'Suddenly decided you're soft in the head. If you'd an ounce of drive you'd charm that mahogany apothecary box-off me quick as a wink. But you give up, once you see I mean to save its life. Soft as putty. You don't stand an earthly with women these days.'
She started dicing some meat. I rose in a hurry. You can only take so much carnage. I'm all for soya bean. The silly old sod laughed, holding her sides.
'Well, it's raw,' I said feebly.
'Of course it's raw, silly! It's not cooked, so it's raw. When it's cooked, it's not raw.'
Her laughter receded as I made the safety of the hallway. I could hear Wanda's mob organising the items, covering them with dust sheets. I found Sonny.
'That Aussie girl. You see her?'
T think so, Lovejoy.' He was checking lists. 'Lovely bit of crumpet. You know her?'
'No. Odd that she homed in on some pricey toy and lammed off through the bundu, though, eh?'
'Made herself a tidy fortune,' Sonny said sarcastically. 'That a clue?'
'Why here, though?'
'Because it was today.' He paused, penny finally dropping.
'Among others, Sonny. Big, easy pickings, sure. But would this have been the biggest local auction? Not by a long chalk. There's three. One today, over at Holt.'
'Dealers go where it's easiest. The bigger the stately home the greater the profit. She'd go for the simplest, right?'
He still wasn't quite there. I helped.
'See, Sonny? You knew all that straight off. But would a girl fresh off the boat? A lone teenager, new into lipstick, roaming the countryside?'
'Teenager, was she?' Sonny said evenly, eyes hard.
Oops. 'The way Jim described her. See my problem?'
'No, Lovejoy.' He was cool. Wanda's girls stopped working to listen, Wimbledon style, heads switching side to side. T see one single problem. You came in out of the blue and raised the game here. Why? It makes me wonder if you aren't the problem, not some stray tart whizzing through.'
That's where logic gets you, nowhere. I shrugged, accepted defeat, and went to look at the grounds. Briony found me.
'Lovejoy.' Stern, facing perdition. 'Those policemen weren't true policemen at all, were they?'
'Special constables, love,' I lied. 'Security firms have their own uniforms. Wanda hires them.' The uniforms were from theatrical costumiers.
'Oh, that's all right then.' She hesitated. 'Did you hear about Jim's car accident? One of Mrs. Curthouse's men drove him to hospital.'
More lies were called for. 'Jim'll be fine. I talked to him. He was worried nobody would feed his pet dog.'
'Really? Will they?' I gazed blankly at her. She explained, 'Feed his dog?'
'Oh, yes.' I improvised. 'A labrador spaniel.'
'A what?'
I grew impatient. What right had she to cross-question me for heaven's sake? It's no wonder she narked me. 'I'm off to Norwich, love. Where's the bus stop?'
'Three miles off. The bus comes tomorrow.'
Odder still. I thought of a girl carrying a three-foot-long metal model. I'd looked at the kitchen garden from Mrs. Treadwell's domain. Beyond, fields, grazing herds, woods, a river. Now no bus.
'Love, would you let me use your phone, please? And I need a lift to Norwich.'
Spoolie arrived at the railway station buffet as it got dark, full of grumbles. I cut him short. I was knackered.
'Lovejoy. I've come a million miles.'
He meant sixty; I'd put a threatening message on his answer-phone. First thing he did was walk round looking at film adverts. I watched. He's just seeing if the posters are nickworthy. He runs The Ghool Spool, a small antique shop between two tottering pubs in Mistley. Movie ephemera, stars' autographs, starlets hair-bands, old newsreels.
'Nothing much here,' he groused, going to ask the counter lady if he could filch a couple of her posters.
There were very few passengers about at this hour, sipping tea, waiting for trains. Spoolie had that look, a typical ex-con with a mission—to get the whole world hooked on the film industry. I know for a fact that he's been trying to buy the 'H' from that Hollywood sign in California. His wife left him, annoyed when his obsession took priority. Now, Spoolie had known that Chessmate told me about the Thornelthwaite auction—and was worried sick when I'd been slow to arrive, Florsston said.
'Here.' I shelled out a little gelt. 'That's your lost trade, Spoolie. Business good?'
'Good?' he growled, splashing tea into his saucer, an old prison trick, to drink up fast before somebody else gets it. 'It's terrible. I went into feminism. Hopeless. Not worth a light.'
That startled me. 'Feminism?'
'All the rage, believe magazines.' He tapped the Formica. 'How many movie titles start with Woman, Lovejoy? Forty-seven, compared to one hundred and fifty-three that start with Man. See what I mean? And Mrs. and Mister are as bad— thirteen to fifty-nine. Princess titles outnumber Prince titles, half as many again. Frigging movie business.'
‘I know.' I thought of poor Nanook, that genuine Eskimo who'd starred in Nanook of the North, 1921. When the documentary achieved mega status, the news media gleefully beat a path to Nanook's igloo to announce his sensational world fame and endless riches—to find that Nanook had starved to death in the ice. The movie makers had simply forgotten him. Once they'd used him and made fortunes out of him, of course. For them, a movie success story. To me, I think it's creepy.
'Tell me where a German tin toy'd turn up, Spoolie. Made for an old war film. Mint.'
'Tin model?' He quivered, a huntsman's pointer. Acting that he'd not known of it at all, of course.
Only giving him the bare bones, I told him about the Lepanto. He moaned so loud I had to kick him under the table.
'Every collector's dream, Lovejoy. Two catches, see?' A catch is a mob of collectors interested in a particular antique. 'Models are so in you wouldn't believe. The movie manics would compete. Oooh.'
Another kick shut him up. I hate over-acting. I'd got his point. 'Who'll it go to, Spoolie?' I had to follow the trail he was to lay.
He licked his lips. 'A deal, Lovejoy. I'll promise a hundred thousand, from a collector I know. We'll split fifty-fifty, okay?'
'Spoolie.' I went sad, genuine. 'I haven't got the model. But sure as God grows trees the toy'll turn up in forty-eight hours. Pure cash sale, highest loot on the nail. Where, though?' We waited. I said, 'I'll ring you every few hours, night or day, Spoolie. Be there. I don't want to be chatting to a recording as hoodlums batter my door down.'
My manner—fright mixed with anger—got through.
'What's in it for me, Lovejoy?'
'Maybe the odd letter, photos perhaps. Copy of some old war picture.'
'Let's have your phone number, Lovejoy,' he said, pulling out a pencil stub, but by then I'd gone. Some folk think you were born yesterday.
The missing girl Vyna was not far ahead. I was learning. She knew me better than I her, but I was close. She must have been at Thornelthwaite, seen me spot the valuable item. She was cannily fast, and had accomplices. Somebody had paid Spoolie—supposedly scouring for film relics—to keep watch for my arrival. So Spoolie knew the backers, if not the scam. Chessmate probably knew much less.
In a way it was quite exciting, now feeling the hunter instead of the hunted. When I caught up with Vyna, she was in for a piece of my mind. But where had she gone?
Tinker. I'd have to contact the old soak, my one reference point. I got a taxi back to Briony's. In the dark it looked like something from the Baskervilles. Luckily Briony was up, and Mrs. Treadwell for once wasn't sawing up the corpses of massacred creatures. She'd made a vegetable curry.
'And you got the rice right!' I said, whaling in.
'He's nothing but trouble, this one,' Mrs. Treadwell told Briony. 'Likely to get worse.'
'She's trying to marry us off, Briony,' I said. 'Watch her. Haven't you proper bread, Treadwell?'
The old lady clipped my ear. She'd made a lovely batch of flour cakes and loaves,
still warm. She sat to watch me eat, as if seeing me gorge somehow filled her. I was full afterwards, first time for days. I told Mrs. Treadwell she was learning, and told Briony to take her on the staff. We bickered. Then Mrs. Treadwell got reminiscing, the old days when there were cinema parties for London folk at the mansion and all was gaiety. Film folk were such nice people. Aye, I thought, listening dozily, tell Nanook's ghost.
19
It comes down to money,' I told Briony Finch next morning, getting ready to go, and I was explaining what would happen. The day dawned cold, bright.
'It shouldn't,' Briony said, wistful.
'Nothing should,' Mrs. Treadwell said. 'More, Lovejoy?'
She'd chopped coddled eggs up in a cup. I'd thought the art had died out when I was little.
'Ta. Look, Wanda will empty Thornelthwaite. They'll give you a list—furniture, everything down to the last cufflink. Don't worry,' I put in quickly as Briony made to interrupt. 'Wanda is trustworthy. I've said she can shell five per cent.'
'Shell?'
'Steal from the accounts,' I explained patiently. 'Anything more, I'll be cross. Bertie, her numbers man, will render the sale figures two days before the auction.' I grinned, pleased. 'Auctions don't usually end so neatly!'
They looked. 'End?' Briony gave Mrs. Treadwell a glance, comparing bafflement. 'Sale figures before the auction?'
'Of course.' I sighed. 'It's called a jumper—no, love,' I interposed as they drew breath, 'a jumper auction. Wanda'll give the summary to you, because I'm going. You can have it checked. It gives prices a bad name.' Translating every inch was giving me a headache. 'Here. An example.'
The small wooden case I took out was walnut, banded, very like some homemade cigarette case, 'C.C marked on the outside. You wouldn't give it half a glance. I opened it. A tiny abacus lay within, polished ebony beads on metal rods.
Mrs. Treadwell accused, 'That's Mrs. Kate's knitting counter. Why isn't it with the other things?'
'Because it's valuable, love.' I opened my palms, like a conjuror about to con the public by his Positively no deception! 'Positively no deception. Antiques give money a bad name, and vicky versy. I lifted this from the living-room to stop it being stolen. They were nicking everything not nailed down. In future, lock up every small thing. They are the first things that strangers steal.'
Briony cried, 'But it would look as if we didn't trust people!'
'Isn't it terrible?' I said, dry.
'Valuable?' Briony was curious.
'It's two years' rent on a shop, love. Clockmakers Company of London.' On the inside of the case was pasted a paper, instructions in old copperplate. 'The maker's name will be somewhere. Take it.'
'Why didn't you steal it, Lovejoy?' Briony asked. 'Bertie said you were a cheap thief. Who,' she added nervously, 'kills people.' She went lamely on, 'Please don't think I'm being critical.'
'Jealousy, love. They're all like that.'
'It's being psychic,' Mrs. Treadwell said comfortably. 'People are jealous.'
'Will you shut your tripe!' I yelled, losing my rag. 'Stop batting your gums, you silly old trout! Psychery's quackery!'
'Your eggs, Lovejoy.' Unabashed, she plonked a cup in front of me. 'Don't feel bad about your third eye. Just take care.'
See? Women and children take not a blind bit of notice. Some blokes I know can frighten people with a glance. Me, women just shake their heads smiling. Nothing I can do, except pretend they're thick. I addressed Briony.
'Wanda knows I have a notion of what your furniture and movables should bring. She'll give you a list, with money totalled, before the auction. Post-dated, see?'
'No, dear.'
Headaches have no business coming. It's not fair.
'Can you imagine any better guarantee,' I said, eyes closed, 'than reporting that this made a thousand quid before it'd been sold?' I patted her hand, the one with the abacus. It must date from our Great Civil War period, if not earlier. It had broken my heart to hand it back. But Briony Finch, would-be proprietress of the kingdom's Number One fish-and-chip shop, would have been a lamb to the slaughter. And I'd got back on Wanda's good side, assuming.
'Guarantee?'
'It's Wanda's written promise, love. That she'll obtain at least those prices for you. Anything above, Wanda splits fifty-fifty with you. Anything less, Wanda will have to make up.'
'Jumper sale.' Briony repeated it, learning.
'That's it. Not many antique dealers will do one.'
'They might lose a lot of money?'
'Got it! Mrs. Treadwell? Have you any bread organised?' I didn't smile. She came with a mound of cut bread and butter, touched my head like she forgave me.
'Wanda,' Briony said. 'Why so willing to take risks, for me?'
'They'll make a fortune, love.' I noshed fast. I hate being asked for my motives. Motives can't explain murder or honesty.
'Or lose heavily, Lovejoy?' Briony said slowly.
'That's their business. I can't help inefficiency.' Quickly I made sandwiches of what I hadn't finished, and bussed the pair of them. 'See you. Better get on. I'll phone.'
'Lovejoy.' Briony came with me. Mrs. Treadwell stood watching. I made the top of the front balustrade, but I'd guessed right. A police car was coming in the gate. I drew back. 'Won't you stay until it's all done with?'
'No, ta, love. I wasn't here, okay?'
Her mind clicked into gear. Her eyes widened. 'You want me to lie to the police?'
'Aye, love. I'm in trouble if you don't.' I scooted out of the kitchen door, past Mrs. Treadwell, bared across the walled garden and into the field beyond.
There was an ancient trackway between hedgerows. After a furlong, it opened into a lane. Marks in mud showed where a motor had waited one drizzly day.
After ten minutes of plodding, I got a lift from a horse-drawn cart. For seven miles the driver narrated the problems of cattle feed. I went, 'Mmrnmh,' because where's the difficulty? Cows eat grass. I've seen them at it, fini.
The city hadn't changed much, but I had. I phoned Roger Boxgrove, reported semi-truths to his answer-phone. I'd been hoodwinked too long. I was sick of being mucked about. I suppose losing the abacus did it, but I wanted to kill somebody for treating me like a fool.
‘Spoolie?'
He was edgy, his voice squeaking high. ‘Lovejoy?’
"Me, Spoolie.' Should I ask cryptically if he was being hounded, or what? But not only Wanda has technology. We might be bugged. 'Any news? I'm in a hurry.' I opted for falsehood, the way one does. I'm after a different antique, er . . .' I invented, rollercoaster, 'I don't want to waste any more time on that model.'
'Honest?’ Then he gasped. My worried mind noticed that he reacted with eagerness to my fantastic lie then gasped. As if he'd been reminded by a blow.
'Aye, Spoolie.'
Silence. Somebody'd cupped the receiver. He came on, panicky casual.
'Lovejoy? The Maerklin model's in Brum. I know where she took it. Meet you there?'
'Why can't you tell me now, Spoolie-''
'The vendor's shrewd, Lovejoy. Won't let me say.' heart was banging. Poor Spoolie.
'Tonight, Lovejoy? Station?' The line went dead. Then, 'Not the International Centre one, the other. Tennish?'
'Okay, Spoolie.' Sickened, I put the phone down. I almost said farewell. I hadn't told Spoolie the maker's name, but somebody else had. And he couldn't find a Maerklin with a map.
I phoned Briony Finch, told her I'd ring from Birmingham station after ten o'clock. Then I gulped my egg butties, grumbling because there were only three. Birmingham, ten o'clock on a cold frosty night? Some hopes, Spoolie, I thought. I needed a car. I went and bought some cheese rolls, hoping they weren't sogged to extinction with mayonnaise. I got a taxi to take me to Sleek's village. Seven miles, and thirteen quid. Is it any wonder nobody goes to Norfolk?
She was pretty. Grief filled my heart. Everybody's got a gorgeous bird but me. I smiled, hoping I'd done my teeth.
'Hello!' I said. 'Mr.
Sleek in? Sorry I'm late.'
'He isn't back. Have you an appointment?'
Appointment? To see a card sharp? God Almighty. You'll need an appointment to go to the loo next.
'Yes. His motor. Rejuvenation time again!' I was poisonously jovial. I'd have liked to have been sincere with her, but I was scared Sleekie would hove up. 'The new car wax is in! We have it ready at the . . .' Christ, what was a car polisher's garage called? I invented, 'At Car Cosmetics, Inc. The wax starts going off after thirty minutes. Can I have the keys, please? The usual place?'
'You came by taxi.' She was doubtful. 'From a garage?'
That narked me. Why women don't trust anybody is beyond me. As if they're on the lookout for deception. Here I was, a hard-working car restorer, come all the way to this one-dog hamlet just to polish her bloke's motor, and she mistrusts me. How did saints manage?
'Even I can't drive two cars at once!' I laughed merrily, but could have strangled her. Would you believe it, but still she stood there, doubting away.
'Sleekie's very particular . . .'
'Of course!' I said soberly. 'Security is everything with these old Braithwaites. Did he see to the hand throttle?' I frowned accusingly. Women love to deny an accusation, clear themselves.
Her brow cleared. I knew its name. 'Oh, he's always out there!'
'Good, good.' I smiled, glanced at her quaint little floral village, a scene of stuporous dullness. 'Sleekie has all the luck. Lovely cottage, lovely motor, and beautiful . . .' I tried to blush, but they never come when you want. ‘I only wish I was half so lucky.'
No ring on her finger. She followed me, noting my look.
'I've still a chance!' We laughed a merry laugh. 'Will you be here when I return the car, er . . . ?'
'Ruby.' She undid the garage padlock, swung back one leaf of the door and darted inside, tapped some alarm control. The gleaming roadster was in racing green. 'It's . . . ?'
Oh, hell. 'Me?' I paused to look into her eyes. How do blokes like Sleekie, an aging card sharp, get birds like Ruby? I'm loyal, sincere, straight as a die, and on my tod. 'I'm Jig,' I said. 'Pleased to meet you, Ruby.'
The Possessions of a Lady Page 15
