Conman

by Richard Asplin

  “Neil?”

  “There are … Jesus, it seems we’ve shaken up sleeping geeks all over the place. Hundreds of … God, everyone’s gone nuts …”

  I opened a random message. marvelsux@btyahoo.

  Superfan36 – I saw that no-one bid for your Action Comic. If you want a quick cash sale, I am willing to offer $500.

  Five hundred? Christ, he was hopeful wasn’t he? I clicked another excitedly. Green.Lantern24@aol.co.uk

  R U genuine?? If so, I want 2 talk. Will pay BIG for this. If fake – how you get?

  “-eil? You there old man?” Andrew crackled. “My batt-’s -unning low?”

  “I’m here, I’m here. Christopher has to be one of these, he has to be.” My eyes scanned down the sea of senders’ addresses, despair elbowing hope aside as I reached the bottom. None of the names were familiar. “God, if he’s posing as a geeky collector trying to get my attention with an offer, he’s done it too bloody well.”

  Unoriginal collector’s name after unoriginal collector’s name scrolled past. Five madbuffyfan@s, four look.whose.tolkien@s, three nerdforwindows@s, both peterparker14@ and peterparker72@ and my particular favourite dickgraysonscodpiece@aol.com.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to find him …”

  “-ou got –em listed alpha … ry oing it by –”

  “Hello?” Andrew was breaking up. “Hello?” Nothing. What was he saying? Change the listing? How was that going to help? I looked across the top of the file. A click and they were relisted by title. No good, as they all called themselves RE: Action Comic. Another click and they arrived by –

  Shit!

  “That’s it! Benno, that’s it!” I yelped as loudly as I dared. Lana stirred behind me with a rustle of cotton and a gurgle. The page had all the enquiries now listed chronologically. I scanned down the times they were sent.

  One at 16:58. One at 17:07. Then nothing until 17:44.

  I clicked on the 17:07.

  From a gregoryfitzgerald@maurandfits.com

  Maurandfits?

  Gives it that little bit of credibility. Gets one’s brogues in the door …

  Of course.

  Re: Action Comics #1.

  Dear superfan63, here at Maurer & Fitzgerald we have over 45 years’ experience in the valuation, insurance and agenting service of a wide range of vintage collectables, from art to autographs, cartoon to costumes. Our web-search service has flagged that you have an item unsold on eBay that we may be able to offer you assistance with. We have worked in the past with the original pieces by among others Stan Lee, Steve Ditko, Bob Kane and Siegel & Shuster and we guarantee a swift and professional valuation, grading, insurance and sales service which will put you in touch with collectors in the Far East and USA …

  And on it went. Gush gush, fawn fawn, slurpy licky please sir.

  There was a link to the Maurer & Fitzgerald website but – oh what a surprise – it was temporarily offline.

  “-eil?”

  “It’s all right,” I said down the dying line. “Benno, it’s all right. He’s here. We’ve got him. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “-eil?”

  “Hello? Andrew?”

  He’d gone.

  That was fine. News this good could wait until Monday.

  I hung up and sat back, heart thumping in the darkness.

  “Neil?” Jane called from the bedroom.

  “Be right there,” I hissed.

  Son of a bitch. Gazing at the screen, I felt a fresh, rising venom. Rage, bubbling, building. Somewhere, Christopher was sitting – notebook at his elbow, pocket-watch in his waistcoat, pipe in his gob and my daughter’s trust fund in his wallet – thinking he was reeling in another sucker.

  I gritted my teeth hard until my gums began to ache.

  Another sucker?

  Oh not this time, buddy.

  Not this time.

  eighteen

  The job of adding conservatories and slapping magnolia about the financial districts of the world was clearly a well-paid one, if the brass and marble of Andrew’s London office was anything to go by. And from the rough manner with which Andrew grabbed my elbow and led me stumbling away two days later, it was an image Keatings didn’t wish to have tarnished by a nail-bitten man in battered trainers and three-day stubble.

  “We’ll have to be quick old chap,” Andrew said, as the throng of employees hurried past us for ciggies and sarnies. “The golf yesterday paid off.”

  “O’Shea?”

  “Holborn chaps and I spent bloody eighteen holes giving him the schpeil – investment opportunity, developing post-code, all the usual guff. Bugger me if he isn’t up there now with the London sales manager going over the plans and plotting his turf. Quick sarnie?”

  Hurrying across the beep-beep of taxi traffic, we pushed into a sweaty sandwich shop, bell jingling. The small space was jostled with harried legal secretaries all comparing low fat engagement rings.

  “Personally,” Andrew went on, “I think it was down to the old fellah’s fluky birdie on the fourteenth, but for share options, a Long Island holiday home and a corner office overlooking the park, I’ll happily take the credit. So hey, c’mon,” his eyes flashed, “what developments with eBay?”

  I produced the print-out of Christopher’s email from my satchel. Andrew scanned it quickly.

  “Maurer & Fitzgerald?”

  “They’re a front. Fake valuations. Just a name on a letterhead to get his foot in the door.

  “Yes ma fren’?” the burly sandwich maker hollered from behind his counter. Andrew ordered baguettes and teas.

  “Jane all right?” Andrew said, wading through the usual mints, matches and lighters before finding his wallet.

  “Daddy called from Brighton,” I said. The usual guilty worms slid about my kidneys.

  “Earl whassit?”

  “I was in the nursery so I only caught half. Same old thing though. Me not being quite the son-in-law he’d have wished for, does Lana have everything she needs, don’t forget to call his damned financial advisors. Dufford, Chandler and whatever.”

  “Lebrecht? Jeepers old man, you’re in the big leagues. Cheers then,” he nodded to the café owner and, sandwiches bagged, we squeezed back onto the gritty honk of the street, plastic tea lids scalding our fingers.“How long have you got before she calls them?” Andrew said. He tore off a waddy mouthful of bread.

  “Jane? Who knows. The whole thing could be out of the fucking bag by now. The whole thing …” and my mind thudded, spinning and spiralling with confusion and regret.

  “Come on then old man,” Andrew chewed. “Focus. You’ve worked with these men. What’s our next move?”

  “Now? Christ. I … I guess we’ve got to make contact. Show him the pot of gold.”

  “Righty ho, skip,” and Andrew rested his cup on the top of a plastic bin, shoved his sandwich under a pinstriped arm and fished his hands-free kit from his suit pocket. “What do I say?”

  “God I don’t know, I haven’t …” and I paced a little, popping the top of my tea carefully. “I guess take him … take him up on his offer? You have a valuable comic book, he’s in insurance and valuation. Suggest you get together to talk.”

  Andrew began to dial out with his thumb quickly, reading the number from the email.

  “Be … y’know, be careful though,” I said, jittery.

  “Hello? Hello Mr Fitzgerald?” Andrew said. He looked up at me.

  My palms went cold, breath held tight in my chest. His phone crackled.

  “My name is …” Andrew suddenly stopped, eyes wide.

  Shit. We’d never stopped to give our superfan36 a real name.

  “Uhm, sorry. My name is Mr … Mayo,” he said, catching a look at the baguette leaking down his suit. “I received an email from you yesterday regarding an item I was auctioning on eBay … Action Comics, right … What exactly does your firm do … ?”

  It was unbearable. I turned and walked away a few steps, chewing the inside of m
y cheek. Around me, the lunchtime world bustled busily on its way. Newspaper vendors, black cabs, secretaries, all single minded and oblivious, in their own worlds of holiday plans and low-fat meal deals. I lapped at my sweet, watery tea, letting the scalding sip slap some sense into me.

  I turned around. Andrew was finishing up it seemed, nodding. It hadn’t taken long. He was arranging something.

  “Japan? I see … Well I suppose …” and he waved me over frantically. “Yes, as long as it doesn’t put you to any … No no, that’s splendid. Six o’clock. Excellent, see you then,” and he thumbed the line closed.

  “Six o’clock?” I skittered.

  “My word,” Andrew said with a sigh, popping out the earpiece. “He can talk can’t he? Indeedy dumplings? What the bloody hell’s that?”

  “That’s him,” I said. “What’s six o’clock?”

  “An early dinner,” and Andrew tugged out his red spiral notebook, jotting the details. “Our Mr Fitzgerald is apparently flying out to Japan to see a big client of his tonight. A Mr Cheng?”

  “Cheng?” I spat. “Slimy …”

  “But he’s eager to see me before he goes. Very excited about my item he is, very excited. Suggests I meet him at their offices on Aldersgate.”

  “Right. Except he doesn’t have offices. It’s just a front. To make it sound above board. Y’know, swing by the office old chap. Put you at your ease.”

  “And when I arrive … ?”

  “He won’t let you. My guess is that he’ll call you back at the last minute and say it’s being painted or fumigated or some such and suggest elsewhere.”

  “Well either way, that’s what he said. Six pm, Aldersgate, with the item in question.”

  “With – ? No. Ohhh, no no no.”

  “He wants to take a look at its condition.”

  “No. No way,” I said. “You tell him it’s locked away. Vacuum-sealed. I’m not letting it out in the open. I’m certainly not letting him spill soup all over it in some restaurant.”

  “But Neil, this is the pot of gold. This is the bait. The hook, the lure. How else is it going to work?”

  Fear writhed and wormed, eating away at my insides. The world was slipping. I was losing grip. The weight taking me over the edge.

  Andrew was talking.

  “What?” I said, moving from foot to foot with a jitter.

  “I said it’s only going to work as a trap my old stick, if he thinks he can get his hands on it. And calm down. Look at you. It’s simple. We wave it under his nose this evening, all innocent, get him drooling –”

  “Drool – ? He’s not drooling on it. You keep it in the dark, wrapped, sealed in its airtight case the whole time. Christ, and check the lighting. I can’t have it exposed to –”

  “It’ll only be for a second. Relax. Just enough to let him get the old whiff,” Andrew said. He checked his watch. “I better be getting back. O’Shea will be climbing the walls. Can you get it by six? Where is it kept? Neil?”

  “Christ,” I sighed, knees loose, tasting bitter nausea and nerves in my mouth. I pictured the fragile, crumbling pages on a tablecloth. Being slid towards Christopher’s delicate fingers, his cufflinks twinkling.

  I didn’t like this.

  I didn’t like this at all.

  An hour later I came to realise that whichever firm of nineteenth-century architects had been behind Andrew’s offices in St Paul’s, they’d clearly only actually got a surly work-experience girl to doodle something half-heartedly on the back of an envelope while leafing through the latest Dickens. The real drawing-board bigwigs were clearly busy upstairs sharpening their T-Squares and letting loose with polished marble and white stone, working on the blueprints for No. 3 Ravensgate, a grand building in the heart of the financial district. Inside, among the high ceilings, a home was made for hushed staff, leather blotters and fat Mont Blanc fountain pens that didn’t need chaining to the counters as it took about three large men to lift the lids off the fucking things.

  I sat squirming in a fat, farty Hyde Wing chair in the quiet lobby while the girl on the front desk took my ID and fetched someone who could look after me. My trainers squeaked and echoed loudly, causing aged bankers to peer over their pince-nez at me from time to time. I offered back a small wave limply and tried to stop sweating.

  Andrew had scurried back to his office, ramming a baguette into his face, pinstripes flapping in the wind while I’d descended down to the tube to catch the Central Line a few stops east. I had three hours in which to pick up the comic book and get back to Andrew’s office for a rehearsal before we headed over to Aldersgate. Plenty of time, as long as I didn’t stop to chat. Not that there was any danger of meeting anyone I –”

  “Mr Martin? It is isn’t it? Good lord.”

  Some polished brogues appeared in my sightline. I looked up, passing the regulation navy pinstripes, pink shirt and old school tie. Above two or three portly chins, a round, ruddy, forty-year-old face greeted me under a thinning bouffant of greying hair.

  “Er, yes?” I said.

  “Greg Dufford,” he boomed, holding out a pink, pudgy hand for pumping. I duly pumped it, standing up slowly. “Thought it was you, and there it is. Recognised you from your photograph. You and Jane are up in Ted’s study. Well, look at that.”

  “Hi,” I said. “So you’re … sorry?”

  “Dufford. Chandler Dufford Lebrecht. We look after Ted’s assets. Offices just round the corner. Funnily enough, I spoke to Ted this morning,” and he began to flap in his jacket pocket. “He spoke to your wife and called me to put something in the diary …”

  Shit.

  “Ted was keen to get us all together last week, have a look at your finances, but … Here we go.” Greg had a slim pocket diary open, busy with times and names in a flourishy blue-black hand. “How’s tonight? I’m pretty crammed but your wife said you’d be free in the evening? Around seven? Just to go over a few things. It’s the business books I understand? And the trust for your daughter?”

  “Tonight? Uhmm …”

  “Ted’s back from the coast tomorrow of course and between you and me I think he was hoping we’d have sorted you out by then.” He flipped his diary pages back and forth.

  “Well, I-I mean if you wanted to wait until next week?” I said. “Rather than putting you out … ?”

  “Ha. Shilly-shallying m’boy?” Greg boomed in a passable Edward impersonation. “Best not. No, it’s fine,” and he slapped his dairy closed, tucking it away. “Tonight at seven. I’ll tell Ted it’s all sorted. I know what he’s like. Anyway, I should shoot off.” He shook my clammy hand gruffly once again. “What brings you here anyway?”

  “Mr Martin?” A young woman in a short suit and glasses appeared at Greg’s elbow, handing me back my identification. “Do excuse me. That’s all fine. If you’d like to follow me downstairs?”

  “Down – ?” Greg said. “Of course! The old wedding gift eh? Having the annual gander? We put Ted in touch with this place for security. Top drawer facilities they’ve got down there. A lot of the big West End galleries use them. Air tight, moisture control, all the biz. Anyway, I’ll get out of your way. Until tonight then.”

  Greg pumped my hand heartily for the third time because he seemed to be that sort of fellow and then he left. I followed the bank clerk across the spacious hall towards the lifts, rubbing some feeling back into my knuckles and calculating the amount of hours I had before my life fell apart.

  As clearly wrong as Greg was about shoulder and knuckle maintenance however, he was certainly spot on about the basement facilities.

  Popular thinking goes that the primary reason for the escalating value of your Supermans and Batmans and suchlike-mans is the fact that they are – or at least used to be – designed to be disposable. Read once and thrown away. Low-quality ink, cheap paper, flimsy staples, if a grubby fingered urchin back in the thirties could get all the way through the wham-bam story without it falling to pieces, its job was done. They were never meant
to last, which is why the ones that have are worth the immoral sums they are.

  A solid enough theory I suppose. But it leads one inevitably, (if one has too much time on one’s hands in the afternoon and nothing else to occupy one’s mind while one scoops sopping mulch into the tenth leaking bin-bag of the day) to wonder why then aging dishcloths and toilet paper aren’t similarly priced. They too are old, mass produced and not built to last.

  The Martin Theory, named after some handsome comic-collector, is this: comic books are what the aging, white, middle-class multi-millionaires of today grew up on and their collectablity is purely to do with their desire to recapture their youth. If women made up the majority of millionaires, high streets would be full of Retro-Doll-Marts and Rare-Bear-Ariums.

  This is neither there nor here of course. For whatever reason, vintage comic books in pristine condition are big bucks and keeping them that way is a complex and expensive business.

  The bank clerk silently led me through a number of double doors and down in an oak-panelled lift. She was silent, I mean. I was whittering on like an idiot, trying too hard to appear relaxed and calm. The doors opened with a soft ding and I was taken down a long, chilly corridor to a basement room. The bank clerk keyed a number into a bleepy entry pad and pushed the heavy doors open with a suck and a hiss of escaping air.

  The room was half-lit and hummed with chilly air-conditioning, thermometers and dials running along the wall. We moved quietly, the clerk’s heels clicking, her skirt rustling with static. The body of the room was made up of wide open metal shelving, holding heavy picture frames, canvases, boards and portfolios, all wrapped in soft pale sheeting and tagged with labels of ownership. My business, however, was along the furthest side of the room where a couple of hundred cold, dull deposit boxes ran wall to wall.

  The clerk handed me a small key and showed me to my box, tugging out a flat sliding tray from beneath the metal door where I could rest the contents. Clammy handed, heart thumping, I slipped in the key, turned it twice and slid out the metal box with a teeth-edging scrape, resting it upon the tray. Opening the lid, I reached in and pulled out an A4-sized black velvet wallet, throwing a quick look above me at the soft humming bulbs.