The Very Last Gambado Page 11

  Luckily, London helps any penniless crook worth his salt. How come? Because the whole city’s riddled with history. Where history rules, no street’s straight, no rectangle’s perfectly square. And no museum is in the safe and full possession of all its edges.

  By four o’clock the traffic had thickened, stenosing Bloomsbury. But the two Montagues, Place and Street, were virtually empty. Not many folk use the north entrance—no shops lie adjacent. The pavement space is empty, which is why occasional coaches use it as their private terminus. I started there, walked east along the museum’s north face, counting windows in a casual and disinterested manner. Eighteen of the great things, not counting the central one over the doorway. Cunning old Bracegirdle had put two-inch mesh net over each window’s twenty-eight panes, especially in view of wondrous oriental displays inside the Edward the Seventh galleries. You wouldn’t notice the netting from outside. If I hadn’t already seen it from inside . . .

  “Hello, Lovejoy.”

  “ Wotcher, Gabriella. Doing the rounds?” This girl was full of coincidences.

  “Not really. Saw you strolling, thought I’d come along.” She smiled impishly. “The idea of the netting is that if anybody got onto the roof and lowered themselves down on a rope—”

  “—they couldn’t get in even if they managed to smash the window?”

  “Spoilsport. You guessed!” She nodded across at Senate House. "But it’d be quite a job, Lovejoy. Rope and pulley, perhaps. Hang glider. A manned kite, even. Otherwise it’s the rocket-driven ladder.”

  “SAS stuffs not in my line.”

  We walked round into Montague Street. Hotels on the left, low dwellings on the right stuck to the BM’s dark exterior.

  “Museum activities in the first few houses here.” Gabriella pointed up the steep steps to the doorways, and down steeper steps to cellars beyond nasty railings. "Note the padlocked cellar gates, Lovejoy.” She was laughing at me, yet not cracking her face an inch. I was narked.

  "Where's trust gone?” I said, smiling. “Did Max consult you, writing his twenty screenplays?”

  “Only when he was suicidal.”

  “They seem to live under terrible tension, film folk.” "Understandable, isn’t it? You drop a Ming vase, you can manage somehow. But a filmmaker’s like a general at war—only as good as his last batde.”

  “Interesting thought.”

  “These, Lovejoy?” She paused, almost as if I’d asked about the first few houses before the Montague Hotel. “The BM research laboratory, a separate unit. The trade union. Further along’s the BM education place.”

  “Eh?” I pretended to wonder what tack she’d gone on for the moment. "Oh, these houses?”

  She was falling about. “There is a way into the BM through these premises, Lovejoy. But you probably noticed the railings and wall-top stoppers as you walked along Montague Place earlier. Old-fashioned, but very effective.”

  “Mmmmh? I’ll take your word.” Laid back old Lovejoy.

  We reached the Great Russell Street corner.

  “Open space within the railings here, Lovejoy. That Portacabin’s hired. Your villains could of course hire one, try to get it into the grounds by deception.”

  “But?” Becoming my favorite word.

  “But it’s the basis of Max’s sixteenth rejected screenplay.” “No good?”

  "It’s been tried in real life, Lovejoy. By real crooks. They didn’t even get past the gate.” Gabriella was merry with interest.

  "We security people want something that really would work. Mr. Meese told Major Bracegirdle to judge it as real.”

  “Repairs at the far side, I see.” Crowds were milling in the courtyard still.

  "Yes. Reinforcing part of the structure.” She smiled. “Lot of workmen, aren’t there, Lovejoy?”

  Funny, but I was just thinking that. "Mmmmh? Oh, aye, love.”

  "The question is,” she said innocently, "which three are disguised security, isn’t it?”

  “Gosh, Gabriella, you’re clever,” I said in a bored voice.

  We walked along Great Russell Street, past the vehicle gate next to the corner bookshops. I eyed the massive iron obstruction. It looked borrowed from Holloway Gaol. Two special constables on guard said hello to Gabriella. We turned right up Bloomsbury Street, more small hotels stuck to the museum. Traffic crawled in inches.

  “Plenty of witnesses on this west side, cars and buses, Lovejoy.”

  “And the hotel people,” I pointed out. “This near Shaftesbury Avenue they’ll all tend to be night owls, theatre-goers, late-night revelers.”

  “That condemned Max’s eighth screenplay. He had a hijacked bus ramming the Great Russell Street vehicle entrance.” She was friendly now she had the upper hand.

  “What ditched it?”

  “Night drivers have two-way radios and presser bleeps.” She indicated the crawling traffic. “Daytime buses can hardly manage walking pace, let alone work up enough speed to batter through a steel gate. Even if you forget the permanent police guard.”

  “Poor Max.”

  “Some of the houses become museum property at the top corner.” Gabriella was pleasant, fonder of me as every pace provec me a failure at least as hopeless as Max. “You see your problem Lovejoy? Their back entrances are double guarded. Access is voice printed, ID carded, photographs warranted.”

  "That’s the spirit.” I added bitterness to my voice. “Cheer ir

  up. I’m supposed to be helping the poor buggers, not rubbing their faces in it. And so are you.”

  “Don't take on, Lovejoy.” She hugged my arm in delight, jokily putting on an official guide's monotone. “Moving to the northern aspect of this great museum, ladies and gentlemen, we see once more the Edward the Seventh entrance where we commenced our circular tour. Enterprising crooks should note the two vehicular entrances, respectively east and west, in this aspect. Portcullis gates of reinforced steel, always under permanent live guard day and night. Duplicate, of course, on a nonrecurrent rota.”

  “Don’t forget the autocameras.”

  "Banked panels, triple sweepers, Lovejoy.” She mimed little- girl disappointment. “That was one of my surprises.”

  “A central control room?”

  “Of course. And enough flyers—spare security men—on instant bleep. Ruined four separate screenplays, one after the other.” “Good girl. No chance of infiltrating your security cadre, I suppose?”

  "Hardly. We’re screened by every shrink in the kingdom. We’re printed, weighed, photographed, everythinged. Selection for security takes a lifetime—one of our sayings,” she added mod- esdy.

  “Glad to hear it. How about this: The baddies impersonate honest members of the public and—?”

  She groaned. "And hide inside some duct, sewer, case, office, secret panel? Hasn’t that been done to death, Lovejoy? I mean, every cheap crime novel has—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Your lads’d laugh, I suppose?”

  “They’d fall about, Lovejoy. A million laughs every screenplay. Well? Ideas?”

  “Well.” I looked up at Senate House, grinning as we came to a halt. “Have to be the balloon, I suppose.”

  She eyed me quizzically. “You serious? I told you, aerial assault’s been rejected."

  “Serious? Never more, love. I’ll give you details.” I bussed her and said so long, walking away from the guardians of our national treasures. Guardians? I’ve shot ’em, as the antique boyos say. It’s a phrase indicating derision. I could go through the museum like a dose of salts.

  Now, ballooning’s not my game. Which meant I didn’t want to do any. So I’d need Three Wheel Archie, and a little bit of help from my friends.

  | got the help all right. It was the usual sort—nothing but trouble.

  The train turfed us out of the station less than an hour late, which is space age stuff for East Anglia. I got the bus into town and found Tinker at the Ship on East Hill. He was sloshed as usual but very pleased with himself, trying to spin his tale out
for maximum beer volume. I cut him short by prophesying a drought.

  "Give, Tinker.” Three pints, lined up on the table. With mine, four. His rheumy old eyes brightened. He looked about. A dozen barkers were in from the auction rooms and the local antique shops, plus strangers. Town was busy.

  “Fuss, Lovejoy, there’s a run on Victorian furniture. Small stuffs vanishing, bein’ bought up rotten.”

  “Why?”

  "Word is Ben Clayton’s syndicate, wiv some Brighton lot.”

  “Clayton? You sure?” More worries.

  “That’s the word, Lovejoy. Got a prile of tonners. Yanks are buying again.”

  “Three container loads?” Nobody had bought on this scale for months. No wonder so many barkers were in. Good times lay ahead for brewery stocks at this rate. "Clayton’s spending that much?”

  "Aye. He’s called in a lot of favors to get them. Even bought a Yankee tonner customer from that Sussex mob.”

  “Christ.” I did a Stef Honor smile, showing the hawkeyed barkers I was hearing nothing but good news, Lovejoy can cope. But my knees were knocking. A tonner is the antique trade’s nickname for a sealed container load. The container of antiques, skillfully packed, goes unopened from the dealer’s place to delivery point overseas. It’s all aboveboard, Customs and Excise doing their stuff, everything recorded. Much of it’s speculative buying. The overseas purchaser trusts the local dealer to assemble a full load of honest antiques, pays up, and doesn’t clap eyes on them until they arrive. One tonner costs a king’s ransom. It’s no farthing Lucky Dip for the fainthearted.

  When money’s plentiful, or desperately sparse, local dealers start buying customers. That is, they’ll pay another dealer for the privilege of supplying the container load ordered by his next customer. If the dealer agrees—and is certain the antiques will be just as good as those he himself would supply—it’s money for jam. Why? Because he does nothing except sit and twiddle his thumbs while the money rolls in. Purchasing a customer costs one-third of the total value of the shipment. Minimum cost: eight times the national average wage.

  A prile is three of anything. Tinker’s news therefore meant Ben Clayton had spent at least twenty-four years’ wages, plus commission, plus swap fees and God knows what else, to buy into the tonner trade all of a sudden.

  “Tinker,” I said, still grinning showily. “What the hell’s going on?”

  He indignantly nicked my pint, having already quaffed his own. "Don’t ask me, Lovejoy. Thinking’s your job.”

  “Give me a for instance.”

  He coughed mournfully into the empty glass, raising a gravelly echo. I flagged Patty to keep the ale flowing. She obeyed but held up three fingers, silent scolding for being three weeks behind on the slate. Fascist cow. “Well, son,” Tinker said, returning. “That Welsh dresser in Foggerty’s at Wormingford—gone. Chandler’s mahogany commode that you went daft over—gone. That Sheraton work table you was after from Liz Sandwell—gone.”

  “Stop.” My grin was getting cramp. “Big spend and big buy?” “Told you, Lovejoy. I knew you’d go spare.”

  A Welsh dresser in oak, genuine 1790, is a gift almost beyond price. They’re among the loveliest pieces ever to come out of these old islands of ours. Foggerty, a renegade priest, got this beauty from Carmarthen, and had been teasing us for weeks. The reason they're so popular is that you can stick a Welsh dresser anywhere— living room, restaurant, pub, an ancient creaking rectory—and immediately it’s at home. It’ll live in perfect harmony with its surroundings because it has design magic: three long shelves above cupboards and drawers, all in lovely symmetry. At first sight a little too rectangular, it harmonizes with any decor, however daft the color schemes. A Welsh dresser’ll add class to any jerry-built modern dross.

  The commode was in so-called “plum pudding” mahogany (from its grain) and cross-banded with pale satinwood. Only four drawers, with splayed-out legs and a bellied apron shape, it screamed 1795 or so. Dealers call the style Sheraton, but at the time furniture makers called the tiny out-curving legs "French feet.” When I’d seen it for sale in Chandler’s window my chest had bonged out Hepplewhite’s name, for it was so like his designs. The Sheraton work table was a slender little . . .

  “The good news is I got a bloke as seed old Sam afore he got done.”

  “A witness? You’ve actually found a witness?” I went and got him a refill and two pasties with chips and a fried egg. He shed tomato ketchup over the plate and began eating, sometimes even using the cutlery provided. His stubbly chin undulated. His mittens added new to ancient grease. I tried to look away but needed to know.

  “Go to the layby, son. Opposite’s a layby on the other lane. Duffie’s caff stall.”

  "Duffie? Didn’t he tell the Old Bill?”

  “Leave off, Lovejoy. Duffie’s not barmy. Watch out.”

  I looked around. Lydia’s shadow was on the vestibule’s frosted glass. I sighed. A faint knock sounded. Patty the barmaid gave me a sweet smile.

  “A lady wants you in the porch, Lovejoy.”

  “Great, Tinker. See you.” To jeers and catcalls I rose and reported for duty, my ears burning.

  She glanced about. "May I invite you to tea, Lovejoy?” Must be life-threatening. "Er, well . .

  We have a sedate restaurant—one only—called Jackson’s, not far from the war memorial. Resolutely it maintains standards: white tablecloths, crumpets, Dundee and Eccles cakes, a choice of muffins, white toast. It doesn’t go far if you’re starving, but since women never are they love the place. Me and Lydia faced each other. The waitress, astute diagnostician, had given us a table for eight so we were apart rather than together. Lydia ordered, being terribly brave about something.

  A few false starts later, “Lovejoy,” she said.

  “Look, love. I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I apologize.”

  “No, Lovejoy. Please." She sat, turgid, prim, gathering resource. It looked like yoga from where I sat. She was charming, a smart dark suit, cardigan, a brooch by the Frenchman Froment- Meurice—gold, white enamel, amethyst, two emeralds—on her left lapel (a lady’s left is also correct since Liz II, Lydia once tartly rebuked me when I’d asked). “I must ask your forgiveness.” “Eh?” This was new. I scrutinized her for guile, but she lacked it as always. “Well, er . . . yes. Of course, Lyd.”

  “Lydia, please,” mechanically. Then, gentler, “I had no right to imply, utterly without foundation, that your interests in Lorane were of. .

  “Yes, love?” Lorane? I’d no notion what she was on about, but you must go careful.

  “Of a carnal nature, Lovejoy. There. I’ve said it.”

  “Lydia! Really! I’m shocked.” My playing up was a joke, but I find you can’t joke much with them. Lydia closed her eyes, hands and handbag on her lap.

  “You're right to be upset, Lovejoy. All day I’ve felt remorse.”

  “Me too, love,” I said, wondering what about. “But it’s all past.”

  “You’re generous, Lovejoy. I’m grateful. Especially when you were so desolated by your dear friend’s tragedy.”

  “Ah, well.” The grub had come by now, its aroma fighting for attention.

  “To atone, Lovejoy, I have excavated details of the film company.” She rummaged in her handbag. Safe in the knowledge that this was an indefinite process, I scoffed a load of muffins and started on the toast and marmalade. “Here.” She passed me a spring notepad filled with her methodical handwriting.

  “Everyone envies me, Lyd,” I said truthfully, though didn't tell her why. There isn’t a dealer in the province wouldn’t give an antique Spanish vargueno for an hour’s chance alone with Lydia. I’ve even had blokes . . .

  “Here,” I said. I’d been flipping through her booklet. “Where’d you get this balance sheet? Biographies, reports on the principal assistants. Ray Meese. Lorane. Vance. Max.” I gaped at her in wonder. “You gorgeous tart. Aren’t you the clever one, then!”

  Her color heightened. Womanlike, to disguise it s
he ballocked the waitress for letting my plate get empty. “I also have your catalog, Lovejoy.” She laid it on the linen cloth. "The expense! I told the director of the St. Edmundsbury Trust that there’s simply no need for prices to increase exponentially when production costs rise arithmetically . . etc. etc. "Mr. Sheehan agrees.”

  My jaws froze on a gnawed muffin. “You saw Sheehan?”

  “Since he wishes to retain your services in antiques, we agreed he should pay an advance.” She placed an envelope on the table. Today was suddenly Christmas. "I also bought in groceries for you.”

  "In your handbag too?”

  The quip sailed over her head. "Of course not. In the cottage. I made sure the villagers were fully aware of your absence when I visited.”

  To save my reputation, no less. “Thank you,” I said gravely.

  An hour later I trundled the Ruby along the bypass to Duffie’s roadside caravan caff, having sent Lydia to tee up Three Wheel Archie. All of a sudden things were quickening too much for my liking.

  Incidentally, a vargueno’s a decorative front-hinged writing chest on an elaborate framework. And Lydia’s worth more. Except that now she’d hired me to Big John Sheehan. I’ve never known him pay in money, only blood.

  T

  HE A12 trunk road’s a trickster. You get a few miles of safe dual carriageway, then it’s back to nasty little windings between fields, woods, hedgerows. It was in one of these remotish stretches that Sam Shrouder died.

  Duffie—not Duffy, note, but some contracture of a name as yet unknown—is typical of the unlicensed roadside caff. Usually unshaven, unwashed, filthy apron older than him, he operates from a drop-sided caravan. It's motorized for a quick getaway should the Old Bill come calling. No license means he’d be fined every ten minutes. His chipped and weathered caravan stands in a layby, those grotty macadamized nooks wherein weary motorists can park and kip. Duffie’s the only facility. No toilets, no warmth.