The Judas Pair

by Jonathan Gash

  The Adams revolving longarm was gone to Dick. That left me with two eastern jezail guns, flintlock of course, the Adams pocket weapon, an elegant gold-inlaid La Chaumette pinfire weapon with a folding trigger, a Durs airgun you have to pump up, a Cooper blunderbuss, an early Barbar flintlock brass-barrelled blunderbuss good enough to eat, a lonely Henry Nock dueller I’d been trying to match with its missing partner for twelve years, and last but not least the beautiful Mortimer weapons acquired that terrible day from Dick’s boatyard. The Mortimers it was.

  I melted a piece of lead bar over a spirit-lamp and poured it from the pan into the bullet-mould, crushing the brass handles firmly to avoid pocking the bullet surface with bubbles. Twelve attempts it took before I got two perfect spheres of dulled lead. After cooling them, I polished both in a leather cloth until they were almost shiny.

  The black powder I poured into the pistol flask. It was set correctly on the dispensing nozzle, so I cleaned inside the barrel with a swab of cloth screwed on to the wrong end of the ramrods. All this is easier said than done with white linen gloves on, but you must never leave fingerprints on a flinter – it ruins the browning after some years, and actually precipitates real rust even on the best damascus barrel. The barrels cleaned, I poured the dose of powder into each, and forced the bullets in after tamping the powder down. It was hard work getting them to the bottom of the breech but I managed it. After that, a soft wad of cloth torn from a handkerchief down each barrel to keep the bullets in. Then a squirt of powder into each nashpan, bringing back the cocks to half-cock position where the triggers wouldn’t work them and clapping the steel closed, and all was lovely.

  I replaced them in their mahogany case, pulling the safety-catch into the halt position and dusting them off. They looked priceless, stylish, graceful, wondrous in their red-felted boxwood recesses among the accessories. Every item fitted snugly. Even the case itself was brilliantly designed, a product of an age of skilled thinkers.

  There was one more thing they looked – lethal, maybe even murderous.

  And that really pleased me, because I was going to blow some fucking bastard’s brains out.

  Chapter 11

  I’LL BE FRANK.

  Before this the business had been a bit unreal-like, you know the sort of thing, income-tax rebates or these insurance benefits you get if ever you reach ninety. My attitude, I suppose, was one of blissful pretence. Sheila always said I pretended too much, romancing she called it. The Judas affair had previously been somehow at a distance even though I’d been involved in setting up a search for the pistols through the trade. I suppose there was some excuse since you can’t believe in a Martian in Bloomsbury in quite the same way you might believe in the Yeti or Nessie. I’d paid lip service of sorts to the Judas pair idea. If they were mythical, well, okay – I would spend time chasing a myth. If the bloke that had killed two people for those precious things believed in their existence, so would I. Funny, but my mind began to work clearer now I believed.

  If he had searched and followed and then killed for a small accessory like my turnkey, it followed for certain that there could be no possible doubt about where the Judas pair were – he had them. I knew as sure as I breathed.

  And I understood his anguish. Imagine the distress of scientists as they search for that one missing link creature whose existence will finally prove a million theories. Imagine the shepherd’s grief as he finds his prize sheep’s gone absent. Double all those sorrows, and it comes somewhere near the anguish of a collector with a stupendous possession one vital component short. I would have felt compassion in other circumstances, even shared part of his grief. Now I cackled with evil laughter as I emerged from my priest-hole and went about letting the light into the cottage and unlocking doors and windows. Let him suffer. He’d come again, somehow and some time he’d come because I had the instrument he wanted.

  From now on I would have to be ready every minute of every day. I therefore checked the garden from behind the curtains and decided to play the game to its fullest.

  I telephoned George Field. His wife answered. George was out.

  ‘I want a list from him, Mrs Field,’ I explained. ‘Tell him I need urgently – within the day – the names of all those people his brother was friendly with, known collectors or not. Dealers included.’

  She was all set to chat but I cut it short and then rang Geoffrey.

  ‘Look, Lovejoy,’ he began wearily, but I wasn’t being told off by any village bobby. I was going to do his job for him and he was getting paid from taxes I provided.

  ‘Silence, Geoffrey old pal, and listen.’ He listened in astonishment while I said my piece. ‘I want the names, ranks and stations of the people in charge of Sheila’s . . . accident.’ Straight away he began his spiel about not having the authority to divulge and all that. ‘Listen, Geoffrey – I’ll say this once. You give me the names now, or I’ll take your refusal as obfuscation and ring the Chief Constable, Scotland Yard and my local MP. I’ll also ring the local newspaper, three London dailies and the Prime Minister.’ I didn’t know what obfuscation was but it sounded good.

  ‘What if I don’t have the information you want?’ he asked, a guarded police gambit.

  ‘There you go again, obfuscating,’ I said pleasantly. ‘Goodbye, Geoffrey. You’ll be hearing from the communications media and the politicians very shortly, if not sooner.’

  ‘Hang on.’

  They can be very helpful, these servants of our civic organizations, when they’re persuaded in the right way. He gave me a number to ring and an address of a police station.

  ‘What’s got into you, Lovejoy?’ he said, very uneasy.

  ‘A rush of civic duty to the head,’ I explained.

  ‘I don’t like all this, I’ll tell you straight.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning I want to know what you’re up to, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Geoffrey,’ I said sweetly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Get stuffed, comrade,’ I cooed. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  I felt better now I was on the move.

  Faith is a great prime mover. No wonder the distance to Jerusalem didn’t daunt the early crusaders. With all that faith, the fact that they’d have to walk every inch of the way would have appeared a mere incidental. Faith gives a clarity of vision as well as thought and I was reaping the benefit of the new believer. It gave me freedom. Apart from Old Bill, I could tell anybody the truth, what I was after and even say why. I could show my Durs turnkey to every Collector or dealer I’d ever met, knowing sooner or later I’d strike oil. Word would spread like fat in a hot pan. Then, one fine day, my visitor would arrive at the cottage for his big farewell scene. He wouldn’t be able to help it. He’d come back again.

  I spent an hour on the blower. First, Adrian, explaining a friend of mine, Eric Field, deceased, had had a pair of Durs flinters now untraceable, and would he please keep an ear open for any whisper. I got derision back down the receiver but persevered. In the way of his kind he sensed swiftly there was something seriously wrong and went along with me saying he’d put the word out. No reply from Margaret Dainty, though I tried her number three times, and none from Dandy Jack’s either. He was probably sloshed still from last night, while Margaret was possibly up in the Smoke doing the street markets. Jane Felsham was in, coughing with the rasping breath of the morning smoker and saying what was the matter with me. She thought I was drunk.

  ‘It’s on, Jane,’ I said. ‘Don’t muck me about, love, because I’m tough and nasty today. Just take the essentials down and spread it about. Tell anyone, bring anyone to see me any time. And I’ll travel. There’s a bonus in it – keep thinking of all those pots you could buy with a bit of taxfree.’

  Harry was out too, also probably down on the market stalls the same as Margaret. I left a message at the White Hart for Tinker and Dandy Jack to contact me urgently. The barman was out on the village green with the pub’s football team, training for the Sunday League, bu
t his wife Jenny was reliable.

  I wrapped the turnkey in white tissue-paper hankies (always the best for carrying small antiques, even storing them for years) and put it into my jacket pocket, using a safety pin to fasten down the flap. That way, if he wanted it he’d have to get me first. Before locking up and leaving, I phoned Dick Barton and asked him to sell me some black powder as I wanted to try the Mortimers later on. He was surprised, knowing my antipathy to flinters as actual weapons, but promised me three-quarters of a pound. I would collect it on the way back from Jim’s, in case Geoffrey decided to finger my parked Armstrong to learn what I was up to. The sale of the black powder in this cavalier fashion is highly illegal, you see, and the law is especially vigilant in this matter. Terrible what some people will do. I chucked a handful of crumbs to the robin to keep it going and drove to Seddon’s. On the way over I decided to park outside the showrooms, in accordance with my new plan of inviting my unknown enemy’s attention. Old Jim lived in a neighbouring street some four hundred yards down East Hill.

  The town was almost empty of pedestrians and cars. One of those quiet days. Driving through in the dilute sun made a very pleasant change from the untidy scramble of the bad week. I parked, confidently facing uphill, and walked down to the street where Jim lived. Apart from a few folk pottering innocently off to shops and others strolling towards the riverside nursery gardens there wasn’t a soul about. The terraced houses seemed cheerful and at ease.

  I knocked. Jim came to the door, frowning when he saw my happy smiling face.

  ‘Top of the morning, Jim.’

  ‘Morning.’ We stayed in an attitude of congenial distrust for a second. ‘No use coming here, Lovejoy,’ he said sourly. ‘All business must go through the firm, you know that.’

  ‘So I believe,’ I said, optimism all over.

  ‘What you want then?’

  ‘Now, Jim, you know me.’ I honestly felt benign towards him. ‘All for a quiet life.’ I let it sink in, then added, ‘You must be, too.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’

  ‘Some, only some, Jim.’

  He was being careful. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Your new job.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You start now.’ He started to close the door but my foot was in the way. ‘No, Jim, leave the door open and don’t go inside. Stay and listen.’

  ‘I want no trouble.’

  ‘And you’ll get none, old pal.’ I beamed at him. ‘Remember the Field sale? Eric Field, deceased?’

  ‘I thought you hinted a bit too much,’ he said. ‘Nothing wrong, was there?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said easily. ‘Your new job’s trying to remember everything about it, sales lists, who the auctioneer was, who was there, who bought what, and how much they paid –’

  ‘Confidential.’ Remarkable how self-important these pipsqueak clerks are. I went all concerned.

  ‘What about your arm?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘What about it? Nothing wrong with my arm.’

  I beamed into his eyes and winked. ‘There will be, Jim. It’ll be broken in several places.’

  ‘Eh? You’re mad –’

  ‘Left or right, Jim?’ I was really enjoying myself. No wonder people change when they get religion if this is what faith does for you. Faith’s supposed to cancel doubt, isn’t it? Marvellous how much calm conviction can bring. If Jim’s four brothers had called about then I’d have said the same thing. Numbers are a detail when principle’s the prime mover.

  ‘Get the message?’ I was so contented. ‘Don’t get in my way when I’m moving. Now, you’ve got three seconds to agree, and by six tonight I’ll have the invoices, the lists, the sales notes and all essential details of the Field sale. You bring them round to my cottage, and wait there until I come.’

  ‘You’re off your bleeding head, Lovejoy,’ he moaned. ‘I’ve no car.’

  ‘Don’t miss the bus from the station, then. Remember it’s a rotten bus service.’

  ‘Get stuffed,’ he said, kicking at my foot.

  My forehead felt white-hot. For a moment, I struggled for control, then moved up into the doorway, pushing him back. I kneed him in the crotch and butted his nose with my head. When he was down in an easier position on the carpet I stove a rib in with a neat kick. Heaven knows where I learned it. I honestly am a peaceable chap. He tried to scramble away in terror and found an upright modern Jameson piano, only teak and 1930, to lean against. His face showed white above his ‘two-day’ stubble.

  ‘For Christ’s sake –’

  ‘Peace be unto you too, Jim,’ I said. ‘Now, be a good lad and get me the details.’

  ‘You’ve broken me ribs,’ he wailed. I nodded patiently. Some people just can’t be hurried. Others must learn.

  ‘And I’ll break your arm at ten past six if you don’t get me the answers, Jim.’

  ‘I’ve got to get to a doctor –’ I kicked him down to his knees again and knuckled his face so blood came.

  ‘No doctors, Jim. No hospitals. You’ve a job to do, right?’ He nodded through pain and fear. ‘Another word, Jim. I’m on the move. It’s not a pretty sight. Now, you can call the law like any decent citizen and turn me in. I won’t deny your allegations. But as God’s my judge, I’ll come back and maim you for life if you do. You just do my little job like I ask and I’ll leave you alone ever afterwards.’

  I turned to go while he was sick all over his Afghanistan – he’d have said Persian – carpet, flower-fruit design with that rather displeasing russet margin they adopt far too often for my liking. I paused at the door.

  ‘Oh, and Jim . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Miss nothing out. All details complete, or you’ll have to suffer the consequences. I must know everything about the Field sale. Understand?’

  He managed a nod and I departed thinking of at least one task well done for a starter.

  There wasn’t a soul on East Hill except for a queue at the baker’s and the car was quite untouched.

  Black day. Traipsing from one cop shop to another making bother till they gave in. An inspector went over reports of Sheila’s death word for word in the manner of his sort. Ever noticed how many people talk like union officials nowadays? Anonymous speech is everywhere – politicians, lawyers, priests in pulpits, auctioneers, the lot. Too many maybes. Listen to a political speech. I’ll bet you a quid everything definite he says is cancelled out by something else he says a moment later. Daft. As I sifted through the details I wondered where all the common sense has gone. It vanished about fifteen years ago, about the time those bone ships made by our French prisoners from the Napoleonic scraps vanished. You don’t get either any more.

  From Old Bill, I went to Camden Town where Sheila’s pal lived. Betty, fabulous for multicoloured lipsticks, cleavage and a legendary succession of loves, all with wealthy city men. Her husband, twice her age, kept model trains. I leched away as she gave her tale. She’d missed Sheila at home-time that day. Betty, all nineteen years of her, explained she’d had to work late. I pretended to believe her from politeness.

  Seeing her old man was playing trains outside, I gave her my deep dark Lovejoy smoulder. I only wished she’d been a customer. I swear, I could have got rid of that tarty Dutch cutlery at last. You get no tax allowance for stock. Bloody Chancellor.

  I held Betty’s hand at the door. They measure you with their eyes, don’t they? I said how I felt biological towards her. She liked biological and gave me the address of a little executive cottage she visited at certain times. These places can be a mine of antiques. What more pleasant than searching for antiques, up and down stairs with the help of a huge cleavage? Two birds per stone and that.

  But no clues. Maybe the steam was going out of my crusade. It depressed me. I knocked about, saw the Bond Street arcade, did time in Fairclough’s, did a few deals. The 4.30 train was on time from Liverpool Street.

  I reached home at ten to six. Jim was waiting, grey-faced, hurting, obedient. I dr
ove up with the now-familiar knot of tension in my belly at the sight of him. It pleased me. My crusading zeal had only momentarily tired because of so many false leads. Here was one I relied on to give me a few more details.

  He gave me a photocopied list of the Field sale and every single invoice to do with it. In his own clumsy handwriting was a list of everybody who’d attended, the auctioneers, clerk and his two mates who assisted.

  ‘There’s a good lad.’ I patted his head. ‘Look, Jim –’

  ‘Yes?’ He stood mournfully on the gravel.

  ‘I don’t want to hurry you, but the doctor’s surgery closes at seven. You’ll just make it on the bus.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to give me a lift?’ His spirits were on the mend. There was a faint hint of the old truculence.

  I smiled. ‘Good night, Jim,’ I said, and closed the door.

  Chapter 12

  SOME PEOPLE KILL me. You can invent a name for anything and it will be believed. Say anything and somebody’ll cheer fit to burst. I’ll give you an example. There was Dandy Jack looking for cracks on this piece of ‘cracked’ porcelain – and him a dealer old enough to be my great-grandad. Of course, Dandy Jack was as indisposed as a newt, as one politician cleverly said of that minister who got sloshed and shot his mouth off on telly.

  ‘Give it here, Dandy.’ I took it off him, exasperated. ‘Crack porcelain doesn’t mean it’s got cracks all over it.’ His bloodshot eyes gazed vaguely in my direction while I gave him the gory details.

  ‘Kraak’, not ‘Cracked’, porselain (note that ‘s’). Once upon a time, the Portuguese ship Catherine was sailing along in the Malacca Straits when up came a Dutch ship and captured it, there being no holds barred in 1603. Imagine the Dutchmen’s astonishment when they found they’d bagged, not treasure, but a cargo of ceramics of a funny blue-white colour. The Catherine was a carrack, or ‘Kraak’. The nickname stuck. It looks rubbish but folk scramble for it. I priced it for him and said I’d be back.