The Judas Pair l-1

by Jonathan Gash

  He was aggrieved at that. Nobody likes their own stuff being recognized for the rubbish it is.

  "We sold some good stuff that day," he said, quick as a flash. "If you hadn't gone to Cumberland you'd know better."

  That explained why I'd missed it. I was beginning to feel better as things clicked into place.

  "Nothing still around from it, is there?" I asked casually.

  He grinned. "Do leave orf, Lovejoy. It was donkeys' years back."

  "Oh, you never know," I said, hinting like mad.

  He shook his head. "No, we played that one straight," he admitted ruefully. "Practically all of it went the same week we got it."

  "Just a thought, Jim. Some things do get left behind occasionally."

  "Pigs might fly," he said.

  I played casual another minute, then collected Sheila and we made it back to the car.

  We pulled out, rolling against protesting traffic to get started.

  "We have one more call to make before home," I told her. "Game?"

  She sighed. "These places always make me feel so grubby. I need a bath."

  "Same here." I shrugged. The motor coughed into eraphysematous life and we were under power. "What's that to do with anything?"

  "Where are we going?"

  "Down the creek."

  "Is it a tip from Tinker?"

  "You guessed, eh?"

  "It was pathetically obvious, Lovejoy."

  "You're making me uneasy."

  And she was. Tinker was loyal, wasn't he? I paid him well by comparison with other dealers' barkers. I never disclosed a confidence. Twice I'd bailed him out. Once I'd rescued him from Old Bill, and once saved him getting done over by the Brighton lads. But you could never tell. Was it this suspicion that was worrying me? Something niggled in my memory, something I had seen.

  We were out of town and down on the estuary in no time. It's not much of a place—four small boatbuilders in corrugated iron sheds, the usual paraphernalia of the pleasure-boating fraternity, and a few boats hauled up on the mud by the wharf. Those big Essex barges used to ply between here and Harwich in the old days, crossing to the Blackwater and even London, but the two that are left are only used for showing tourists the Colne estuary and racing once a year, a put-up job.

  I found Barton planing wood. The lights were on inside his boathouse though outside was still broad daylight. You could see the town-hall clock in the distance some five miles off. I waited until he stopped. Well, what he was making could be a valuable antique in years to come. Never interrupt a craftsman.

  "Hello, Lovejoy." He stopped eventually and nodded to Sheila as we sat on planks.

  "When are you going to give this boat lark up, Dick?" I said. "You could go straight."

  It gave him a grin as he lit his pipe. "Dealing in antiques?"

  "Maybe," I offered. "I'd take you on as a substandard junior partner for a year's salary."

  "I like a proper job," he countered, winking at Sheila. She was quite taken with him.

  "On second thoughts, I couldn't see you standing the pace."

  "Of course," he yakked on, "I can see the attraction. Nothing really matters in antiques, does it? Right or wrong, you get along."

  "It's time for his tablet," I apologized to Sheila. "This feverish air down on the waterside, you understand. His blood's thin."

  "I turn into a man after dark," he said solemnly to Sheila. "If ever you're thinking of ditching this goon, give me a tinkle."

  "Flinters, Dick," I said gently. There was silence. A waterbird made a racket outside and something splashed with horrid brevity.

  "Ah, well," he said.

  These pipe smokers are one up on the rest of us. It might be worth taking up just for the social advantages. If you want a few moments peace, out it comes and you can spin out the whole ritual for as long as you feel inclined. The universe waited breathlessly until his pipe was chugging to his satisfaction.

  "Launched?" I asked. "Better now?"

  "Flinters," he said. "They're a problem, now, aren't they?"

  "You are telling me?"

  "And rare."

  "And desirable. Go on, Dick. And costly."

  "Ah, yes." He stared down the short slipway. "About a month ago I decided which pair I'd keep. I have two Sandwells and the Mortimers. The Mortimers can go, but I want exchange. A revolving rifle, English." Sandwell was an early brass-barrel specialist, lovely stuff.

  "And cash adjustment."

  "Something of the sort."

  "And the Mortimers?" I could feel that old delicious greed swelling in my chest. Magic.

  "Mint," he said.

  "Really mint?"

  "Not a blemish." He'd let his pipe doze. "Cased. Casehardening. I don't think," he said, winking at Sheila, "you'll be disappointed." The understatement of all time. Casehardening. Something scratched again at my memory, worrying me.

  If you keep any metallic object in an unopened case for long enough, it acquires a curious characteristic. If the surface was originally made an acid-protected rust brown, it simply becomes shinier, almost oily in appearance. If previously made a fire-protected shiny blue ("gunmetal" blue), the surface develops an odd mother-of-pearl effect very like the sheen of gasoline on water. This casehardening is an especially desirable feature of anything metal having a protected surface, from coins to weapons. On no account clean it off; you will be doing posterity a cultural favor and yourself a financial one by leaving it intact.

  "Look, Dick." I drew breath and launched. "I can lay my hands on one."

  "Good?"

  "A faulty spring I've not touched. Otherwise mint."

  "Cased?"

  "Come off it."

  "Who by?"

  "Adams, London Bridge. Five-chambered." I photographed it in my mind's eye. "It's beautiful."

  He thought a second in a cloud of smoke. "How would we adjust?"

  "Because you're a close relative," I said, in agony, "I'll pay the difference."

  "Let's settle it tomorrow," he said, and we shook hands.

  Sheila rose. "Is that all that happens?" She seemed peeved.

  "What do you want, blood?" I demanded. I was drenched with sweat, as always. The excitement of the forthcoming deal was brewing in me. Tomorrow, with luck and good judgment and money, I would be in possession of a pair of casehardened flinters made by the most aristocratic and expensive of all the great London makers, Henry Walklate Mortimer.

  "Thanks for coming, Lovejoy." Dick came to the door of his boatshed to see us out. "Still got your steamer, I see."

  "Any more jokes about my motor and the deal's off," I shot back. "At least I've got a license for it. Have you, for that thing?" I pointed to his pipe.

  "Bring your lovely lady again, Lovejoy," he called, and I replied with rudeness.

  He was able to get his own back because my wretched banger refused to start despite all the cranking I could manage. Dick borrowed a trio of amused boatmen to push us off, to a chorus of catcalls and derision.

  "Why don't you put an engine in, Lovejoy?" was Dick's final bellow as we pulled off the wharfside and escaped onto the road up from the village. I didn't reply because I was white-faced and my teeth were chattering.

  "Love?" Sheila asked. "Are you ill?"

  "Shut up," I hissed, foot flat on the accelerator. The needle flickered up to twenty and we pottered slowly upward past the church. It was almost time for lights.

  "What is it?" She tried to pull me around, but I swore and jerked my face away.

  "I've just remembered something."

  "For God's sake, darling—"

  "This bloody stupid car!" I almost screamed the words. "Why the hell don't I get a new one? What's the matter with it?"

  "Darling, pull over to the side and I'll—"

  "Shut up you stupid—" My hands were ice-cold and my scalp prickled with fear.

  "Please, love. I'm frightened. What is it?"

  "That frigging box!"

  "What box?"

 
"That apothecary box! There's something in it. A… a…" The words wouldn't come.

  "The bottles? Drugs?" I shook my head and strove to overtake the village bus, to the driver's annoyance. He hooted and pulled in as we crawled past toward the town. We were up to thirty. "Those little scales?"

  "That other thing."

  "You said it was junk the auctioneers put in to make it look complete. Wasn't it a screwdriver?"

  "It was casehardened!" I snarled. "Who the hell puts a screwdriver away in a felt-lined case to preserve it for a whole bloody century?" I was practically demented, kicking and blaspheming at the decrepit motor, begging it for greater speed. "And its handle was hatched—hatched like a Durs gun. Oh, God almighty, please let them still be open. Please, please, please."

  Sheila grabbed my arm. "Lovejoy, if we see a taxi, flag it down."

  "Yes, yes, yes," I whimpered. "Please send a taxi. Please, please."

  "What time do they close?"

  "Half past five."

  "It's twenty past."

  "The swine will go early. They always do, those bloody attendants, the idle sods."

  We reached the trunk road roundabout by the river bridge at twenty-five past five, and swung left away from the Ipswich road. East Hill was well into lighting-up time as we screeched to a graceful stop outside Seddon's. It was closed and dark.

  "Knock," Sheila said, climbing out.

  "They've gone." I was lost, defeated by the calamity.

  She remained resolute and banged on the main door. I stepped down to join her just as one of the stewards opened the partition. My relief almost made me faint.

  "What the hell—?"

  "Jim," I said weakly. "It's me. Lovejoy."

  "Closed till tomorrow."

  "Not for me you're not." I pulled out a note. "A single question, Jim. Just one."

  He eyed it and nodded. I gave it to him and asked, "The question is, Will you let me find my nail file? I dropped it in the showroom an hour or so back."

  "Gawd." He hesitated. "Mr. St. John has the keys."

  "And so have you, Jim."

  "Well…" he was saying, when Sheila came to the rescue.

  "It's actually my nail file," she broke in. "I was really careless. It's one of a set, you see, in a case."

  "Well, miss, dealers aren't allowed—"

  "I know exactly where it is, Jim," I said, calmer now. "I'll bet you five of those notes I could put my hand on it in three seconds flat." That was a mistake and scared him.

  "Here, Lovejoy," he began, starting to close the door. "I don't want none of your fiddling—"

  "You stay here, Lovejoy," Sheila said chidingly. She stepped into the doorway and turned to push me back. "You're always so abrupt. The gentleman said that dealers weren't allowed in after fixed hours so you'll have to wait here, that's all." On a tide of feminine assurance she swept past Jim, who humbly put the door to. I heard their footsteps recede along the passageway and keys rattle in the showroom door.

  I hung about the sidewalk getting in people's way and generally prowling around for quite five minutes before Sheila reappeared. I was up with her in a flash.

  "Thank you so much," she was saying to old Jim, who was smirking at all his extra gallantry. "I'm so sorry we delayed you. You've been so kind. Good night."

  I honestly tried to grin at Jim, but he wasn't having any from me and banged the door.

  Sheila walked to the car. "I've got it in my handbag," she said, swinging the strap to her other shoulder. "Don't grab, or Jim will see."

  She was really quite smart at that. Old Jim would no doubt be lusting after her as we left. You could see virtually the whole hill from the office. With quivering fingers I set the handle and cranked. We rumbled up the hill and I pulled in by the park railings in town.

  The cars pouring from the car park got in the way of this maneuver. I'm sure they didn't really mind having to stop suddenly. Muriel Field was at the wheel of a gray Rover, but I'd no time for light chitchat. After all, she had no antiques any more. Not like Sheila, who had the device out. I carried it into the lights of the lamps on the war memorial. It was a Durs screw mechanism, the weirdest I'd ever seen, but authentic, star cross-hatched on the handle and casehardened, maybe in all five inches long.

  "I'm afraid I have a confession, Lovejoy," Sheila said, beside me.

  "Eh?"

  "I'm afraid I… I stole it." She pulled away as I tried to embrace her, laughing. "Promise me."

  "What? Anything."

  "You'll pay for it tomorrow."

  "You're off your head."

  "Promise, Lovejoy."

  I sighed at all this whimsey. "I promise." I gave her a rubbery kiss under the memorial's lamp despite the pedestrians. A car's horn sounded. Adrian and Jane sailed past signaling applause. He'd have some witticism ready next time. "Here. You can have the honor of carrying the find home."

  "Is it important, Lovejoy?" I gave it to her and she slipped it into her handbag.

  "Somewhat," I said, beginning to realize. "Somewhat."

  A hurrying mother pulled her gawping child along the pavement to stop it from openly inspecting the couple kissing in the main street. I kept my eye on her as Sheila and I stepped apart to drive home, and sure enough she gave a swift glance back to see how we were managing. Aren't women sly?

  Chapter 9

  I dropped Sheila at the station. She had to go to work, poor lady, on some crummy newspaper. We had a small scene outside.

  "I'll be here on Sunday," she told me, and I nodded. She waited. "Well?"

  "Well what?"

  "Aren't you going to come onto the platform and see me off?"

  "I daren't take my foot off this pedal or she'll never start again today," I explained. "Otherwise I'd come in with you like a shot."

  She came around to my side and kissed me. "You know, Lovejoy," she said, "for the world's greatest antique dealer you're an awful dope."

  "I keep telling you your slang's dated."

  "No use trying to needle me," she said, cool as ever I'd seen her. "You're falling for me, Lovejoy."

  "Look," I said testily. "This accelerator's down to the floor. It's costing the earth in gas just sitting here while you babble—"

  She put her arms around me and hugged me tight. This, note, was about ten in broad daylight, with the paper man grinning and the kiosk lady enjoying the show.

  "I have a secret to tell you, Lovejoy."

  "You're not—?"

  "Certainly not!" She reached under the dashboard in front of me. "Take your foot off the accelerator."

  "I can't. The engine'll cut out."

  "Please."

  I did as she said. Just before the engine coughed to silence she twisted something near the steering rod. The engine muted instantly into a deep, steady thrum.

  She stood back and dusted her hands. "There!"

  I sat mesmerized.

  "Now," she said casually, "care for a spin?"

  "Er—"

  "Push over." She came into the driver's seat and nudged me across. "Let the expert do it, honey," she said kindly, flicked a switch somewhere, and yanked on an angled rod-thing near her knee.

  We took off. My spine nearly slipped from the force. The old Armstrong boomed easily around the station roundabout and Sheila put it onto the hill near the hospital at fifty. We zoomed onto the main A 12 about three minutes later, and Sheila crashed her slickly up into the seventies. Fields and trees flicked by. Wind pulled at my face and her hair streamed out flat against her temples. In a couple of breaths the signs to Kelvedon darted past. I sat in frozen disorientation while all this happened around me. Sheila pulled into the middle lane and did her mystery with the levers. We hummed alongside a column of slower cars, and as she overtook back into the inside the needle wobbled down to seventy. There was hardly a shudder. A couple more millisecs and we were at Witham. She brought us into the station and switched off. The motor breathed a sigh quieting into silence.

  "Tea, guvnor?"


  There was a tea stall within reach. I nodded and climbed shakily down. Let Sheila pay, I thought angrily. We stood in silence slurping tea from cracked cups. Sheila had this strange feminine knack of being able to drink scalding fluids without losing her esophagus. I was quite ten minutes finishing mine. I stared at the Armstrong while I sipped, thought, and wondered. I handed my cup onto the counter with a nod of thanks. The chap on the stall must have thought we'd had a row, because he studiously busied himself picking losers at Cheltenham and left the cup there.

  "Is that what you were doing last night?" I managed to say finally.

  "Yes, love. I'm so sorry." She held my hand.

  "Was it… really obvious?"

  "It was rather, Lovejoy," she said sadly. "A massive car like this, so old, supposedly only one gear, fantastic fuel consumption, no speed to speak of, weak as a kitten, all those gadgets within reach."

  "When did you suspect?"

  "Yesterday, when we were trying to hurry to Seddon's before it closed." She smiled. "It was ridiculous. And everywhere we go other motorists hoot at it, even when you're driving quite well. So, while you got our usual fantastic supper—"

  "What's wrong with my suppers?" I said angrily.

  "Nothing, love," she said quickly. "Nothing at all. Those pies are lovely, and I really look forward to those shop custards. But I had to do something while you, er, got it ready, didn't I?"

  "I thought you were cleaning it," I said bitterly.

  "It wasn't me, really," she pacified. "It was you. I remember you once told me the car was the only time your wretched bell proved itself wrong. That set me thinking. So I turned a few switches and—"

  "Did you know all the time it was special?"

  "No, love. Honestly." I looked askance at her. Sometimes women aren't quite truthful.

  "I think you're lying in your teeth," I said.

  She smiled. "I quite like a lie now and again," she said demurely, and I had to laugh.

  "You know what?" I asked. She shook her head. "I think I'm starting to fall for you."

  She inspected me for a few moments. "About time, Lovejoy," she said. "We're both suffering from malnutrition with those corny dinners you insist on serving up. I'll bring my things on Sunday to stay for as long as we last."