The Rich And The Profane (23 page)

‘Why not?’ I asked, eyeing it.

Walt spoke. ‘Because it has discos. And it’s brand new.’ That might have settled it, until Rosa said something that swung me all the way. She said, nervous, ‘Martin Cruc-ifex bought it two weeks ago.’

‘Did he now,’ I said in a whisper, remembering that sooner or later I had to visit the delectable Jocina Crucifex. ‘Drive in, Walt. Have your midday pints on me, but somewhere else. Rosa? Come with me.’

There’s an old - I mean 1648 vintage - milliner’s shop in my town. If you go in, the manager calls quietly, ‘Forward, Miss Faversham!’ or whoever, and an assistant lady, attired straight Charles Dickens, steps forward respectfully to serve. I felt like saying that as we alighted, our own foray into the unknown. Rosa was pale, Walt nervously looking round in case his mate Pete the harbour constable was on his tail. These were all excellent signs. Con tricks in antiques are my home ground. Things were finally looking up.

In the quiet foyer they said Mr Underwood, the manager, would be out in ten minutes. I looked about, and sure enough there was Mrs Crucifex’s hallmark, a display case containing glass and porcelain. A nice lass was on reception, busy with new arrivals. I bought some cigarettes, but not to smoke, and told Rosa to look at the display cabinet. I went downstairs, ostensibly looking for the toilets, and found the maintenance man’s hidey hole. They’re never locked. I filched a tube of super glue - vicious stuff, this, so mind your eyes.

The display cabinet had several small cup-and-saucer items, a bonny jug, a decanter. Some loon had put a glass of water in the cabinet, presumably for humidity. I groaned aloud until Rosa nudged me.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ I told her quietly. ‘We’ll have to rescue the decanter.’

‘Rescue?’

‘Steal, love, to save the poor decanter’s life.’

I had to explain, or she’d have gone moral on me.

‘Glass is the most abused of all antiques.’ I hated whoever had put the lovely thing at risk. ‘Worse even than silver. See, glass is susceptible to moisture. It makes the glass’s surface opaque. You can never cure it.’

‘Tell them!’ Rosa said, womanlike, trying to shirk responsibility.

‘Our duty is to thieve it to safety. Keep being fascinated.’ I stood her at the cabinet. ‘Give me a nail file.’

She said, ever helpful, ‘Is one split? I’ll do it.’

Unaided, I took her manicure set from her handbag. A couple of women were talking over coffee, and some bloke was phoning. Nobody noticed. I worked the nail file into three by bending and straightening it quickly. The metal gets hot, but you finish up with three small usable screwdrivers.

The cabinet had a lock the Tower of London would have envied. But its end panels were held by six-sided recessed nuts. Extolling the beautiful porcelain on display in quiet tones, I made a mash of four cigarettes, and rammed it into the nuts’ recesses, squirting the glue in and tamping it down, then jamming a piece of the nail file in. This glue’s dynamite - it sets within seconds and holds fast. I did it all one-handed, quicker than it takes to tell, while apparently admiring the antiques. I was actually shown this tobacco-and-glue trick by Luna, a pretty housewife from Croydon who did it every chance she got. I took Rosa to sit down.

On the couch - lovely huge ferns in that lounge, but who likes ferns? - I borrowed Rosa’s comb and drove her manicure set’s nail scissors into its shaft until I’d created a tiny though reasonable slot.

Just then the manager emerged, friendly, so I postponed the theft.

‘Please wait, Rosa, dwoorlink,’ I said. ‘Won’t be a second. Admire the antique porcelain. That decanter’s beautiful, eh?’

‘We pride ourselves on our lounge displays,’ Underwood said affably. ‘The Crucifex family bought the hotel, so we persuaded Mrs Crucifex to display some items from her famous collection.’

‘You did us all a real favour,’ I said, truthful.

He took me into his office. I started my patter.

‘Mrs Vidamour is used to waiting,’ I said, smiling fondly. ‘Isn’t that what family is for?’ Chuckle, chuckle.

Mr Underwood was a pleasant, decisive bloke, determined to hide his bald pate by flattening his remaining strands of hair crossways. Portly, a waistcoast brimming fountain pens, he sensed business. So did I, for I was an impressario, big show to put on, right?

‘Frankly,’ I got in straightaway, ‘other venues have not impressed, Mr Underwood. Too staid. Too small. Too ...’

‘I know.’ He instantly condemned his rivals’ reputations, beaming. ‘We have everything you’ll need here. Our show-space is ...’

You can fill in the dots, like I did. His office wall was crammed with diplomas, pictures of stars in holiday mode, Christmas celebrations with streamers. It all happened in Mr Underwood’s domain, the Roi de Normandie.

‘Entertainment,’ he was pontificating at a drop chart of his empire, ‘is the game, Jonno. Our ballroom hosts the Channel Island championships.’ He boomed a stentorian laugh. ‘You’ll know the fame of
those'.’

‘Certainly,’ I said. It’s hopeless trying to be as hearty as the world’s Underwoods. They out-hearty the rest of us without even trying.

‘Right, Jonno. Which of our magnificent facilities will you leap at?’

‘Floor show, Mark. TV’s signed. My band’s on the way. Full advertising.’

‘Mainland advertising too?’ he asked, eyes wider.

‘Is there any other kind, Mark?’ I leant forward. ‘Not in my book.’

‘Right, right.’ He had to swallow to say it. ‘Isn’t it short notice?’

‘Notice, schmotiss,’ I shot back. I didn’t know what it meant, but felt sure I’d heard something similar said in those American TV musical extravaganzas you can’t escape. ‘I’m talking numbers here, Mark.’

‘Right, right,’ he said, eyes glazing. ‘I’ll need to OK it with—’

‘Jocina already OK’d it,’ I said, strolling out. ‘Nice doing business with you. Ciao.’

‘Er, ciao, Jonno.’

He stayed in the office. I went into the lounge. Rosa was admiring the cabinet, more worried than ever. I’d kept her comb. I told Rosa to stand talking with me. A tourist was booking out, and the receptionist fully occupied. I fitted the slit I’d made in Rosa’s comb over the projecting pieces of nail file, gave each one quick turn. The glass-sided panel swung out. I reached in, took the decanter, sleighted it to Rosa - gasp, gasp - and replaced the panel. Rosa hadn’t had the sense to fold her coat over her arm. I sighed.

‘Remove your coat, Rosa,’ I said.

‘But it’s quite chilly—’

Shedding my jacket, I did the hiding job. We left, casual, the decanter under my jacket. Walt wasn’t there, but the motor was in the hotel car park. I broke in and blipped the wires.

‘What are you doing?’ Rosa bleated. I dragged her on to the passenger seat and gunned the engine.

‘We’re going to see Mrs Crucifex, love.’

‘We? But I’m not dressed properly for—’

Women can get you down. ‘Direct me, love. We’ve a fraud to perpetrate.’ The plan’s final details had come to me in Mr Underwood’s office, a triumph of mind over environment. ‘Notice those bloody horrible ferns? Get rid of them.’

‘Me?’ I could tell that her head was swimming. ‘Me? Get rid—’

‘And that table arrangement in the restaurant’s useless. Scrap it. And those curtains’ll make me puke in strobe lighting. Ditch them.’

‘How can I, Lovejoy?’ she said faintly. ‘It’s not my—’

Suddenly I’d had enough. I yelled, ‘Won’t anybody do as they’re told? Do I have to do every single thing? You’ll have me carrying the bloody pots and pans.’

Driving us out into the main road, I ranted and raved a bit longer, just to help her focus. I was getting really nervy, trying to help people. I mean, here was I upping her dull landlady’s life to mega showbiz, giving her a life in the fast lane with the famous Jonno Rant - well, me - and all I get is earache. If I wasn’t a saint I’d give up.

We arrived at the manor house. I drove in, parked before the steps.

‘Can you drive?’ I asked as we got out.

‘No. I’m sorry. I did try once, but—’

‘Just agree with everything I say, OK? Bring the decanter.’

‘I’m frightened, Lovejoy,’ she said in a small voice. She stood close.

I stared at her, astonished. ‘So am I. It changes nothing.’ I rang the bell.

The door opened on Jocina. Showtime.

S
he was exquisite,
and knew it. Her contempt for Rosa was instantaneous.

‘I sent for you, Lovejoy, not her.’ She walked inside, furious.

Was that the full welcome? I beckoned Rosa. ‘Come on, love.’ We walked down to the motor and were just getting in when Martin tore out. A man with a mission.

‘Lovejoy! You’re to come inside.’

I ignored him, firing the engine by slipping the wires together, hurting my quick so I swore. He stood resolutely in front of the car’s bonnet, Horatio on the Bridge. I eased the motor at him. He backed, protesting, commanding.

‘He says you’ve to go in, Lovejoy,’ Rosa whispered, frantic. She was for the social proprieties, this one, and no mistake.

‘He can sod off.’ We approached the road, him backing away, desperately looking towards the house for orders.

Then the wind changed. He raised both hands in surrender, wearily waved me down. I reversed to the mansion. We were at the front door before he came puffing up. Rosa was in mortal anguish at such carryings-on, especially when I entered without knocking. She kept trying to pull me to a standstill.

‘Lovejoy,’ she hissed. ‘For goodness’
sake.
I haven’t got my best—’

‘Rosa,’ I said wearily. ‘Will you shut it? I’m in enough trouble.’

‘Trouble?’ she squeaked. ‘You’re in ... ?’ She was almost in tears, ‘I don’t know what’s happening, Lovejoy.’

‘It’s the antiques game. Nobody ever does.’

‘I’ve got no hat.’

We stood waiting in a hall the size of Crystal Palace. Martin followed, slammed the door. I asked Rosa conversationally, ‘Did you count the locks on that display cabinet at the hotel, like I asked?’

‘No.’ She looked stricken. ‘I thought you were joking.’ ‘There’s no jokes in the antiques game either.’ It wasn’t her fault she was honest. A misspent childhood. I looked at Martin. ‘Which way, b’wana?’

‘The withdrawing room.’ He ushered us in. The room wore Edwardian wallpaper, guinea an inch, had great bay windows and a wealth of antique furniture so beautiful I groaned aloud.

Jocina Crucifex turned her glare on us. Unhappiness reigned.

‘In future, Lovejoy,’ she said, voice a blizzard, ‘you will comply—’

‘Oh, aye. Much good compliance has done you.’ ‘Silence!’ she screeched, so loud that Rosa jumped a mile. ‘I will not have you coming here with some cleaning woman and—’

‘Lover,’ I said calmly. Rosa gasped. ‘Not cleaning woman, please. Mrs Vidamour and I are lovers.’

‘Lovejoy!’ Rosa bleated. ‘This will be all over the island!’ She couldn’t quite make outrage, and settled for annoyance. ‘It’s no good, love. Mrs Crucifex knows everything here and on the mainland as well. Please respect her superior position.’

‘But it’s not—’

‘True?’ I said gently, looking at Jocina. ‘If you say so, Rosa. Mrs Crucifex will respect our confidence. She’s a lady.’ I could have throttled Rosa. Had I or had I not told her to agree with everything I said? Talk to the wall. Women and infants never take a blind bit of notice of me. ‘I brought Rosa to prove I’m concealing nothing, Jocina. Mrs Vidamour will help unconditionally. I need her.’

Mrs Crucifex took her time lighting a cigarette from an onyx skull on the Sheraton table, her very movements silent music. The way I felt, looking at her, my letter wasn’t far wrong. I stood like a kid caught scrumping.

She finally spoke. ‘Why?’

‘She’s essential for the con trick.’ Rosa started yet another denial. I quelled her with a raised finger. ‘I’ve had enough from you.’ My voice was tight. ‘Give my plan away, I’ll do you. Not another word.’

Martin’s voice cut in. ‘Lovejoy’s prevaricating, Jocina. He has no plan.’

‘Then why am I here, nerk?’ I shot back. ‘You’re desperate to raise money for the prior’s religious order. So here’s what we do. We pull our con trick, and make a king’s ransom. You keep ninety per cent, to help ...’ I heard their intake of breath, and relented. ‘To help anyone you care to.’

‘Impossible!’ Martin for once ignored his wife. ‘You’re as secret as a parade, Lovejoy. A confidence trick needs subterfuge.’

I smiled at his error. ‘The best con tricks are the ones with the biggest publicity. Remember the brilliantly successful Beraha? He forged gold sovereigns, each containing 124.64 grains of measured gold, 1.37 grains
more
than England’s official coin. He got away with it, by simply thinking big and bigger!’

‘It’s gold, then?’ Jocina demanded, quick on her toes.

‘No. It’s an antique. It’s the commonest trick in the book. Everybody who ever buys something for herself, some trinket to wear, falls for it every single time.’ I turned to Martin. ‘We advertise it. Nonstop, every TV channel, every newspaper.’

He gaped. Jocina stared, judging and guessing, angry at knowing that she was missing some obvious thing by a mile.

‘Will you bear the cost, Lovejoy?’ she said after a few throbs.

‘No.’ I tried to look like Big John Sheehan does, restful but lethal. I couldn’t. ‘But I’ll arrange it - free. Will that do?’

‘Here’s the catch, Jocina,’ Martin said, all satisfaction.

‘I have proof I can do it.’ I felt cool for once. Simple theft always creates an impression. ‘Your lounge display of porcelain at the Roi de Normandie Hotel. Those locks were picked today. One of your pieces was stolen.’

‘That’s impossible!’ Martin almost shouted. ‘It’s thief-proof. And it’s electronically tagged.’

Jocina was close to a smile. She wasn’t as bad at guessing as I’d thought. She held out her hand. I nodded to Rosa, who passed her the shopping bag.

‘You felt lovely while you lasted,’ I said sadly to the decanter in farewell. Carefully Jocina placed it on the table. She signed her husband to keep quiet.

‘Where does Mrs Vidamour come in, exactly?’

‘Rosa will run the floor show,’ I lied. ‘She has already booked seven of the music hall acts we’ll need. I’m banking on twelve. The first arrives tomorrow.’