The Very Last Gambado

by Jonathan Gash

  “In a black assault suit with a kid’s toy gun?”

  “Able to tell us how to snatch precious antiques convincingly, Lovejoy. Any idiot can jemmy displays off a wall.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It matters, idiot. Authenticity wins Oscars. Lack of credibility loses them.”

  “Couldn’t I just show the actors how and let them get on with it?”

  She sighed. "We’re so frigging dicey, financewise, half a day’s shooting can push us off the wire.”

  “You know, love. All that action—cameras, crew, cops-and- robbers stories—it makes you think, eh?” I felt her stiffen. Her hand had reached for me. Now it stilled.

  “You, you mean? Pull a real robbery?”

  “No, not really. Honest, no. But you can’t help thinking, can you?”

  “Stupid, stupid Lovejoy.” Her hand resumed its steady work. She shivered—once—and murmured as the inevitable happened. “More warmth, Lovejoy?”

  You don’t get to be proud of everything, I find. People say contracts haven’t hearts, and they’re right. But more and more I find myself simply doing as women say. It came to me that I was committed to obeying Lorane. The darkness clasped us anew. In the last second before reflex ruled, that same old thought nagged: Ben Clayton still hadn’t come, but Lorane had. Why?

  Ecstasy and out.

  Before she left next morning I asked when I could next see her. She smiled at that, tugging on her long boots.

  “You want to? In this doss house?”

  “It’s the only place I’ve got.”

  She came close. “For you, Lovejoy, okay, while the going’s good. You’ll shoot the scenes?”

  “Aye. Anything you say.”

  “And what is it Miss Prim’s got that I can’t spell?”

  “Nowt, love.” I smiled most sincerely. “Truly truly.” I could lose her in sincerity, any day of the week.

  rsnrn

  WM'

  r*w. it

  H

  ONEST, John. It’s the truth. I’ve no idea.”

  Dejected and scared, I sat in his motor confessing ineptitude and failed compliance. Both hanging offenses. We were in a farmyard near Saxmundham, too far from civilization for my liking. The place had a look of dereliction, no hens, dogs, people. The fields seemed to be growing nothing, the trees dejected. Countryside at its ghastly worst. Two carloads of the Sheehan mob seethed nearby, ominously bored.

  “You’re sure Ben Clayton’s financing this Meese?”

  “I believe it, John. Clayton’s scraped his kitty to raise the gelt.” “Just to make a picture?” He made it sound outlandish. “Some folk do, John.”

  "And they’re going to rob the British Museum.” His statement, my responsibility.

  A dry swallow. “I think so, John.”

  "What of?”

  "Maybe the Armenian collection. I dunno.” I shrugged, staring out through the windscreen. Is there anything more desolate than an empty farmhouse? “That's what the film story calls for.” “But you said they’re filming it in a Wembley studio, using bodged replicas.”

  “That’s what they say, John.”

  "And the balloonists?”

  “They’ll be filmed mostly in the studio, with mock-ups on a London University building.”

  "Glory be.” Big John shook his head, amazed. “Will it look real, then?”

  "They say so. Confident.”

  “You’ve done a wander, Lovejoy?"

  I sighed, nodding. “John, I could walk the British Museum blindfold, in the dark, and not knock over a single pot. I just can’t see how they’ll pull it off.” His laconic glance told me he was having me watched.

  “Kick that thin lassie out of your sleeping bag, Lovejoy. You’ll sleep the sounder.”

  “And no Ben Clayton, John. No Seg.”

  “Teh,” he tutted. “That’s a strangie, Lovejoy. ’Deed it is.” “Right.” I spoke with feeling. “He should be breathing fire and slaughter, demanding proof I didn’t nick that Russian silver from his exhibition.”

  “Maybe he’s heard from the peelers you’ve an alibi?”

  “That wouldn’t stop him. He’d do me over from habit.” “True, Lovejoy.” He pondered, curious. “Can the museum be done, Lovejoy?”

  “Honest?” I shook my head. "Impossible, I reckon. Oh, I could nip in and out any time you like. But so what? So does any nonagenarian taking his ten great-grandchildren on a cultural outing.”

  “Know what’s worrying me, Lovejoy? Robbing the British Museum’s the biggie. It’s the one great remaining scam. It’s Everest, the Lost Continent, the original moon walk, rolled into one. Been tried a million times, never been done. It’s the big gambado. Whoever pulls it off is a legend, Lovejoy. The Topkapi rip’ll look like a Woolworth shoplift.” Meese had said that. John’s gaze turned thoughtful. "I’d not appreciate Ben Clayton and a bunch of camera clickers becoming everybody’s heroes, Lovejoy."

  His hailstone eyes said I’d catch it if that happened. I took a minute to answer.

  "John. Honest to God, I’ll do what I can—”

  “Shush.” I shushed obediently while he whistled “Lil- labulero” through his teeth. A minute passed. Two. Four. “Lovejoy,” he resumed, drumming his fingers. "If you were trying the museum, and couldn’t suss it yourself, who would you get?”

  "A moler? Well. That Sunderland bloke did a good job for the Dulwich scam.”

  “Name of Andy? He’s inside.”

  No arguing with Sheehan’s knowledge of recent events regarding jails. “Well, there’s Footer. Getting on a bit, but sound as a bell. Does security advice for shops in Southampton. Or Ankles Benedict—she uses her cousin’s baby. Then you might try—” "One name, Lovejoy. Not a roll call.”

  “Footer, then. But he’s gone expensive—”

  “Lovejoy!” Sheehan said quietly. I shut up. “Tell Dutch to hire Footer. Then send him to Spain for a month. Immediate.”

  I drew breath, finally decided not to speak, and got out of the motor to transmit Sheehan’s orders to Dutch, a fatty in the first saloon. The sun brings old Footer out in a terrible rash. Spain would be hell, but that was his problem.

  Maybe there was a clue in the bus.

  The bus was untouched, as far as I could make out from a distant glance from the hospital road. There aren’t many ruins left, but St. Michael’s must have been a grand Gothic church once, to judge from the size of its mounds. People have stolen stones over the centuries, and now only kids play there and the odd badger doing its silly gamboling. Nobody about, not even a twitcher—birdwatchers are always a problem. I'd chosen St. Michael’s because no houses overlook it. You can just see the railway in the distance.

  Nobody along. I opened the cab, climbed in. Nothing touched. I sniffed the air. Nil. Reassured, I had a go but failed to enter the bus itself. That was clever Sam Shrouder, may he rest in peace. Of course, half the problem was myself. I was scared. Parson Brown’s body was still not found. I didn’t want to be its finder, especially if it mouldered inside a motorized vehicle of which I was the sole and illicit possessor.

  Give up, Lovejoy. What can be in a derelict old bus? The killer would have removed all possible clues anyway. I began to feel edgy, certain now I could niff decaying antique dealer. I locked the cab and left the bus secure in its isolation.

  It seemed hardly worth going home. I could have had a nosh in any pub in or near town, seeing that Lydia was now letting me keep two percent of my—that’s my—retainer. This would suffice for luxuries like food. But I spent valuable coins of the realm in travel, and with casual pride revealed to a busload of villagers that I was flush.

  It was worth it. The rough sketch I’d made of a Celtic cross embedded in a big chunk of granite wasn't exactly where I’d left it oh so casually—the patchwork cushion underneath which I’d positioned it was wrongly aligned. My drawing showed the granite hollowed, giving crude dimensions in feet and inches. I’d scribbled TIMELOCK and HINGED FLOOR ACCESS VITAL
on it, with 3WA TO CONTROL. I must say it looked pretty convincing, for a truly secret secret. A card by the phone on the bare floor reminded myself to phone Tinker and bring the stone cross’s date forward. The card was undisturbed, but face up it could be read by any passing intruder.

  Satisfied, I burned card and sketch in the fireplace and crushed the ash. Now Lorane and Ray Meese knew part of my secret plan. Quite good going. I mustn’t forget to leak the rest later. I caught the town bus, to find Tinker and tell him I wanted Sorry Malone. He does locks.

  «>

  They call Footer Footer because he’s daft on football. He says he played for Sheffield Wednesday, Liverpool, all over. Never did, of course. He’s lame, has been since birth. But if making up the odd unbelievable fantasy was the worst this wicked old world got up to, it wouldn’t be in quite such dire straits, would it?

  We met up at a Dirty Dick’s, near Liverpool Street Station in London. Recognized each other instantly, though we’d never actually met. He was drinking bitter, a long-faced lanky old man just this side of shabbiness. I had a pint of shandy.

  “Knew you straight away, Lovejoy.”

  “How do, Footer. All right?”

  "Yes, son. All well.” He pulled me along the bar to where it met the wall, a cautionary sign I liked. The bar was moderately empty; we weren’t overheard. “You could’ve knocked me down with a feather when Dutch dropped by, Lovejoy. The old BM! Christ, the boys’d never believe it.”

  "They’ll never hear, eh?”

  “No, Lovejoy.” His rheumy old eyes were sparkling. “Dutch agreed a price. They say you’re straight as a die on the old gelt.” "You’ll get it, Footer. But a holiday to Malaga’s written in.” "Malaga?” He was astonished. “Where the bleedin’ hell’s Malaga?”

  “Spain, Footer. Sorry. Big John said.”

  “My frigging skin, Lovejoy! I’ll peel like a frigging rabbit!” “Orders is orders, Footer.”

  “Okay. Today, is it?”

  “Don’t go home, Footer. Just deliver, then away on the great white bird. Dutch’ll be waiting at Marble Arch.”

  “Tch! Beer’s rotten overseas, Lovejoy. I’ll die.”

  “Dying from poor ale’s not the worst thing on earth, Footer.” “True, Lovejoy.” The worst thing on earth was Big John, and we nodded in knowing synchrony. “Well, son. I’ve sussed the museum out for you. It’s not good news.” He shrugged. “Even though you could go through that place like a dose of senna pods.” “Aye, but so could anybody.”

  “Well, son, here it is. The easy places are the nosh spot, where staff turnover rate’s one every couple of months or so. Warders— sorry, attendants—the same. And the info staff. Then there’s the British Museum Society. Join it for a shekel and you get private evening views. They even have a private members’ room, and special closed tours round the admin and research departments. For a tenner a year you’re virtually a trustee.” He said trusty, but he’s done time. “Everybody trusts a trustee, eh?”

  "That’s their purpose, Footer.”

  “Aye, son. Well.” He sounded cynical. “There’s the book stacks below the Reading Room. But they’ve person-detectors down there for after hours. I ask you. Who’d want to nick old bloody books? Some are the size of a frigging desk. All dust. Them book cellars go all the way under London to Holborn. Christ Almighty. You’d think people’d have better things to do, all that readin’. Then there’s the lorries.”

  Gabriella had mentioned vehicle entrances. “What lorries?” “They arrive each day. Six from Micawber Street, three runs from Woolwich. That Micawber van—you seen the frigging mess them planners’ve made of City Road, Lovejoy?—it’s not important, only antique maps and things. The main one’s the Woolwich wagon. Starts out from the army. Reserved books—too many for the museum to hold any one time, see?—are under guard down there. Royal Artillery base. Mean bastards, they. I remember one time we was in Egypt, me with the Loyal Regiment—”

  “The lorries, Footer.” He reminisces.

  “Two drivers. Sealed in by the army, all the way. Unsealed in the museum. It drives down the ramp. Codes and bleeps are changed every day. That Bracegirdle, security, tells only one bloke. He’s a maniac. Always busy, always around. Checks it personal. Nasty sod.”

  “Does he now.”

  “Has a young tart, stickler for ticking things on lists. Nasty.” Gabriella. Nasty in our game means uncorruptibly honest, and therefore unfair. "Electrical staff are another hole, Lovejoy. Sewage not too good, though. It’s so old-fashioned it’s a dead risk. They have the same sewage men, doing it for years. First name stuff, so forget it.”

  “Any other way in?”

  “Grub supplies to the restaurant, daily delivery.”

  “Roof?”

  He raised his eyes to heaven. “Leave off, Lovejoy.”

  “I’m only asking, Footer. And you’re being paid.”

  “Aye. Spain.” He was miserable about Spain.

  "Lots of ways in. And out.” We both knew what was coming next: the bad news. "So what stops all the precious exhibits walking?”

  "People, Lovejoy.” He was really gloomy. “Everywhere there’s frigging warders. The bastards are counting you half the bloody time, pocket clickers. And you’re never out of sight of two. The old double direction game. The buggers signal central control and each other if you’re on your own in a gallery for more than half a minute.” He gave me an envelope. In it I would find details of staff numbers, duty rosters, food suppliers’ addresses, the usual gunge.

  “Ta. Electronics?”

  "Vibrators, sensors, closed-circuit cameras, the lot. Noise detectors go on automatic after lights-out. Thrystor detectors—a touch changes the electrical charge so all hell’s let loose. Doors double crosslocked. The display cases tripled. A right pig, Lovejoy. Fart, and you set off some frigging alarm.” I bought him a fresh pint. "Three cop shops have two special peelers on full standby, including that dozy load of bleeders up Theobald’s Road.Frigging ridiculous.”

  All this was routine cackle, but quite good news. “Obstacles, Footer?”

  “What I really didn’t like, son, is them detachable turn-handles fer them rolling brass doors. The bleeders shut the map gallery, then take the handles away. I call that a dead liberty. You can’t get through without handles—and the Old Bill’d spot you carrying a foot-long brass turnscrew at midnight. Ridiculous.”

  I knew how peeved he felt. His job was making thefts easier, not more difficult.

  "But there must be something positive, Footer.”

  "Not much. There’s a glass roof, by the kiddies’ shop near the nosh bar. And the dining area’s got tall windows, but it’s Pilking- ton’s special glass, the swine. You’ll raise the dead scratching it. Though it abuts on tall trees, back of Bloomsbury.” He was so apologetic I felt sympathy. "Sorry, Lovejoy. It’s not Springheeled Jack stuff.”

  "Did you notice if there’s a high walkway gallery round the temporary exhibitions room?”

  He gave me an injured stare. There isn’t. He knew I knew and was just checking that he’d been thorough.

  "Do leave orf, son. I was doing this before you was walking. No. Ceiling’s too low. There’s one all round the manuscript saloon where they keep all them gospel cases. It’s the only road out. And in the Grenville and King’s rooms too but you’ll have difficulty getting round the corner pillars. The high walkways have lockable glass doors, see?” He shrugged, looking quizzical. “You come running out of that temporary exhibitions room, Lovejoy, you’ve got to go left or straight on. No other way, worm or sparrow. I hate the way they always keep them big window blinds drawn. It’s not natural. What they got against frigging daylight?”

  “All in all, Footer, what d’you reckon?”

  He contemplated. “Ways? You could try the Lost Sprog, with Ankles Benedict. It’s done wonders in its time, not been used for ages. Or the Londoner? But they’d be wise to that. There’s a fire exit by the kitchen.”

  “Right, mmmmh, right,”
I kept saying, but I was not really listening. I’d only asked from politeness, to make the old man feel better. The Londoner’s an old trick—you pretend to start a fire; it’s named from the child’s roundelay, “London’s Burning”—then nick your heart’s desire in the pandemonium. The Lost Baby’s best for fairs, small theaters, shops. The BM could take that ploy—or any other—in its stride.

  When he’d done I asked, “Verdict, Footer?”

  “Rather you than me, son. But good luck.”

  “Have a nice holiday. Here.”

  "What is it, Lovejoy?” He took the pot.

  “Barrier cream, Footer. My apprentice says it’s just right for sunshine. Cheers.” Like I say, dose of salts.

  D

  ISAPPOINTMENT is total. There aren’t fine shades, I find. Disappointment’s always top gear, on max. And making movies is it in boring spades, the ultimate yawn.

  We were at the studios, the big hangar. I’d been kitted up in some black outfit like ballet dancers wear except it had a hood with eyeholes. They gave me a toy gun on a belt. I felt terrific. Two girls processed me, even worrying about how my eyes looked.

  Then I sat down. For an hour. During this hectic time birds and blokes drifted about, pausing for a smoke, chatting, doing things with cables. I was joined by two other black-garbed nerks, Nick and Lofty. We could see each others’ eyes and talked through our tight black cloth hoods. They too had popguns, belts. Nick wore a coil of rope. We talked. They had a fag. Lofty told me of his daughter’s wedding. They talked about past films they’d done, mostly getting shot or throwing grenades from helicopters.

  And another hour. After this exertion, worn out, we knocked off for a cuppa. Somebody went to the loo. Much talk of Lancelot Lake, a born duckegg who was past it. Stef Honor never should have got the part. That Saffron Kay’s real name was Jennifer Something, neurotic lass the cameras didn’t like.

  “You aren’t confident, then?” I asked. We were watching the hangar slowly fill with blokes carrying wood. This was the famed movies?