The Judas Pair (13 page)

It gave him a grin as he lit his pipe.

‘Dealing in antiques?’

‘Maybe,’ I offered. ‘I’d take you on as a substandard junior partner for a year’s salary.’

‘I like a proper job,’ he countered, winking at Sheila. She was quite taken with him.

‘On second thoughts, I couldn’t see you standing the pace.’

‘Of course,’ he yakked on, ‘I can see the attraction. Nothing really matters in antiques, does it? Right or wrong, you get along.’

‘It’s time for his tablet,’ I apologized to Sheila. ‘This feverish air down on the waterside, you understand. His blood’s thin.’

‘I turn into a man after dark,’ he said solemnly to Sheila. ‘If ever you’re thinking of ditching this goon, give me a tinkle –’

‘Flinters, Dick,’ I said gently. There was silence. A water bird made a racket outside and something splashed with horrid brevity.

‘Ah, well,’ he said.

These pipe-smokers are one up on the rest of us. It might be worth taking up just for the social advantages. If you want a few moments’ peace, out it comes and you can spin out the whole ritual for as long as you feel inclined. The universe waited breathlessly until his pipe was chugging to his satisfaction.

‘Launched?’ I asked. ‘Better now?’

‘Flinters,’ he said. ‘They’re a problem, now, aren’t they?’

‘You
are telling
me
?’

‘And rare.’

‘And desirable. Go on, Dick. And costly.’

‘Ah, yes.’ He stared down the short slipway. ‘About a month ago I decided which pair I’d keep. I have two Sandwells and the Mortimers. The Mortimers can go, but I want exchange. A revolving rifle, English.’ Sandwell was an early brass-barrel specialist, lovely stuff.

‘And cash adjustment.’

‘Something of the sort.’

‘And the Mortimers?’ I could feel that old delicious greed swelling in my chest. Magic.

‘Mint,’ he said.

‘Really mint?’

‘Not a blemish.’ He’d let his pipe doze. ‘Cased. Case-hardening. I don’t think,’ he said, winking at Sheila, ‘you’ll be disappointed.’ The understatement of all time. Case-hardening. Something scratched again at my memory, worrying me.

If you keep any metallic object in an unopened case for long enough, it acquires a curious characteristic. If the surface was originally made an acid-protected rust brown, it simply becomes shinier, almost oily in appearance. If previously made a fire-protected shiny blue (‘gunmetal’ blue), the surface develops an odd mother-of-pearl effect very like the sheen of petrol on water. This case-hardening is an especially desirable feature of anything metal having a protected surface, from coins to weapons.
On no account clean it off;
you will be doing posterity a cultural favour and yourself a financial one by leaving it intact.

‘Look, Dick.’ I drew breath and launched. ‘I can lay my hands on one.’

‘Good?’

‘A faulty spring I’ve not touched. Otherwise mint,’

‘Cased?’

‘Come off it.’

‘Who by?’

‘Adams, London Bridge. Five-chambered.’ I photographed it in my mind’s eye. ‘It’s beautiful.’

He thought a second in a cloud of smoke. ‘How would we adjust?’

‘Because you’re a close relative,’ I said, in agony, ‘I’ll pay the difference.’

‘Let’s settle it tomorrow,’ he said, and we shook hands.

Sheila rose. ‘Is that all that happens?’ She seemed peeved.

‘What do you want, blood?’ I demanded. I was drenched with sweat, as always. The excitement of the forthcoming deal was brewing in me. Tomorrow, with luck and good judgement and money, I would be in possession, of a pair of case-hardened flinters made by the most aristocraric and expensive of all the great London makers, Henry Walklate Mortimer.

‘Thanks for coming, Lovejoy.’ Dick came to the door of his boatshed to see us out. ‘Still got your steamer, I see.’

‘Any more jokes about my motor and the deal’s off,’ I shot back. ‘At least I’ve got a licence for it – have you, for that thing?’ I pointed to his pipe.

‘Bring your lovely lady again, Lovejoy,’ he called, and I replied with rudeness.

He was able to get his own back because my wretched banger refused to start despite all the cranking I could manage. Dick borrowed a trio of amused boatmen to push us off, to a chorus of catcalls and derision.

‘Why don’t you put an engine in, Lovejoy?’ was Dick’s final bellow as we pulled off the wharfside and escaped on to the road up from the village. I didn’t reply because I was white-faced and my teeth were chattering.

‘Love?’ Sheila asked. ‘Are you ill?’

‘Shut up,’ I hissed, foot flat on the accelerator. The needle flickered up to twenty and we pottered slowly upwards past the church. It was almost time for lights.

‘What is it?’ She tried to pull me round but I swore and jerked my face away.

‘I’ve just remembered something.’

‘For God’s sake, darling –’

‘This bloody stupid car!’ I almost screamed the words. ‘Why the hell don’t I get a new one? What’s the matter with it.’

‘Darling, pull over to the side and I’ll –’

‘Shut up, you stupid –’ My hands were ice-cold and my scalp prickled with fear.

‘Please, love. I’m frightened. What is it?’

‘That frigging box!’

‘What box?’

‘That apothecary box! There’s something in it – a – a –’ the words wouldn’t come.

‘The bottles? Drugs?’ I shook my head and strove to overtake the village bus to the driver’s annoyance. He hooted and pulled in as we crawled past towards the town. We were up to thirty. ‘Those little scales?’

‘That other thing.’

‘You said it was junk the auctioneers put in to make it look complete. Wasn’t it a screwdriver?’

‘It was case-hardened!’ I snarled. ‘Who the hell puts a screwdriver away in a felt-lined case to preserve it for a whole bloody century?’ I was practically demented, kicking and blaspheming at the decrepit motor, begging it for greater speed. ‘And its handle was hatched –
hatched like a Durs gun.
Oh, God Almighty, please let them still be open. Please, please, please.’

Sheila grabbed my arm. ‘Lovejoy, if we see a taxi, flag it down.’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ I whimpered. ‘Please send a taxi. Please, please.’

‘What time do they close?’

‘Half five.’

‘It’s twenty past.’

‘The swine will go early. They always do, those bloody attendants, the idle sods.’

We reached the trunk road roundabout by the river bridge at twenty-five past five, and swung left away from the Ipswich road. Bast Hill was well into lighting-up time as we screeched to a graceful stop outside Seddon’s. It was closed and dark.

‘Knock,’ Sheila said, climbing out.

‘They’ve gone.’ I was lost, defeated by the calamity.

She remained resolute and banged on the main door. I stepped down to join her just as one of the stewards opened the partition. My relief almost made me faint.

‘What the hell –’

‘Jim,’ I said weakly. ‘It’s me. Lovejoy.’

‘Closed till tomorrow.’

‘Not for me you’re not.’ I pulled out a note. ‘A single question, Jim. Just one.’

He eyed it and nodded. I gave it him and asked, ‘The question is, will you let me find my nail-file? I dropped it in the showroom an hour or so back.’

‘Gawd.’ He hesitated. ‘Mr St John has the keys.’

‘And so have you, Jim.’

‘Well –’ he was saying, when Sheila came to the rescue.

‘It’s actually
my
nail-file,’ she broke in. ‘I was really careless. It’s one of a set, you see, in a case.’

‘Well, miss, dealers aren’t allowed –’

‘I know exactly where it is, Jim,’ I said, calmer now. ‘I’ll bet you five of those notes I could put my hand on it in three seconds flat.’ That was a mistake and scared him.

‘Here, Lovejoy,’ he began, starting to close the door, ‘I don’t want none of your fiddling –’

‘You stay here, Lovejoy,’ Sheila said chidingly. She stepped into the doorway and turned to push me back. ‘You’re always so abrupt. The gentleman said that dealers weren’t allowed in after fixed hours so you’ll have to wait here, that’s all.’ On a tide of feminine assurance she swept past Jim, who humbly put the door to. I heard their footsteps recede along the passageway and keys rattle in the showroom door.

I hung about the pavement getting in people’s way and generally prowling around for quite five minutes before Sheila reappeared. I was up with her in a flash.

‘Thank you so much,’ she was saying to old Jim, who was smirking at all his extra gallantry. ‘I’m so sorry we delayed you. You’ve been so kind. Good night.’

I honestly tried to grin at Jim, but he wasn’t having any from me and banged the door. Sheila walked to the car.

‘I’ve got it in my handbag,’ she said, swinging the strap to her shoulder. ‘Don’t grab, or Jim will see.’

She was really quite smart at that. Old Jim would no doubt be lusting after her as we left. You could see virtually the whole hill from the office. With quivering fingers I set the handle and cranked. We rumbled up the hill and I pulled in by the park railings in town.

The cars pouring from the car park got in the way of this manoeuvre. I’m sure they didn’t really mind having to stop suddenly. Muriel Field was at the wheel of a grey Rover, with Lagrange beside her, but I’d no time for light chitchat. After all, she had no antiques any more. Not like Sheila, who had the device out. I carried it into the lights of the lamps on the war memorial. It was a Durs screw-mechanism, the weirdest I’d ever seen, but authentic, star cross-hatched on the handle and case-hardened, maybe in all five inches long.

‘I’m afraid I have a confession, Lovejoy,’ Sheila said, beside me.

‘Eh?’

‘I’m afraid I . . . I stole it.’ She pulled away as I tried to embrace her, laughing. ‘Promise me.’

‘What? Anything.’

‘You’ll pay for it tomorrow.’

‘You’re off your head.’

‘Promise, Lovejoy.’

I sighed at all this whimsy. ‘I promise.’ I gave her a rubbery kiss under the memorial’s lamp despite the pedestrians. A car’s horn sounded. Adrian and Jane sailed past signalling applause. He’d have some witticism ready next time. ‘Here. You can have the honour of carrying the find home.’

‘Is it important, Lovejoy?’ I gave it her and she slipped it into her handbag.

‘Somewhat,’ I said, beginning to realize. ‘Somewhat.’

A hurrying mother pulled her gawping child along the pavement to stop it openly inspecting the couple kissing in the main street. I kept my eye on her as Sheila and I stepped apart to drive home, and sure enough she gave a swift glance back to see how we were managing. Aren’t women sly?

I
DROPPED
S
HEILA
at the station. She had to go to work, poor lady, on some crummy newspaper. We had a small scene outside.

‘I’ll be here Sunday,’ she told me, and I nodded. She waited. ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘Aren’t you going to come on to the platform and see me off?’

‘I daren’t take my foot off this pedal or she’ll never start again today,’ I explained. ‘Otherwise, I’d come in with you like a shot.’

She came round to my side and kissed me.

‘You know, Lovejoy,’ she said, ‘for the world’s greatest antiques dealer you’re an awful dope.’

‘I keep telling you your slang’s dated.’

‘No use trying to needle me,’ she said, cool as ever I’d seen her. ‘You’re falling for me, Lovejoy.’

‘Look,’ I said testily, ‘this accelerator’s down to the floor. It’s costing the earth in petrol just sitting here while you babble –’

She put her arms round me and hugged me tight. This, note, was about ten in broad daylight with the paperman grinning and the kiosk lady enjoying the show.

‘I have a secret to tell you, Lovejoy.’

‘You’re not –’

‘Certainly not!’ She reached under the dashboard in front of me. ‘Take your foot off the accelerator.’

‘I can’t. The engine’ll cut out.’

‘Please.’

I did as she said. Just before the engine coughed to silence she twisted something near the steering rod. The engine muted instantly into a deep, steady thrum. She stood back and dusted her hands.

‘There!’

I sat mesmerized.

‘Now,’ she said casually, ‘care for a spin?’

‘Er –’

‘Push over.’ She came into the driver’s seat and nudged me across. ‘Let the expert do it, honey,’ she said kindly, flicked a switch somewhere and yanked on an angled rod-thing near her knee.

We took off. My spine nearly slipped from the force. The old Armstrong boomed easily round the station roundabout and Sheila put it on to the hill near the hospital at fifty. We zoomed on to the main A12 about three minutes later and Sheila crashed her slickly up into the seventies. Fields and trees flicked by. Wind pulled at my face and her hair streamed out flat against her temples. In a couple of breaths the signs to Kelvedon darted past. I sat in frozen disorientation while all this happened round me. Sheila pulled out into the middle lane and did her mystery with the levers. We hummed alongside a column of slower cars and as she overtook back into the inside the needle wobbled down to seventy. There was hardly a shudder. A couple more millisecs and we were at Witham. She brought us into the station and switched off. The motor breathed a sigh, quieting into silence.

‘Tea, guvnor?’

There was a tea stall within reach. I nodded and climbed shakily down. Let Sheila pay, I thought angrily. We stood in silence slurping tea from cracked cups. Sheila had this strange feminine knack of being able to drink scalding fluids without losing her oesophagus. I was quite ten minutes finishing mine. I stared at the Armstrong while I sipped, thought and wondered. I handed my cup on to the counter with a nod of thanks. The chap on the stall must have thought we’d had a row because he studiously busied himself picking the losers at Cheltenham and left the cup there.

‘Is that what you were doing last night?’ I managed to say finally.

‘Yes, love. I’m so sorry.’ She held my hand.

‘Was it . . . really obvious?’

‘It was rather, Lovejoy,’ she said sadly. ‘A massive car like this, so old, supposedly only one gear, fantastic fuel consumption, no speed to speak of, weak as a kitten, all these gadgets within reach.’