The Very Last Gambado

by Jonathan Gash

  "Don’t touch it, Tinker. It’ll be a Stoke-on-Trent novelty pottery piece made for the Isle of Man.” They’re tin-glazed, trying hard to be old Italian. People talk themselves into paying highly over this “English majolica”—even a perfect specimen deserves only a week’s wage. "Hopeless buying that rubbish until the American dollar steadies up.”

  "Lovejoy.” Dan stood by. Dealers watched with interest. My evictions always receive popular attention. “Out.”

  “Very well, Dan.” I sighed heavily. “I’ll take it to Gimbert’s or Seeley’s."

  “It? What’s this it?” Dan asked, undecided now. He glanced from me to the auctioneer. I’d spoken loud enough.

  “You’ve read in the papers about a famous gold samovar, I trust? Come on, Tinker.”

  Midwinter called, “Daniel. Is that gentleman a bona fide customer?” A jailbird plus a pricey gold antique equals a gentleman. See how their minds work?

  “Well, sir . . Dan was on the spot.

  "Then leave him alone, please.” The cunning old devil changes his tune at the first whiff of gelt. “Now, continuing with lot one-thirty. A handsome bronze, a wild boar attacked by dogs. Offers, please.”

  “Cheers, Dan. Enter my samovar for next week, okay?” I passed him a description, let him go, and whispered to Tinker, “Bid a month’s average wage for the bronze. It’s a Fratin.” This French bloke was a pupil of the painter Gericault, the flavor of the decade now collectors are learning to read. Tip: Fratin bronze prices are bound for the stars.

  “Right. Here, Lovejoy. You clear for good?”

  "Aye. Parson Brown was arrested last night. He’d gone to earth in Wimbledon, scared after Sam Shrouder got topped.” “Wimbledon? Poor sod.” He spat a volume. I looked away, queasy. "Here, son. Your bird, the one with the big bristols. She wants you to sign something.”

  “Lydia?”

  “And Suki Lonegan. And some foreign tart, smelled posh.” Bad news all this. Just when I thought it was safe to go back into public life. I muttered a good luck with the bidding and ducked out. And bumped into a familiar figure on the pavement.

  “Good morning, Lovejoy.”

  “Oh, er, Lydia, doowerlink! How marvelous!”

  She looked lovely, smiling. My eternal question recurred: Does she dress prim from innate demureness, or because she knows it’s fetching? I have my suspicions.

  “Do you have a few moments, Lovejoy?”

  "For you, anything.”

  We crossed to the Tudor Rose cafe for a quiet table by the old-fashioned windows, from where I could see onto East Hill behind her. She settled, ordered tea and toast, brought out a sheet of paper. Her tiny handbag’s like Merlin’s sack—contains umpteen times its own capacity. Out the stuff came, yards and tons of it. I watched her curiously. Her skin is a-bloom, smooth and fruitlike. And her mouth really is bow-shaped, straight off a Victorian painting. Her figure is voluptuous in those reserved lace blouses she wears. Her hair was so precise about the temples you can't help wondering how it loosened . . .

  "Eh? Sign where? What?”

  "Here, Lovejoy. And here, please.” She smiled, I obeyed, she put the papers away. "There! Now we shall have a celebratory cup of tea!”

  Pity Tinker wasn't here to riot along. “Er, celebrate what, Lyd?”

  “Lydia, please. Your cottage, Lovejoy.” She held my gaze, but shyly. “Well, not exactly your. Mine, actually.”

  Headache time. I closed my eyes. “Yours? My cottage is yours?”

  "I knew you'd be thrilled. I remortgaged my own flat. Its value has increased inordinately. With the proceeds I redeemed your deeds.”

  "From Hymie?” I said weakly. Behind her, a long saloon car drew up opposite. Agafia Potocki descended, elegant and affluent.

  “Certainly. I returned his samovar, of course.” She sighed, a woes-of-the-world sigh. “It was only leaded bronze, gold-plated. Hymie was so unwilling to be prosecuted and involved in the museum trouble that he quite forgave you your foolish deception.”

  “Fake?” My vision blurred. I’d kill Hymie. “He diddled me with a fake?” I’d marmalize him. My hands clenched, nails into my palms. He’d defrauded me, just because he knew I’d cheat him over my cottage deeds. And him a friend.

  “He couldn’t deceive you with a fake of an antique, Lovejoy. Only with a fake you knew was a fake.”

  I’d still throttle him. “So my deeds are . . . ?” What had the crafty cow got me to sign?

  “Are actually mine, Lovejoy.” We held a silence. I saw a voluptuous overdressed young lass emerge from the auction rooms doorway with Tinker. He pointed into town, graphically mimed a just-missed-him, nodding. She clacked off, stiletto heels stabbing and skirt wobbling erotically. She wore chunky jewelry on every limb. Gulp. Lavina, Parson Brown’s daughter. Trouble. Exquisite trouble.

  “Love,” I said quickly to Lydia. "Thank you. You’ve done really superbly. Now I’ll just pop across, give Tinker a message .. .”

  “No, Lovejoy. You won’t.”

  “Eh?” I said, narked. I suddenly didn’t like her steady blues. "It’s about an important bracket clock—”

  "There is no bracket clock in today’s auction, Lovejoy.” "Isn’t there? Good heavens! I meant at Seeley’s.”

  "Lavina Brown’s the least of our difficulties.” She smiled at my astonishment. She hadn’t even turned round, not even glanced at the street. “That young lady has loitered—I can’t in all charity use a kindlier description—ostensibly wishing to thank you for indirectly helping her mother.” She stirred her tea brisldy. “I doubt her intentions, Lovejoy.”

  So did I, thank God. “Yes, but—”

  “And Gabriella has taken up temporary residence in the George Hotel, Lovejoy, looking for you. And that Laila keeps telephoning offering you a cheval mirror.”

  “That bad, eh?”

  “That bad indeed. We must be careful.” Behind Lydia I saw Agafia leave Midwinter’s, beckon her chauffeured saloon, and be driven off into town in grand style. Things must be looking up at Condor Hall. “And Agafia called repeatedly—some proposition involving the Russian Exhibition. It seems that the entire exhibition’s contents have been repossessed in Countess Natalia’s name. I am arranging a contract for you to sell the items excess to Countess Natalia’s requirements—properly authenticated—at ten percent commission.”

  I brightened. Chances of delving commission don’t come that often. To delve is to sell an antique for a phonily low price, say four-fifths, the true market value x. You receive an illicit one-tenth of x, plus the commission on the whole of x. Work it out, and you’ll see it’s a worthy little bringer, as long as nobody—

  “We’ll take firm precautions against delving, Lovejoy. Some dealers are unscrupulous.”

  Like I was saying, as long as nobody gets an attack of honesty. “Good thinking,” I said, miserably. I’d have to work on Lydia, somehow erode this all-bran aerobics morality of hers.

  “And Mrs. Lonegan has called, proposing a partnership with her in antique jewelry and silverware. I had to disabuse her in no uncertain manner.”

  “Er, about what?”

  "About your new partner, Lovejoy.”

  She’d lost me. “Tinker’ll never make a partner in a million years, love.”

  “Not Tinker, Lovejoy. Me.” She blushed, pretty, into her tea. “Tinker approves wholeheartedly, I’m pleased to say.”

  Aye. He would. He’d turn Buddhist for a pint. A new headache pressed behind my eyes. “My new partner? Er, you?”

  "You’ve just signed our partnership contract. Remember?” That’s a woman for you. I’ve never known a bird who isn’t two jumps ahead. Lydia’s three. “The Russian contract discharges some of the debts you incurred, Lovejoy.”

  I reached for her hand and tried a fond smile. “Look, doower- link. I couldn’t possibly burden you with my debts.” Hang on. Why not, Lovejoy? Give one good reason.

  “You haven’t, Lovejoy. The bonus—”

  Another headache moved
in beside its pal. Nobody gives me bonuses. The world expects me to bring the handouts. “Don’t joke, er, sweetheart.”

  She withdrew her hand, reddened. “Please remember we’re in public, Lovejoy." In public? The Tudor Rose was empty except for us. "Big John Sheehan arranged for many local dealers, including Brad, to reschedule their credit balances for us. Wasn’t that kind?” She smiled. “He took a great deal of persuading. But when I pointed out the risk and expense you went to, to remove Clayton’s influence from the local antiques trade, he was very impressed.” “He was?” I was now a multiheadache man. Lydia, negotiate with Big John Sheehan? A kite negotiating a change in the wind.

  "Sheehan was rather disappointed the cameramen failed to photograph Mr. Seg’s mishap, all that smoke. He longs to have it on video, though he admits that isn’t your fault, Lovejoy.” Thank Christ for that. “He’s somehow acquired a container shipment of assorted antiques. Our bonus is to be one-third its wholesale value.”

  It was probably one of Ben Clayton’s loads. I’ll bet Big John’s lads drove over and simply nicked it the instant Ben got arrested, in the manner of their kind. Well, cross that bridge. I didn’t like this "our bonus” bit. Why not mine alone? Who’d risked life and everything, entirely unaided? Suki Lonegan walked into Midwinter’s opposite.

  “Look, doowerlink,” I said brightly. "Would you mind just waiting here a sec? Only, I promised Tinker—”

  “Mrs. Lonegan’s husband has returned, Lovejoy,” Lydia said evenly. She was gazing beyond me. I turned. An ornamental mirror on the wall gave Lydia a panoramic view of the street. How sly can you get?

  "Lydia!” I did my gasped outrage. "You’re surely not suggesting . . etc. etc.

  "Lovejoy. Morning, miss.” He sat unbidden, looked disappointedly for a spare cup.

  "Hello, Mac. We were just going.” I’d seen enough peelers lately to last a lifetime.

  “Sorry, Lovejoy. The station calls.” He thumbed at two helmets beyond the frosted glass. "Now.”

  Wearily I rose. Some years can ruin your whole day. "Try for bail, Lyd.”

  "I shall indeed!” Lydia came with us, expostulating furiously. Not an all-time first. “I shall contact the lord lieutenant of this county . .

  "Lovely bird,” Mac said in the police car. “You don’t deserve her.” I didn’t try explaining how things are between Lyd and me. The Plod only think genitalia and other weapons. “Stop here, Fred.” The war memorial, by the castle?

  “Sir.” The driver pulled in.

  A huge saloon waited alongside the rose garden. Was Agafia’s motor maroon? Anyway, it looked familiar.

  “Out, Lovejoy.” Mac walked with me, bent and spoke through the chauffeur’s window. “Here he is, lady. Would you confirm his identity?”

  “Yes. It's him.” The door opened. Agafia was serene, fragrant. “It’s so unfortunate, inspector. The missing silver was the only original piece left, you see.”

  “Missing . . . ?” I gasped. "I’m the one who saved your fortune, remember?” But I’d nicked that silver czarist tea set, St. Petersburg. And its whereabouts were still known only to Big John Sheehan. I smiled weakly.

  She pondered. “Mr. MacAdam. Would you mind releasing Lovejoy into my custody? Perhaps together we might remember where it is. Only, in all the upheaval we might have made an oversight.”

  Me leave what, where? I gave up, stood forlornly with my load of headaches while they talked. I was duly handed over into the perfumed interior, plush gentility with prospects. We moved off. I was vaguely surprised Agafia didn’t give a royal wave as Lydia’s motor burned blindly past toward the police station.

  “Wrong way,” I told her. “This street runs west.”

  “Does it,” Agafia said calmly. She lit a pungent Russian cigarette.

  Watching the shops glide past, I thought of Agafia’s position as sole go-between for that assortment of csarist antiques and Sam Shrouder’s fakes that comprised the St. Edmundsbury exhibition. Her hip pressed against me as the saloon swung out onto the dual carriageway and the umpteen-miles-to-London signposts began.

  She moved away a little. “Lovejoy. Countess Natalia wondered if you would help us start an antiques business in Chelsea. Nothing costly, you understand. Nothing too showy.”

  swallowed. “Using what, love? I’m broke.”

  “We have repossessed the RumiantzefF possessions.” She looked into me. “Plus a large number of unfamiliar Russian additions, the origin and provenance of which I’m rather uncertain. Including an enormous Wedgwood dinner service, scores and scores of pieces.”

  “Good heavens.” I went giddy. In 1774 Josiah Wedgwood himself made an 800-plus dinner service for Empress Catherine II of Russia. Surely Sam couldn’t have . . .? The saloon was cruising now. The houses were fewer, traffic lights ended. “You didn’t tell the police the extra items weren’t yours, then?”

  “It slipped our memories, Lovejoy.”

  At least eighty fakes, all made by the great Sam. All delivered by the unsuspecting Old Bill into our hands. Plus all the RumiantzefF originals. Well. There might be rumblings from Bigjohn, and wasn’t Chelsea Bill Sykes territory? But there'd be no desperately honest partnership contracts with Lydia to restrict my activities. And London’s so liberating—it doesn’t confine like rustic old East Anglia.

  "Well, it could be done. Need close working.”

  “I’d welcome that, Lovejoy.”

  My throat was getting drier and drier. Her cigarette, probably. "It might need a bit of careful delving, Ag.”

  "Please, Lovejoy. One thing.” Her hand rested lightly on my knee. “Agafia. Not Ag, Aggie, nor Ags. Ag-a-fi-a.”

  “Agafia.” Women are odd about names.

  “And what is this delving, please?”

  The sun came out, spilling brilliant dazzling free gold onto my poor motheaten world. I smiled, slipped my arm round her. “You don’t know? Well, Ag doowerlink, it’s like this . . .” Our grand saloon purred smoothly toward the London sunshine.