Ten Word Game (10 page)

“Ah,” he said, thoughtful. “You haven’t got them here?”

“Not yet. I’m going home by train this evening,” I said, wilder still. Truth has to suffer, so why not
extinguish
it completely? “I’ll send them to you when I get back. Only, I can’t bring them myself because…”

Why couldn’t I? I halted, flummoxed.

“Because you might be recognised?” he completed for me. Kind bloke, Hubert Predgel.

“That’s it!” I said, pleased. “Customs and Excise, see? Only, I’d need a deposit if I was going to consign them to you.”

“How much deposit?” he asked gravely. “I don’t keep much money around – thieves are everywhere, ya?”

We settled on a wodge of Euros. I thanked him, signed a receipt, then noticed the time with theatrical surprise.

“Leave the back way, Lovejoy,” he said politely. “It will save you walking all the way round to the railway.”

“Ah.” I didn’t know what to say after that.

“Pleased doing business with you, Lovejoy.” He opened the door and looked out before stepping aside. “Just checking for traffic. Youngsters come down here at such speed.”

I dithered on the step. “Er, ta, Hubert.” I wanted to say much more, but couldn’t find words. “You’re… Thanks.”

“Not at all, Lovejoy. Come again to Amsterdam…” He paused, thinking. “When time is less pressing, shall we say.”

“I shall.”

He told me a long telephone number and shrugged. “It’s my cell phone, constantly switched on. For night calls from overseas.” I had more sense than write it down.

No more to say. He let me out, smiling, and I walked away. It was only then that I realised we hadn’t agreed a price for my imagined antiques, and he hadn’t demanded details of them.

Nice folks, some antique dealers. I added Mr Predgel to my list of three decent ones, out of the 583 I know well, and went furtively into the city.

About three o’clock I entered a nosh bar called the Cassa Rosso, a pub of sorts along a place unbelievably named Oudezijds Achterburgwal. I got a tonic water and watched the world with suspicion. I admit I was scared, feeling that David Buddy or one of his hunters, or anyone of my country’s forty-three separate police forces, might tap me on the shoulder. I’d no illusions. A trio of youngsters nearby were arguing heatedly about petitioning the Dutch parliament to abolish the Dutch language. They asked my opinion. I said dunno, always safest with politics.

“We are students!” the girl said angrily. I already knew that because they were furious about
irrelevances
. Never having been an official student of
anything
, I don’t even know how it must feel to wake up
each day in a permanent apoplexy against this or that, and set to sawing placards.

“The world speaks English!” said her mate, a male hunched under a mass of dreadlocks. “You must agree!”

“Don’t answer!” the other girl told me angrily. “There is no
must
, or where is democracy?” I nodded sagely while they went at it. Others joined them to differ violently, democracy being one of their prompt words. I edged away and bought a London-edition newspaper I could read by a nearby canal.

“This,” said Mr Moses Duploy, sitting himself down beside me, “is Amsterdam red-light district. You like it, sir? I providing tour of every kinds for lost tourist.”

“No, thank you.”

“Amsterdam is world’s first red-light district!”

“No.” I was fed up with him. What was Dutch for no? “Dodge City in 1870 had a lady called Big-Nose Kate, I think. She ran a red-light house – painted her windows red. Chinese wine-houses in the Sung Dynasty covered their lanterns with red silk from AD 980 on. Folk still argue.”

I was narked with myself for getting drawn in. I read my paper, a load of claptrap. I never buy
newspapers
because I finished with comics when I was nine. Every news item is made up. I don’t even believe the date.

“You see antique chair under babba! You magic eye! With Mr Moses Duploy we make money-money, yes!”

“No, ta. I got lucky.” I thought bitterly, this is lucky?

“I providings excellent service, sir! Cheapo!”

“I have no money.”

“Ah, but you owings, no? Givings I.O.U. to Mr Predgel! Englishman’s word is moneys in banks, no?”

I eyed the fidgety little git. “Well, no.”

Think of the world’s greatest crooks, and a fair sprinkling were Englishmen, all of whom gave their word to go straight. From the romantic
backwoodsman
Grey Owl – actually plain old Archibald Belaney from Hastings – to the many breathtaking modern fraudsters of international money markets, a fair old chunk have been true-blue Englishmen with tongues of silver and a dishonest eye for the main chance.

“I personal service, sir! You for ever gratitude!”

I rose, leaving my newspaper. Nothing in it about me. He stayed there, feet dangling over the canal.

“I stop followings person, sir!”

“Eh?” That halted me. I looked about, saw only tourists on a nearby bridge, and the arguing students now surrounded by a mob of others all smoking,
gesticulating
, proving points. “Following who?”

“Small-small fee is deal, no?”

“No.” The little bloke was making me nervous.

He rose and came with me. “Follow-person near Rijksmuseum. I see you try …”

Short of words, he hunched, peered right and left, a graphic picture of a hunted man in a crowd. Was I that obvious?

“Who is he? Where?”

“Small-small fee deal?” He indicated the bridge full of tourists. “That bridge Deutsche Brucke, German Bridge. Prostitutes sell heroin in night-time. This red light district! No cameras, sir!” He became a
melodrama
expressing ineffable horror. “Cameras, no! Redlight girls stab camera tourist!” He tittered, hand in front of his mouth, eyes crinkling in humour at the thought of people getting stabbed for taking
snapshots
. “Blood on straat! Blood in canal, yes yes!”

My throat wouldn’t let me respond. I looked back, forward, around. A guide came onto the German
Bridge carrying a furled umbrella topped by silvery strands and the P&O logo. A crocodile of passengers followed. Quickly I turned down a small lane.

“Cassa Rosso best Amsterdam pub, sir! You buy Mr Moses Duploy fine beer, I stop follow-person, sir!”

“Is he still there?” I asked, breathless.

He trotted alongside. “Small-small fee deal?”

I wished he’d stop saying that. I’d only Hubert’s escape money. If I hadn’t the gelt to buy a genuine antique, how the hell could I afford to hire somebody? I reached the junction of three lanes and a canal bridge. Across the other side was a broad square full of people, lined by elegant shops, caffs everywhere. Trams pinged and whirred. A grand theatre advertised the latest musical. I felt really down.

“Is he still behind?” I asked Mr Moses humbly, lost.

“No, sir!” he exclaimed jovially. “Follow-person now ahead waitings.”

I gazed at the mob, the crowded cafes, the shops, the leafy canal walk, and miserably asked him how much. He mentioned three times what I’d got. I promised him that much for every half-day he kept me safe from follow-person. Small-small fee deal, as we Europeans say. I didn’t shake hands. He was
over-joyed
, and we walked towards the Spiegel Quarter where antiques abound. I still smarted over the Thonet antique recliner. I could have bought it on a promise, and made enough profit to clear out of Amsterdam. I’m too soft, but what can you do?

“We partners!” Mr Moses explained in his foghorn voice. “I safings you from follow-person, yes! Where hiding tree? In forest yes yes!”

He fell about at his quip. I said ha-ha. Come five o’clock I’d ditch the blighter and cut out, leaving him with my I.O.U. What was one more debt? I judged the
time. Four o’clock now. In one hour I’d be safe. Except I’d been telling myself that every ten minutes for days, and was still scared out of my wits.

We headed for the Spiegel Quarter, where seventy antique shops of great reputation waited for me.

My gadfly was often nowhere to be seen. I simply got directions from him to the Spiegel Quarter, and walked. He occasionally reappeared and trotted beside me, once nodding at a narrow lane I should take as a short cut, then vanishing.

The Spiegel Quarter is decidedly moneyed. You only shopped here if you needn’t worry how many noughts were on the price.

“This it?” I asked Mr Moses.

“Yes yes, Spiegel Quarter. You want diamond quarter?”

“Here’s fine. Watch out for follow-person, okay?”

“Indeed indeed.”

“Here. Is it a woman or a man?”

“Quick doorway!” he hissed, and thrust me into a furniture place. An elegant lady was just entering so I didn’t have to buzz. She held the door for me. Not having had much luck lately with such suave creatures, I went red and just muttered “Ta, lady.” She smiled at my embarrassment. The antiques places had control panels on their doors. I found myself in a tasteful antiques place where assistants mingled with
customers
.

The place was double pricy, ethnic trappings and furniture, most of them Far Eastern. Actually, you aren’t allowed to say Far East nowadays because “equalists” say it’s imperialist or fascist or whatnot. I mean Indonesian, Indonesia being once a Dutch colony. Textiles abounded, though most were sorry substitutes and replicas – poor Indonesia’s original textiles and styles are vanishing because of Western commerce. A number of kris knives, some truly old but others dross, were decoratively arranged on the walls. I smiled to show innocence, and moved in. The
elegant lady had evidently come to inspect three large bronze drums, magnificent musical pieces obviously set out for her inspection.

“They are genuine original Indonesian bronzes, madam,” a splendid grey-haired gent was giving it. “Just like the great ‘Moon of Bali’, known to be the largest ceremonial bronze drum in the whole world. Such
brilliant
skill, and truly ancient! These are the only matched trio known. They came to us at enormous expense from Bali, where they were recorded almost two hundred years ago.”

They lapsed into Dutch. I drifted, but lingered. I love listening to lies. Truth is the bricks in the wall of civilisation, but lies are the mortar holding society together. Nothing wrong with a good lie, of course, because some lies are worth having. A woman uses make-up so she looks dynamite, and might tint her hair to look even more fetching. Cosmetics aren’t lies, just simple tricks, though some religious sombre-sides damned all cosmetics – St Jerome, for instance, though that didn’t stop him from leading his troop of virgins to Palestine in A.D. 389 in, of course, a thoroughly saintly manner. I like to see women making their lips redder, their hair shinier, their teeth more dazzling, their faces bonnier…

“Yes, sir?” a smoothie enquired. I showed interest in a miniature temple carving with eleven floors and balconies. The more storeys, the greater the deity.

“Very apotropaic, those representations, sir,” he gushed. I was too embarrassed to ask what the word meant. He was tall, toothy, in a suit that could have bought my cottage. “Typical Indonesian. Our
speciality
!”

“I’ll come back to you in a minute,” I lied, moving on.

The antiques were a mixture of antiques and gunge. Nothing wrong with copies, fakes, forgeries, like two
of the massive bronze drums the pleasant lady was buying. But actually selling them as antiques when it’s only for money puts a bad taste in my mouth.

“Excuse me.” I turned back. “Do you provide
certificates
of authenticity?”

“Yes, sir!” He wrung his hands in ecstasy. “With every single purchase! Our entire stock is original and genuine. We are of course well known in England, and can provide references and provenance for everything in our emporium…”

I only pretended to listen while I watched the
pleasant
lady open her handbag and take out a cascade of credit cards and a cheque book encased in gold. She was going to buy the three massive bronzes.

“I was actually fascinated by your ceremonial
religious
bronzes,” I told my groveller. “Would they still be for sale?”

He looked stricken, led me to join the lady and the head geezer and explained my query, politely
switching
to English.

“I’m afraid I am just about to buy them,” the lady said. “Are you a collector? My husband works at the Hague, and I am decorating our entrance hall. We loved Indonesia. Don’t you think they will look absolutely superb?”

“Only one is genuine, lady.”

The world stopped. She glanced at the salesmen, back to me, the credit cards, cheque book, her elegant fountain pen.

“One? But I am persuaded…”

The lead man smiled with disdain. Nobody can show disdain like a con man in pursuit of money.

“I promise you, sir, we have these items
authenticated
by the best international experts. Genuine provenance – ”

Provenance is the paper trail proving where an
antique comes from, legitimising every step of its journey from olden days into the modern world. Once, provenance was taken for granted. Now, it has become the biggest factor in authenticating an antique ever since forgeries became the modern epidemic. Provenance is a simple thing, but hard to establish. If you have your great-grandmother’s oil portrait
showing
her wearing her Wedgwood gold-mounted cameo necklace, made unique by her addition of a briolette (a drop-shaped gemstone covered with triangular facets for brilliance, and often added as a pendant), then antique auctioneers will fight at your door for the privilege of handling the sale. It would be virtually cast-iron provenance. Otherwise you’d need
documents
, bills of sales, perhaps even early letters
describing
your necklace, all to attest its authencity. Without it, the money you’ll make falls like a stone.

The lady was listening to the salesman. She started to write the cheque. I ahemed.

“Forged documents are everywhere these days, lady.”

“We do not use unattested documentation,” he said frostily. I felt somebody take my elbow. They were going to evict me.

“Don’t, missus,” I said to the lady. “The middle one’s genuinely old. The others aren’t.”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s the truth. I’ll prove it.”

She pursed her lips, judging the bronzes. “How?”

That stopped me. I could prove it to myself, easy. But how could I tell these strangers I was a divvy? Most dealers think divvies are a myth, until they meet one. The middle bronze was already making me feel decidedly queer. I wondered if the odd figures and the weird geometrical designs made it worse. I’ve heard that ancient Egyptian tomb drawings send lots of people
dizzy. Sweat was on my forehead and my knees were starting to go. Soon I’d keel over.

“Bring an industrial chemist to take samples. Hire him. The middle one will have the right trace elements of ancient Indonesian bronzes. The other two will give modern readings.”

“Out!” In a babble of Dutch I was ejected into the street. The door slammed behind me, its buzzer frantic.

So much for honesty. No follow-person seemed to be hanging about, and no Mr Moses Duploy. So much for loyalty, and I was paying him a fortune in hiring fees – well, promising him, which was nearly almost virtually practically the same thing. It had been a
mistake
to speak to the lady. Try to help someone, see what happens.

Darting from doorway to doorway like a cartoon cat, I made it to the corner – and bumped into the
elegant
lady.

“Do come,” she said, smiling. “My car is at the end of the straat.”

Dutch folk are always a yard taller. She however was tastefully kitted out, exuding wealth.

“Er, look, lady,” I stammered. “I’m kind of busy. I have an appointment.”

“No. Thank
you
. May I introduce myself? I am Inga Van Rijn. I own hotels. My husband is a diplomat. I ought to at least give you a lift, in return.”

“Well…” Not a bad idea. Who’d think of looking for me in a posh car? “Thank you.”

Walking with such a stylish woman, I felt so proud. She moved with grace, like all women, but she was specially wafty, never making way for
anyone
else. Even street hooligans and riff-raff edged out of her path. Traffic stopped to let her go even when the lights weren’t in her favour. Women have that effect. I sailed along, basking in her reflection. I
wish this happened more often.

A Bentley stood at the intersection, a uniformed driver leaping out to open the door. She beckoned me in as I hesitated. I joined her, and we drove off.

“Where to?” she asked.

“To the, er… you know the railway station, please?”

She told the driver in Dutch, and we sat back in luxury.

“You knew the genuine one,” she said.

“Yes.” No harm in admitting it to Mrs Van Rijn. I’d never see her again.

“Divvy, is it not?”

“Yes.” Her eyes were flecked with a sort of gold in the iris, her pupils the blackest on earth. I always like to think how I’d paint a woman’s face. The right light is vital.

“It is a gift, something born within, is it not?”

“Yes.” I’d have to use oblique lighting, cast from her left side. Painting a lady’s portrait by candlelight was “corny”, Tom Keating the great forger used to tell me, but I think he was wrong. Some faces scream out for a muted golden glow. This lady’s features were made for it.

“You study my face?”

“Yes, Mrs Van Rijn. It’s just that … Hang on. Your name. Are you related to…?”

“Rembrandt Van Rijn? You guessed!” She laughed and clapped her hands softly. She wore genuine Berlin lace gloves, older than many of the streets. “Yes! He was my husband’s ancestor.”

It took six deep breaths to say it. “I’m honoured, Mrs Van Rijn.”

“Artists are always overcome,” she said. Her smile dazzled. “I am actually a descendant of another artist, a minor Impressionist, I’m afraid. You must be a portraitist yourself?”

“Yes, when I’m…” What, free? Not being hunted? Not wanted for robbery, theft, forgery, by New Scotland Yard and David Buddy the bounty hunter? “When I’m home.”

“You can paint me,” she suggested, “when you get back.”

The massive saloon car had stopped. We were on the wharf, alongside a massive white ship. It was the
Melissa
. I looked at Mrs Van Rijn. She was smiling with a fondness that would normally have melted my heart. She made a sign. The door opened.

“Greetings!” cried Mr Moses Duploy. He was
wriggling
in ecstasy, like a hound obeying orders. “Just in times! Sailings on seventeen hour!”

Stupidly I looked from him to Mrs Van Rijn. If I didn’t know different, she seemed rather sad. I didn’t move for a second, then worked it out. Mr Moses Duploy had shoved me into the shop where Mrs Van Rijn and the three bronzes were.

“You?” I said to him.

He fell about laughing. It was a pantomime of a laugh. “Ho, ho, ho,” he went, literally holding his sides. “Yes yes! Follow-person is Mr Moses Duploy himself!”

“Good luck, Lovejoy,” the lady said, still with that look of faint sorrow, but this time I wasn’t taken in.

“With what?”

“St Petersburg. I shall be thinking of you.”

The words fell on me like hammer blows. The only people within earshot were Mr Moses, the driver, Mrs Van Rijn, and myself. I looked up at the rail. There was Lady Vee and June Milestone at their balcony, smiling and tapping their wrist watches as if to say hurry, hurry.

I got out my I.D. plastic and showed it to the Ghurka on gangway duty. He waved me through, and
I climbed the gangplank. Historians now say that, in the two-and-a-half centuries of sea-faring piracy, and despite all the stories about walking the plank, only one captive ever suffered that terrible punishment.

Make that two.

On the good ship
Melissa
you could eat and drink all day. Worn out by Dutch treachery, I went up to the Lido Deck where the vast cafeteria called the Conservatory offered eternal tea, coffee and nosh. I sat at table looking out as the ship sailed from Amsterdam. I thought of robberies I had known and some I admired.

Fashions change (otherwise they wouldn’t be
fashions
, right?). Nothing has altered as much as theft. Think of it. If you wanted to nick a king’s ransom
and get away,
you’d not filch your neighbour’s motor. You’d not raid the nearest railway station’s ticket office or hot-wire the SAS’s wages van. You’d do what the really big thieves do these days – you’d steal stocks and shares, from within. Or you’d get yourself appointed Chief Executive Officer of some
multinational
corporation and fiddle away until, finally unmasked, you’d glide away in your valuable yacht to live the life of Riley. It’s the modern way, to steal so much money you could buy the best lawyers, plus the law, and get away scotage free.

Think of it: exactly how many city gents ever serve time? Hardly any. And how much do they get away with? Millions, and all the marshmallows they can eat in their megabuck complexes in Bahamian suntraps, while the innocent investors languish in poverty. The TV news is full of them. Make no mistake: catching them is like knitting fog. Can’t be done. And if you
somehow manage to find them, they’re still somehow immune from Law. Watch any news, and you’ll see.

The trouble is, theft on such a scale is the privilege of those who dwell in grand offices and share titles like Vice-President or C.E.O. and have secretaries. It’s not for the likes of you or me. Like, Alfred Taubman, a Sotheby’s boss, got done for a $290 million price-
fixing
scam which almost ruined the world’s entire art/antiques system. The guilty bloke got gaoled for a year and a day. See? The posher you are, the less your punishment. I know pals who got longer terms of imprisonment for eating with their elbows on the table.

So here we were, assembled to pull off a great scam, with no giant firm to smokescreen our sinister doings. Suppose it was just you and me up against it, and we were broke. What then?