PearlHanger 09

by Jonathan Gash

  "Oh, that." He blew a pious halo in smoke, prepared to forgive and forget.

  "And a third thing you owe me," I said. "I tried to save you a fortune, but you were too thick to realize."

  The room stood still. The band crashed and trumpeted on the floor below. The walls vibrated to merrymaking. But up here I was pig-in-the-middle. My stance was supposed to imply that everything had been done on Big John's behalf.

  "Wait." Big John gestured his men to immobility, nodded permission for me to explain. That meant I better had.

  "You bought it then, eh?" I said. It was there on a beige-covered table, just as I'd seen it in the auction room. "What's your idea of the scam, John?"

  "You've used up ten of your nine lives by that, Love-

  joy." He pointed at me, two fingers with the cigar burning crossways between. "You swapped the genuine pendant for this fake. It's even got your name on it. Lovejoy fecit. You always label your own forgeries, you bastard. I know that much. Too big-headed to sell without bragging, eh? So gimme Deamer's original piece, Lovejoy."

  He clouted me, other hand and different direction. This time into a plant stand that rained leaves. The plant pot stood firm, thank God. It'd have driven me in like a tent peg. I reeled to, dabbing at my mouth and nose. Blood. Still, nobody had kicked me this time. Things were looking up.

  "Or . . .?" I prompted, crossing dizzily to an armchair, and perched with a hankie at my face. My head was spinning.

  "Or what?" He was puzzled at my composure. I knew him, but he knew me.

  "Or you're wrong, John. To start with, I was searched in and out. Police cameras kept a film record of my every move in that office. Ask Ledger to let you run the videos. And the thing was strapped down with a look-only grid. The only item I touched was a lens my apprentice passed me via a guard."

  Big John interrogated the galaxy about that word "apprentice" by a raised brow. The cold voice answered, "He means that gabby tart."

  "And your people examined it before the sale, John."

  He nodded, glowering bitterly at the two beaten men. "All the time. So what happened?" They waited anxiously for my reply.

  "Nobody replaced it, John. No dummying."

  "See, boss?" one of the puffy-faced goons said with relief.

  216. . .

  "But there was no Lovejoy fecit on it until..." Big John paused.

  "Until I put it there, pal. I used a marker loupe."

  "You marked—ruined—my frigging antique, Lovejoy?" Luckily he hesitated a split second. "But you're a div- vie. You'd never mark it, unless it was ..."

  "Fake, John." We'd got there at last.

  "She did pass him an eye glass, John," some idiot said.

  John strolled over and abruptly stunned the speaker with a backhander. "Then you should have told me, careless bleeder." He paused and addressed the room. "'Tisn't in me heart to forgive carelessness. D'you hear me now?" The room nodded. His Londonderry brogue was showing, an ominous index of exasperation.

  "The alternative theory, John," I said, "is that I went in and put my mark on Deamer's 'original'—for no reason, at great risk and expense, while alienating all the peelers in East Anglia."

  "Or . . .?" he said. One thing about Sheehan is that he's no time for the superfluous. Bloodied as I was, I had to smile at his echo.

  "Or the truth, John. You'll not like it. Anybody got a drink?"

  Another nod. They got me a spatlese, some German stuff that takes the blood taste from your tongue. It gave me a thinking minute. Then I told him the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Nearly.

  "Deamer worked up a syndicate to exploit scotchers," I said. "Brought from Fife, good big baroque pearls fresh out of the water. The way into the international antiques market is a variant. Even art forgers like Michelangelo and Adolf Hitler knew that. Different degrees of sureness, of course."

  He was restless. "Go on, Lovejoy."

  "Start off with a biggie. It could have been any famous pearls: the Florence-Marchimisi set, Naples 1871. The Dudley pearls of London. The Orange pearls. The Notch Brook freshwater pearl from New Jersey, 1857, that the Empress Eugenie acquired. Any. Deamer settled for a baroque piece, because scotchers are baroques."

  "Not always." Big John actually said those words, but they somehow cast an image of Deamer on a meat hook. I almost retched, carried bravely on.

  "But usually. A look-alike of a famous baroque. The Canning Siren's so well documented every collector knows it. He got a syndicate together. Chatto, Vernon, Vernon's wife Donna. They could produce the goods, actually incorporate a big baroque in a forgery. Pearls are difficult. Gold's easy, now that every little forger does spectrography."

  "True." Big John agreed miserably. "It's a fucking nuisance, all this chemistry. Right?"

  "Right," the universe chorused gruffly, glaring at the very idea.

  "And once Deamer's fake variant was sold as authentic, they were in. They could do it time after time. Message ends, John."

  He rose, reasoning. Something of a record, I mused. "And every year Deamer's syndicate produces more brilliant look-alikes," he seethed. My bruises screamed for exemption next round, please. "Authenticity would be guaranteed—once his first item was sold at a nationally known auction. Like today."

  "Well done," I said and got a warning finger. I wouldn't be allowed any more liberties. "I couldn't stand by, John. I heard of it, and tried phoning you a warning. Twice."

  218 . . .

  His brow furrowed. Icy Voice went white. "And?" Big John asked.

  I shrugged. This sickened me, but God knows what else I could do. "I got told to piss off."

  Big John sauntered casually past his men, opened the window. We were two floors up. Night air drifted in to music. "Out, Harry," he said conversationally.

  "John," Icy Voice pleaded, voice panic-hot.

  "Go on, Lovejoy." Big John was actually having his cigar relighted when two of his goons lurched Harry out of the window into the fragrant dark. A crash failed to interrupt Big John's train of thought, though the rest of us were drenched in sweat.

  "I'll make no bones about it, John," I said. "I don't like Deamer. I owe him one, the bastard. When you took no notice I thought,, fine. I'll bubble Deamer with John. And I'd honestly tried."

  "So you got your apprentice to carry a marker loupe

  in?"

  "Mmmmh. And marked Deamer's pendant. The loupe'll still be in her handbag." I halted dramatically, close to overplaying. "If I'd wanted entirely out, I'd have done nothing. Instead I risked all sorts of hassle from peelers to get in."

  "What'd they done to you, Lovejoy? Some bird?"

  "Killed an old lady. She wasn't much, but that wasn't her fault."

  There was a long pause. One of the lawyer types made as if to speak but wisely stifled. Finally Big John cleared his throat, and pronounced.

  "The point is, boys, Lovejoy is no muscle."

  All gazes fixed me with the detached curiosity of the

  paleontologist. Trilobites have received more humane glances.

  "He has," Big John said on, thoughtfully, "no hopes on his own. So he could be telling the truth. Check the tart." A goon sprang out, hardly an eddy in the smoke. "And Love- joy needn't have marked the wealth. Right?"

  Anxiously I joined in the chorus of agreement to help it along. I was sweating trickles between my shoulder blades. All jewelry is "wealth" to buyer-dealers on Big John's scale.

  "So you owe me, John," 1 said. "If you're too dumb to accept a favor ..."

  "I've warned you before, Lovejoy," he said, but didn't move, which saved me a walk back from wherever he'd have clouted me. "There's only one thing. The police . . ."

  Some people do it by instinct, which is the reason Big John Sheehan's still got the whole Greek antiques market sewn up in his brother's pocket. (Not his own, note. He's not daft.)

  "Thought you'd never get there, John." I grinned so much my lip split again and bled merrily. "You're right it's the police. It's Chan
dler. Ledger warned me off in case I mucked up his own ploy, which was to net Chandler. I reckon Chandler is in with Deamer; wanted to cop me red- handed. It would have cleared them."

  We observed the infinite while Big John caught up.

  "You did well, Lovejoy. Brave lad."

  "Ah, no, John." Regretfully I shook my head. "They've done it. Chandler stays on in the local antiques fraud division. They need him. It's unbeatable, John. You, me, my apprentice in there, we've all lost." I shrugged, sighed to show how much it hurt.

  Nobody does Big John down, as we all knew.

  He paced, stopped. "One last bit of proof, Lovejoy.

  Heads'll bounce for this, m'dear boy." He was warning me that somebody was going to swing, and soon. Therefore he had to be sure.

  "Will six bits do?" I offered. "Send this army. Take flashlights. You'll find six trial replicas of Deamer's so-called antique in my workshed."

  His eyes slitted. "Six half-dones maybe means one fully completed one, eh, Lovejoy?"

  "That was my original plan, John. I admit it. Until Deamer and Chatto did for Owd Maggie. Then it got beyond a joke. And by then Deamer had framed me for another job. The Old Bill were everywhere."

  Big John pointed to three goons. "Go. Take that bird to show where."

  "Show them where all six are, love," I called as the door opened, meaning not to mention the seventh.

  "I shall insist on a receipt, Mr. Sheehan," she called back, a threat.

  It felt no safer with fewer goons around. Every one could have diced me single-handed.

  While we waited I told Big John the story right from that first seance, the antiques sweep with Donna, Owd Maggie buying it, Vernon's passing, my hopeless raid on Deamer's. I was careful to include Donna's affair with Chatto, and exclude the details about the big baroque pearls to be found in the river. Let him assume they were got from the Tay. It would do no harm, especially to Vanessa.

  We chatted old times while we waited. Big John was laughing and asking my opinion about Lucie-Smith's famed advice on collecting (find a group of nutters obsessed with one category of art; trust your own judgment; then spend) when they brought Lydia back. "The more I see of that Siren job," I was telling Big John, "the more it looks like the work of that Italian goldsmith near the big bridge in Florence. Know him? Does it all from photos. He has an army of photographers, though he's mostly Etruscan items." They'd been an hour and fetched my six test fakes in a brown paper bag. They left Lydia outside.

  "All right, Lovejoy." John passed me the bag. "Not bad. If you ever finish them, let me know. Come with me." He sounded tired as we went to the bar.

  I was frightened, because when Big John tires of people it's they who must compensate, and I'd nothing left to compensate with.

  "Cheers," I said over my drink, trying to smile my cheery bloodstained smile. "All over now, John, eh?"

  "I've spent a fortune on a dud, Lovejoy. You call that all over?" Now we were getting down to it. "Look, Lovejoy. As I see it there's two problems. My money, and my reputation." Nobody else's problems count. "I've been used, to set up Deamer's scam. I don't like it. I can't squash the check I've paid to Tierney's, or my name'd be mud. Dicey credit's bad, Lovejoy."

  "True, true, John," I agreed with sincerity.

  "So Deamer must pay, in spades. That's straightforward. But he'd still be in the saddle."

  "You're right, John." Agreeing with Big John gives a coward a lovely safe feeling.

  Sheehan stirred. "I can't be owed, Lovejoy. It'd rankle. Know what I mean?"

  He owed me four. "Aye, I know what you mean."

  "Deamer has to have an accident..." His voice trailed.

  "Wotcher, Ledger," I said to the man suddenly between me and the bright light. "Did your video camera

  222 .

  movies turn out okay? Sorry there wasn't a car chase, but. . ."

  "We got what we wanted, Lovejoy." Ledger didn't move, nodded. "Evening, John."

  "Ledger," said Big John, wondering how much the policeman had heard.

  "Chandler is under arrest." The admission cost Ledger blood.

  Big John wanted them all accessible where they could be manhandled. I too was downcast.

  "What evidence?" Big John asked.

  "Tapes, photos, conversations, videos, prints." Ledger sat heavily. "All sewn up. Oh, Lovejoy. You've met Sergeant Thomas, I think. Any chance of a pint, John?"

  "If you pay, Ledger."

  "Good evening." Donna Vernon sat opposite me on a low stool, and all sorts of little things added up: She knew so little about the antiques game; she'd been no ally of Chandler's that time he'd hauled us in . . .

  We all thought a bit. I cleared my throat. We all thought some more. She was smiling. Ledger got a pint, and a small cider for Donna.

  It came to me as Big John waited. "Vernon who got killed. He was another of yours?"

  "Yes, Lovejoy," Donna said. "Not my husband. A fraud squad man. I realized that Chandler also suspected me when he pulled you and me in for questioning."

  "Why the sweep then?"

  "Deamer's idea to obscure the origin of the pendant. They'd have had everybody turning up and making their own."

  Ledger interposed, sensitive as a wall. "They started suspecting agent Vernon. Chatto did it."

  "Bastard," I accused Ledger. "You used me to distract attention from her."

  Ledger smirked. "Yes. My idea, that. Playing on Chatto's superstition."

  "And to collar them?"

  He beamed. "You were a big help, Lovejoy. Donna was on the cameras. She's on the antiques squad too. She realized what you'd done."

  "You were so slick we missed it first time of viewing," she said.

  "You didn't point it out to Chandler, I suppose?"

  "Ah, no," Ledger said, pulling a face over his drink. "We lied, told him you'd lodged a complaint that it was a fake. We told Chandler that Deamer had kept his prize piece for himself."

  "He rowed with Olivia in his car," Donna said. "We've it all on video."

  I said, "Do I get paid?"

  "You have the satisfaction of helping justice, Lovejoy." Ledger chuckled. "The proper way. Saves you persuading John here to murder them all for you."

  "If you'd hauled Deamer earlier, Ledger," I said, "there'd be two others celebrating here."

  "Shut it, Lovejoy," Ledger shot back. "Misjudgment's not your prerogative. We were identifying the whole syndicate, collecting evidence."

  Big John was looking thoughtfully at the pendant. It was worth only its materials now, not the fortune he'd paid. He'd still lost.

  "Ledger," he said suddenly. "Any chance of seeing Deamer? Not for anything in particular. In return I'll help you to collect evidence. Put your boys with him while I ask it. Ten seconds."

  "Deal," Ledger said. "Call off those villains you left sawing shotguns upstairs."

  "Deal," said Big John.

  "Then there were two." Donna didn't smile at my remark as Big John and Ledger departed, emanating mutual mistrust.

  "See you home, Lovejoy?" she asked, smiling. "We were lovers once. In the circumstances a little stroll's the least I can expect."

  "In the circumstances, love," I said gently, "it's the most."

  22

  "Quite like old times," I cracked in Donna's motor.

  "What's Big John up to?" Donna mused. She had the woman motorist's habit of ten tennis glances at each intersection while fiddling the gearstick. It always drives me mad. "A charity call on prisoner Deamer's the last thing I'd have thought."

  So that was her reason. Once a peeler always a peeler. I knew what John would ask Deamer, but I wasn't telling Donna. She drove toward my village.

  "I know you must think me hateful, Lovejoy," she began when I said nothing. "They were suspicious of Sid Vernon. Probably he'd been a plant too long. I was brought in as Vernon's wife to keep the surveillance going."

  I didn't say Chatto must have been pleased. By a whisker.

  "That night when ..." She ac
tually seemed to color up a little. If she hadn't been in the fraud mob I'd have suspected tenderness. " . . .when Vernon was murdered, was supposed to be the night Ledger closed in. We still don't know how Deamer got wind about Sid. While I was in the bedroom alone, afterward, I was signaled that the planned

  226 .. .

  raid on Deamer's was off because Vernon hadn't come. We learned he was dead. So surveillance had to go on."

  "With me framed, blamed, maimed ..."

  "You were quite safe, Lovejoy," she said earnestly.

  "The hangman always says it won't hurt, love. Nobody's ever verified it."

  "Now, Lovejoy ..."

  "Now, Sergeant. Hadn't you thought of protecting Owd Maggie?"

  "That was an unfortunate oversight." Green tears showed in her eyes from the dashboard's glow. She was snuffling one-handed into her hankie as we arrived and halted on my gravel. God, I was glad to be home and done with the lot of them. Bluntly I told her so. Boot a bleating bobby, I always say.

  "You're determined to misunderstand, Lovejoy. That night I didn't have to make love. Oh, I know you're unreliable, a villain, unpredictable. But when I saw how you love those old things so, I began to wonder what love itself is."

  "And you wanted in." I got out, inhaled my garden's night smog. "You make me laugh, Sergeant. Love needs making, or there isn't any. You can't just suddenly decide to lie back and accept it as a gift from outer space. You must build, slog, labor at it, or you've got none. Create love, or go without."