The Judas Pair l-1

by Jonathan Gash

  She smiled. "Keep plugging that attitude. Genuine?"

  "Does it matter?" I said. "Any forger who does something so intricate deserves every groat he gets." I felt them. "Yes, all good."

  "I thought you'd been neglecting me till I heard, Lovejoy." She brought tea over despite my refusal.

  "No matter now." I took the Victorian Derby cup as a mark of friendship because her tea's notorious. "All over."

  She sat facing. People outside in the arcade must have thought we were a set of large bookends for sale.

  "Give, Lovejoy."

  "Eh?"

  "I've one thing you've not got, darling," she said in a way I didn't like. "Patience. What are you up to?"

  "I'm going to find the bastard. And I'm going to finish him."

  "You can't, Lovejoy." God help me, she was crying. There she sat, sipping her rotten tea with tears rolling onto her cheeks. "It'll be the end of you too."

  "Cheap at the price, love."

  "Leave it to the police."

  "They're quite content with matters as they are." My bitterness began to show. "It's much more dramatic to rush about with sirens wailing than slogging quietly after the chap on foot."

  "They know what to do—"

  "But they don't do it." I pulled away as she reached a hand toward me. "I've no grouse with anybody, love. I just want help." Two people staring in turned quickly away at the sight of our tense faces.

  "Supposing you do find him. Why not just turn him in?"

  I had to laugh, almost. "And endure months or years of questions while he wheedles his way out?"

  "But that's what law is for," she cried.

  "I don't want law, nor justice," I said. "From me he'll get his just deserts, like in the books. I want what's fair."

  "Please, Lovejoy."

  "Please, Lovejoy," I mimicked in savage falsetto. "You're asking me to let him off with seven years in a cushy jail thoughtfully provided by the taxpayers? No. I'm going to spread his head on the nearest wall and giggle when it splashes."

  She flapped her hands on her lap. "We used to be so…"

  "Things have changed."

  "You'll get yourself killed. Whoever it is must have heard you're spreading word about fancy Durs duelers. It's the talk of the trade. Half of them already think you're balmy." Good news.

  "There's one person who knows I'm serious, love." I was actually grinning. "I'm going to needle and nudge till he has to come for me." I rose and replaced her cup safely.

  "All right, Lovejoy." She was resigned. "Anything I can do?"

  "Spread the word yourself. Tell people. Make promises. Invent. Tell people how strange I've become." I kissed her forehead. "And your tea's still lousy."

  I phoned George Field from the kiosk. He agreed to send an advert to the trade journal whose address I gave him:

  REWARD

  A substantial reward will be paid by the undermentioned for information leading to the specific location (not necessarily the successful purchase) of the Durs flintlock weapons known to the antique trade as the Judas Pair.

  I thought, Let's all come clean. He gasped at the sum mentioned but agreed when I said I'd waive any costs. I insisted he put his name and address to the notice, not mine, because he was in all day and I wasn't.

  I called in at the cottage and then drove to see Major Lister, happy as a pig in muck. By the weekend the murderer would know I was raising stink and getting close, and he'd start sweating. Don't believe that revenge isn't sweet. It's beautiful, pure, unflawed pleasure. He was losing sleep already because I had the little Durs gadget. I slept the sleep of the just. My revenge had begun.

  Major Lister turned out to be a fussy disappointment, a stocky, balding, talkative, twinkly chap who wouldn't hurt a fly. His vast house was full of miscellaneous children. Everybody there, including three women who seemed to be permanent residents, was smiling.

  "I'll bet you're Lovejoy" were his first words to me. "Come and see my fuchsias." He drew me away from the front door toward a greenhouse, calling back into the house, "We'll have rum and ginger with the fuchsias."

  "I like your system," I said. The nearest child, a toddler licking a dopey hedgehog clean in the hallway, cried out the rum message hardly missing a lick. The cry was taken up like on the Alps throughout the house until it faded into silence. A moment later a return cry approached and the hedgehog aficionado shouted after us, "Rum on its way, Dad."

  "They like the system, not I." He twinkled again and began talking to his plants, saying hello and so on. A right nutter here, I thought. He chattered to each plant, nodding away and generally giving out encouragement.

  Well, it's not really my scene, a load of sticks in dirt in pots. He evidently thought they were marvelous, but there wasn't an antique anything from one end of the greenhouse to the other that I could see. A waste of time. His sticks had different names.

  "Same as birds, eh?" I said, getting to the point. "Identical, but each one's supposed to be distinct, is that the idea?"

  "I see you're no gardener."

  "Of course I am."

  "What do you grow?"

  "Grass, trees, and bushes."

  "What sorts?"

  "Oh, green," I told him. "Leaves and all that."

  "Yes." He twinkled as a little girl entered carrying two glasses of rum yellowed by ginger. "Yes, you're Lovejoy all right."

  "Seen me at auctions, I expect, eh?"

  "No. Heard about your famous Braithwaite car."

  "Braithwaite?"

  He saw the shock in my eyes and sat me on a trestle. The little girl wanted to stay and sat on the trestle with me.

  "Herbert Braithwaite, maker of experimental petrol engines early this century. Some o.h.v. cycles. Yours must be the only one extant. Didn't you know?"

  "No. Well, almost."

  "Drink up, lad." He settled himself and let me get breath. "Now, Lovejoy, what's all this word about a pair of Durs guns?"

  I told him part of the story but omitted Sheila's death and the turnkey.

  "And you came here, why?"

  "You were at the Field sale."

  "And Watson got the Bible pistol. Yes, I recollect." He took the little girl on his lap and gave her a sip of his rum. "Fierce man is Watson. One of those collectors you can't avoid."

  "The Field sale," I persisted.

  "Nothing very special for me, I'm afraid. Naturally," he added candidly, "if you're trying me for size as a suspect, ask yourself if I would dare risk this orphanage."

  "Orphanage?" It hadn't struck me.

  "I don't breed quite this effectively," he chided, laughing so much the little girl laughed too, and finally so did I.

  "You saw Watson there?"

  "Certainly. He'll be not far from here now, if indeed he's in one of his whirlwind buying sprees."

  My heart caught. I put the glass down. "Near here?"

  "Why, yes. Aren't you on your way there too? The Medway showrooms at Maltan Lees. It's about eleven miles…"

  I left as politely and casually as I could. Nice chap, Major Lister. I mentally filed him away as I moved toward the village of Maltan Lees: Major Lister (retd.): collector flck dllrs; orphanage; plants; clean hedgehogs.

  Then I remembered I'd not finished my rum. Never mind, that little girl could have it when she'd finished his.

  Four o'clock, Maltan Lees, and the auctioneer in the plywood hall gasping for his tea. I had no difficulty finding the place, from the cars nearby. They were slogging through the remaining lots with fifty to go. The end of an auction is always the best, excitement coming with value. By then the main mob of bidders has gone and only the dealers and die-hard collectors are left to ogle the valuables. Medway's seemed to have sold miscellaneous furniture, including bicycles, mangles, a piano, and household sundries, leaving a few carpets, some pottery, a collection of books, and some paintings, one of which, a genuine Fielding watercolor, gave me a chime or two.

  I milled about near the back peering at odd bits of junk.
The auctioneer, a florid glassy sort, was trying unsuccessfully to increase bids by "accidentally" jumping increments, a common trick you shouldn't let them get away with at a charity shout. Among this load of cynics he didn't stand a chance. Twice he was stopped and fetched back, miserably compelled to start again and once having to withdraw an item, to my amusement. Another trick they have is inventing a nonexistent bidder, nodding as if they've been signaled a bid, then looking keenly to where the genuine bidder's bravely soldiering away. Of course, they can only get away with it if the bidder's really involved, all worked up. Therefore in an auction keep calm, keep looking, keep listening, and above all keep as still as you can. You don't want anybody else knowing who's bidding, do you? If you can do it with a flick of an eyebrow, use just that. Don't worry, the chap on the podium'll see you. A single muscle twitch is like a flag day when money's involved. Where was I?

  You've only to stay mum and patterns emerge in a crowd. The old firms were there—Jane, Adrian, Brad, Harry, and Dandy Jack—and some collectors I knew—the Reverend La-grange, the Mrs. Ellison from the antique shop where I'd bought the coin tokens while returning from the bird sanctuary, Dick Barton, among others.

  A handful of traveling dealers had descended on lucky Mal-tan Lees. They smoked and talked noisily, moving about to disturb the general calm and occasionally calling across to each other, full of apparent good humor but in reality creating confusion. It's called "circusing," and is done to intimidate locals like us. They move from town to town, a happy band of brothers.

  I watched a while. One of the traveling dealers paused near me.

  " 'Ere," he growled. "Are you 'ere for the paintings or not?" I gave him my two-watt beam free of charge. "I said," he repeated ferociously, "are you 'ere for the paintings?"

  "Piss off, comrade," I raised my smile a watt. He rocked back and stared in astonishment at me before he recovered.

  "You what?"

  "Where I come from," I informed him loudly, "you circus chaps'd starve."

  "Clever dick."

  He barged past me, tripping over my foot and ending up among assorted chairs. His pals silenced.

  I laughed aloud, nodding genially in their direction, and stepped toward their fallen companion. "Sorry," I apologized, because my foot had accidentally alighted on his hand. He cursed and tried to rise, but my knee had accidentally jerked into his groin, so he stayed down politely. I get annoyed with people sometimes, but I think I'd been a bit worse lately. I bent down and whispered, "Me and my mates got done for manslaughter in Liverpool—twice—so go gently with us, wacker. We're fragile."

  "No harm meant, mate," he said.

  As I say, a lie works wonders. I stepped away, embarrassed because people were watching. The auctioneer had kept going to keep the peace, and some fortunate chap got his missus a wardrobe for a song. It's an ill wind.

  I settled down near the bookcases and all went gaily on. I fancy the auctioneer was rather pleased with my little diversion. I saw Adrian applaud silently and Jane nod approval. I noticed Brian Watson after another twenty minutes and knew instantly who he was.

  Some blokes have this chameleonlike ability, don't they? My mate in the army was typical of the sort. The rest of us had only to breathe in deep for all the grenades on earth to come hurtling our way, but Tom, a great Cheshire bloke the size of a tram, could walk on stilts for all the notice the enemy took of him. It was the same everywhere. I've even seen blokes come into pubs, stand next to Tom, and say, "Anybody seen Tom?"

  Brian Watson was standing a few feet away, virtually unseen. He stood there watching, quiet, listening, and I knew instantly he was as fully aware of me as I was of him. A careful chap, the sort you had to be careful of. I instinctively felt his capabilities. A real collector. If he starved to death he'd still collect. You know the sort. No matter what setbacks come, they weather them and plow on. I honestly admire their resilience. It's a bit unnerving, if you ask me, too straightforward for my liking.

  I bought a catalogue. Now Harry and the rest were quite explicable in terms of attendance at any auction, virtually no matter what was on offer. But Watson? Every piece he had was known to me, apart from some I only suspected, bought by concealed postal bid but quite in the Watson pattern. A buyer not a seller. He very rarely sold anything, and when he did it was only to buy bigger still. A cool resilient man. Moreover, one who was now observing me with his collector's antennae.

  All of which, I thought as the auctioneer chattered on, raised one central question: If everybody else was here with good reason, what good reason did Brian Watson have? There was nothing to interest him. I scanned the remaining lots but failed to find the answer. He was a pure flint man, never deviating into the mundaner fields of prints, pottery, and portabilia, which to my dismay seemed all that was left. There was no choice but to wait and see.

  It came to lot 239, the small collection of portabilia. Watson was in character, waiting with the skill of an old hand until the bidding showed signs of ending, then he nodded gently and off we went. We, because I was in too, all common sense to the winds. People gradually became aware of the contest. You could have heard a pin drop.

  While the bidding rose I racked my brains, wondering what the hell could be in the portabilia that could be so vital to Watson. On and on we went, him against me. Everyone else dropped out. Portabilia are small instruments made especially for carrying about. They included in this instance a sovereign balance for testing gold coins, a common folding flintlock pistol by Lacy of Regency London's Royal Exchange, a tin box with a tiny candle, a collapsible pipe, a folding compass, a folding sundial, a diminutive snuff horn, and other minutiae. It wasn't bad, but you couldn't pay twice their value in open auction and keep sane. I saw Adrian hide his face in his hands as we forged inexorably on; and Jane, cool Jane, shook her head in my direction with a rueful smile. Many people crossed to the cabinet to see what they'd missed. Still we drove the price upward until my calculations caught up with me and I stopped abruptly, white-hot and practically blind from impotent rage at missing them.

  "Going… going… gone. Watson. Now to lot two-forty," the pleased auctioneer intoned.

  I went outside to wait for Watson and, partly, to avoid the others.

  Jane followed me out. "Better now, Lovejoy?" She had style, this woman with the smile that meant all sorts of business.

  "No."

  "What's it all about?"

  "I don't know what you mean."

  We crossed the road and sat near the window in the cafe opposite the auction rooms. She ordered tea and faced me across the daffodils. "Aren't you making a fool of yourself?"

  "No."

  "You're like a child without its toffee apple." She irritated me with her bloody calm dispassionate air and I said so. "I heard about Sheila," she went on. "Do you think it's what she'd want you to be doing, going to pieces like this?"

  "I'm not going to pieces." I wouldn't give in to this smarmy woman who couldn't mind her own business.

  "You look like it, Lovejoy." She should have been a teacher. "We're all worried about you, everybody. Your business'll go downhill next. Look at you. You haven't shaved, you're… soiled-looking."

  That really hurt, because I'm not like that. I looked away in a temper because she was right. "Somebody killed her—the same character who killed Eric Field."

  Another of her famous appraisals came my way. "Are you serious?"

  I gave her an appraisal back. "You know I am."

  "By God, Lovejoy," she breathed, "what are you up to? You're not seriously thinking—"

  "I am."

  "You don't think Watson—?"

  "I'm not sure." The tea came. "He's a Durs collector, a clever one. I've eliminated most of the rest one way and another. It could be a dealer, of course, or somebody I don't know about, but I must try to follow the leads I've got."

  "Was he at the Field sale you've been on about?"

  "Yes."

  "He may have nothing to do with it."


  "And again," I said coldly, "he may."

  For the next few minutes Jane quizzed me. I told her the whole story including the turnkey bit while she listened intently.

  "Have you anything practical to go on?" she demanded. "So you found a posh screwdriver—big deal."

  "Yes," I said after a minute, "there is something."

  "What?"

  "God knows." A few people drifted out of the doors across the way. It would end in five minutes. "I couldn't sleep last night for worrying. The answer's been given me, here in my hand, and for the life of me I can't think what makes me think so. I'd know who it is, but the bits of my mind won't connect."

  "From Seddon's?"

  "I feel helpless. I just can't think."

  "Give it up, Lovejoy." She was less forbidding than I remembered. "It'll ruin you."

  "I might." And I almost believed me, except that Watson came out of the auctioneer's that instant. I was up and out into the road darting between cars before I knew where I was.

  He waited, casually looking through the window at a set of old seaside lantern slides that had gone dirt cheap. There's quite a market for them nowadays. It was decimalization that did it.

  "Mr. Watson." We stood together, me somewhat breathless and aggressive, him a little reserved.

  "Mr. Lovejoy."

  "Right."

  He smiled hesitantly. "I admired your, er, act with the circus crowd."

  "Thanks."

  "Could I ask"—I nodded and he went on—"er, if you, er, were very keen to have that group of portabilia?"

  "No," I snapped.

  "I thought not. May I ask then why you bid?"

  "Never mind me, comrade," I said roughly. "Why did you?"

  He was astonished. "Me? They belonged to my father."

  "Eh?" I was saying as Jane strolled up.

  "My brother put them up for sale," he explained, "somewhat against my wishes. Why do you want to know?"

  "Well done, Lovejoy," Jane said sarcastically.

  "Keep out of it," I said. "Why did you go to the Field sale?"