’ the receptionist announced, still Lady Bountiful. First names to prove nobody was patronizing anyone.

  I gave her one of my looks in passing. She gave me one of hers. I leant on her counter.

  ‘I wish I was socially disadvantaged,’ I told her softly. She did the woman’s trick of carefully not smiling. I waved to George and climbed the narrow stairs looking for the name on the door.

  Sure enough the bird’s room was crammed with radiators. I sat to wait, smouldering. The bloody fools had drilled the lovely ancient panelling full of holes for phone cables. Mind you, it was probably only oversight that had stopped our cack-handed town council flattening the lot into a carpark. I rose humbly as the bird entered. I noticed her stylish feminine clothes were now replaced by gungey tattered jeans and a dirty tee shirt. Back to the uniform, I supposed. She too was being humble – until she spotted who I was. Her concern dropped like a cloak.

  ‘Oh. It’s you.’ She turned and slammed the door. ‘I bought that box quite legally, so—’

  ‘I know.’ I thought, box? You don’t call a precious antique firefly cage a box. Unless, that is, you don’t know what the hell it is. Odderer and odderer.

  ‘Then what are you here for?’ She sat, legs and all. I watched her do her stuff with a gold lighter and cancer sticks. No offer of a cigarette, but she blew the carcinogens about for both of us to share.

  Meekly I began, ‘Er, I wondered about the box . . . Her eyes were unrelenting stone, but it’s always worth a go. I smiled desperately like the creep I am. ‘I’m trying to make up a set,’ I lied bravely. ‘An auctioneer isn’t allowed to bid for himself, you see.’

  ‘And you want to buy it off me?’ She shook her head even as I nodded. ‘No, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Perhaps a small profit . . .’

  She crossed to pose by the window, cool as ice. ‘I’ve heard about you, Lovejoy. The dealers were talking.’

  ‘They were?’ I said uneasily, feeling my brightness dwindle.

  ‘If you want something it must be valuable.’ She sounded surprised. ‘Is it?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Another lie. I gave as casual a shrug as I could manage, but my mind was demanding: Then why the hell has she paid so much? You can’t do much with an antique firefly cage except keep fireflies in it.

  ‘They say you’re a . . . a divvie.’ Oho. My heart sank. Here we go, I sighed to myself. She inhaled a trickle of smoke from her lips. Everything this bird did began to look like a sexy trick.

  No use pretending now. ‘That’s my business.’ I got up and headed for the door.

  ‘Is it true, that you can tell genuine antiques just by feeling, intuition?’

  I paused. Failure made me irritable. ‘Why not? Women are supposed to do it all the time.’

  She stared me up and down. I felt for sale.

  ‘Then why are you in such a state?’ she asked with calm insolence. ‘Just look at you, Lovejoy. A skill like that should make you a fortune. But you’re threadbare. You look as if you’ve not eaten for a week. You’re shabbier than the layabouts we get here.’

  I swallowed hard but kept control. Never let the sociologists grind you down, I always say. ‘It’s taxes to pay your wage, Maudie,’ I cracked back and left, closing the door gently to prolong its life.

  I was halfway down the stairs when this harridan slammed out and yelled angrily after me from the landing. ‘Lovejoy!’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘You’ve tur
ned the central heating off, Lovejoy! It’s freezing.’

  You have to be patient with these lunatics. ‘Your door’s the only one on the staircase that’s original eighteenth-century English oak,’ I said tiredly. ‘Heat’ll warp it. The others are Japanese or American oak copies and don’t matter. Think of it,’ I added nastily, ‘as socially disadvantaged.’

  ‘You’re insane,’ she fumed down at me.

  For a moment I was tempted to explain about the rare and precious beauty in which she worked so blindly each day. About the brilliant madrigalist who once lived here, and of his passionate lifelong love-affair with the Lady of the Sealands. Of the delectable ancient Collyweston stone-slated roof, unique in these parts, which covered the place. Of the fact that the cellar was still floored by the genuine Roman mosaic and tiles of the oyster shop nearly twenty centuries old. Then I gave up. There’s no telling some folks.

  ‘Cheers, Maudie,’ I said, and left it at that.

  Downstairs George Clegg was whining at the grille for his handout as I passed the main room. If he’d got a move on I could have cadged a lift home in his new Lotus.

  Pausing only to see if the Regency wrought-iron door plates were still securely screwed in – regrettably they were – I stepped boldly out on to the crowded pavement and saw Devlin and his two berks getting into their Rolls outside the police station at the end of the street. Devvo’s hand was all strapped up. He saw me and paused, glaring. He ignored my wave.

  Oh, well. Anyway, it was time for my lesson.

  Chapter 3

  Buses to my village run about every hour, if there’s not much on telly in their drivers’ hut at the bus station. I waited uselessly by the post office over an hour, finally getting a lift in Jacko’s rackety old coal van. There’s no passenger seat. You just rattle about like a pea in a drum and slither nastily forwards every time he zooms to a stop. Jacko’s an ancient reformed alcoholic who fancies himself as a singer so you have to listen to gravelly renderings from light opera while he drives. He can’t drive too well, just swings the wheel in the vague hope of guessing the van’s direction. He dropped me off on the main road. The van stank to high heaven of bad cabbage.