The Very Last Gambado Read online

  And promised Hammer my Ruby, as deposit. I’d have stayed to watch the dig, but burglary called.

  A

  libi time.

  . The day of my burglary was also a big day for Lake Bayon Enterprises, Inc. A conference was called for noon at the studios. Obediently I phoned the Old Bill, left a message for MacAdam saying where I could be reached. On the way through London I stopped at a street market and bought some gear, stowed it in a dark blue sports holdall. At the studio I spoke to everybody I could. The meeting began almost on schedule, by some fluke.

  A sparse room by the hangar was crammed with freeloaders. Pecking order ruled as the pundits arrived. First came Vance, floating on high, with a cluster of assorted floaters at least as stoned as himself. Then Max, anxiously toting a few folios of distilled genius, waving with cheery anxiety—I was beginning to like Max, never having met anyone as gormless as me before. Several birds hung around with clipboards. People were guzzling wine, noshing windy little eats that give you not an erg of nourishment. Then Ray Meese and Lorane swept in, to acclaim of

  Roman proportions. That was the signal for the sundries to fade and leave us of the think tank at the feet of the guru. Stef Honor kept his two birds to minister maul. Saffron Kay flounced, bewildered as ever.

  Meese began by recounting Max’s new story. A calm bloke in corduroy, Hank, was served a few swingers right at the start.

  “Balloon off the big Senate House building, Hank,” Ray announced, drawing the process in the air with his hands. “Stunts include one tumble to ground from a trailing balloon rope.” “Special rate applies.” Everybody but me said it with Hank, falling about laughing. Max, next to me, whispered, "Hank’s stunt arranger. He negotiates wage rates.”

  “Winches, hotel extras with support, evil-doers double up in black outfits, guns. That’s the hotels. We do most cased, but day footage in two Montague Street and Bloomsbury hotels, all right?” "Sure, Ray,” people chorused. Notes sped from clipboard to clipboard, assistants gesturing approval to each other.

  “Time sheets out, Beth?”

  “Done, Ray.” Beth was as fat as a sumo wrestler. I’d seen her before, always on hand, calmest of the lot.

  "We're over budget, proles.” Ray’s voice bled on us all. “No Spielberg crappisms about costs, spinovers. Stef, Saffron, you do indoor set action, second unit in studio. Ten days, the massacre scene in the museum. No headaches, broken legs, hangovers, religious conversions, or other snafus, okay?”

  “Okay, maestro,” from Stef and a bewildered “What?” from Saffron.

  "Peasants. I wanna go in ten feet tall.”

  Everybody, still less me, assured him he’d be at least twelve. A pair of enthusiasts called, “Go, Ray, go!” I listened, watched, not knowing what the hell was going on. A dark-haired bloke opposite me grinned, winked. He’d not done much shouting either. Ray Meese continued down his roll call of duties. Cars, services, food canteens, cameras, electricity supplies, all were summarized by assistants—ready, Ray, ready—even loos and booze. A brief battle occurred over something called an Elemack Mini Jib, when a grim hulk of a man swaying near the drinks table suddenly erupted about designer assistants and costumes.

  “Lancelot Lake,” Max whispered, worried sick. "He’s the criminal in the movie. He has a grudge against society, see? Wants to punish the world’s culture. A lost love’s embittered him . .

  “Lancelot, Lancelot,’* Ray wheezed expansively. “Would I ever let you screen less than exotic, perfect, magnetic? Nonono!” "I dunno, Ray.” Lancelot was genuinely disgruntled. “It’s the same black hat crap, y’know?”

  "You and I talk close-ups, Lancelot,” Ray promised, which made Stef Honor raise his head sharply. "Okayee?”

  “Well.” Lancelot setded sulkily, holding out a glass to be filled instantly by diligent serfs.

  “Who’s the dark bloke opposite?” I whispered to Max.

  “Pal Trevelyan. Trajectory man, weapons, our shootist.” “Right, right.” Translation: gunsmith.

  The meeting lumbered on. My interest faded. It seemed that many scenes would be shot in a mock-up, some false cardboard lookalike gallery in the studio hangar. Why, when there was the perfectly good genuine museum itself ready, willing and photogenically able? The actual robbery scenes would have to be done there anyway. I yawned a couple of times, grinned when Pal Trevelyan caught me and nodded in sympathy.

  Time. I occupied it by trying to make sure everybody on earth remembered me there. Inwardly I was planning my real genuine robbery with far greater precision than they were planning their story. The meeting broke with an announcement that tonight’s celebration dinner party would be in the Novello Room. I made a point—several, indeed—of telling all the assistants I would visit during the afternoon and see where they worked. They said, "Hey, right on, do that man.”

  I left by the back gate of the studios, telling the gate man I was just getting something from my car. A taxi to a tube station, and in an hour I was winging eastward on the express. It’s pretty empty that time of day, and I chose my compartment with care. I didn’t want too many folk noticing me sewing buttons onto a dark blue serge suit I’d got in my holdall.

  If you stand in the center of St. Edmundsbury, looking at the so-called square with the main row of shops descending to your right, the hall in question stands to your front and right. A bus station of unpleasing aspect lies across an intervening pavement. Otherwise, it’s a posh shopping area. The hall’s ancient, very noble in a tiny kind of way, and has an unusual safety feature: its prominence is its security. No garden, and it can be seen from almost every direction. It abuts onto the pavement, which in daytime heaves with pedestrians, shoppers, bus passengers. Youngsters go in and out of the fast food place over the ginnel next door. Nasty tall streetlights add to the problem. Pubs and taverns summon still further throngs. Who says country towns are dozy?

  Pinching a car’s never a problem, but choosing the right one is. I finally selected a little black mini from the social club by the railway. A lady’s handbag lay on the passenger seat, silly woman. Crooks could have come by and nicked it. Enough fuel, thank heavens. Ladies’ bowling teams gather there when they play away. They frugally arrange car pools, and leave most of their cars outside the clubhouse.

  I drove to Bury, passed through once, then paused on the bypass. It was nearly dark, the early edge-of-light town sort that lacks the terrible intensity of countryside midnights. Unobserved, I tilted the driving mirror to inspect myself. Black crash helmet with SECURITY 43 stuck onto it. Only kiddies’ transfer numbers, but imposing in conjunction with my blue suit. I'd transformed it with silver buttons, a metal shoulder flash, a police whistle and chain. An imposing bunch of keys, from a Berwick Street market barrow, swung from my belt. Gloves under my left shoulder tab. Black boots. I looked so somber I was thrilled, especially with the toy badge pinned to my chest. It was a children's science fiction thing. A transparent visor pivoted from my helmet. I carried a truncheon. I’d clipped a bobby’s shiny torch to my front, the sort that stares forward, one-eyed, leaving both hands threateningly free. I was the business. My reflection put the fear of God in me. My handy minirecorder was fixed up with an aerial, nicked from another car and black-taped on. I’d done the recording waiting for the train, when I was still a civilian.

  Ten minutes later I’d checked that at least one of the phone boxes near the exhibition hall was working. I parked my car behind a hotel—better than a pub, safer and less conspicuous—and walked portentously along the pavement toward the hall. A light was on outside, two spotlights bragging of this lovely town’s ancient architecture. I walked, keys jingling, counting pedestrians. Twenty, plus a couple emerging from hamburgers. The joint was still heaving, but its big windows, so full of diners, look out across the hall’s face rather than directly at it, so that was okay. Had to be now.

  Phone. A 999 call. ‘‘Emergency operator. Which service, please?”

  “Police,” I snapped, voice gravelly.


  ‘ ‘ Police-can-I-help-you ? ’ ’

  “Private Security Guard Four Three reporting a broken window. The exhibition hall. Am on site. No intruders identified. Three children reportedly perpetrated the act. Permanent continuous private guard ordered to remain until morning. No police action required. Over and out.” I was pouring with sweat. I walked quickly to the car, got in. The hotel yard was quiet. I stuck a magnetic blue lamp on the roof, leaving it switched off, and drove purposefully at speed round the corner, halting in front of the hall. I marched into the alley space. Nobody. A bus just leaving, and me out of view. The small ground floor was leaded, barred. The equivalent window of the floor above wore a sill of outcurved miniature palings, points downward. This left the top half free for access.

  I slung my hook up, less than a dozen feet, hauled myself up to it, nutted the top of the window in with a blow from my crash helmet, and squirmed through only partly stunned. But not too comatose to notice two kids in the alleyway staring up as I pulled the rope in after me. Nor to remain deaf to the din of a million alarms whooping and clamoring inside the museum.

  “What’s up, mister?” one of the kids yelled.

  “Did you see any lads chucking stones at this building?” I yelled down authoritatively.

  "No, mister. Only you breaking the window.”

  "Did you see anybody with a car trying to ram the front door?"

  "No, mister.”

  "Go round to the front. Make sure nobody gets out.”

  They scampered off. I coiled the rope, lodged it and the hook round my waist under the jacket, switched on my chest lamp and calmly descended the stairs, clicking every light on as I went. It took me an ugly two whole minutes finding the night alarm switch, even though the control box was clearly labeled in the foyer. Shows what a state I was in. Silence descended. I opened the front door to find my two heroes waiting in awe. I tried to loom larger than life. "Anybody come out?”

  “No, mister. What’s happened?”

  I gave them both a quid. “Three kids were reported vandalizing. Right. Well done. Off you go.” I marched across to my car, set the blue rotating light going, returned. An elderly gentleman was passing.

  “Anything amiss, officer?”

  “No sir. Thank you. Just a group of scamps throwing things. I was along pretty quickly.”

  “Sign of the times, officer, sign of the times.”

  Five more minutes and restless, I phoned the police station, not using the emergency number, made a report. Still no squad car. Had I been too convincing? Or were they resting in some hostelry and couldn’t be bothered?

  The squad car came after another ten minutes. By then I was almost worn to a grease spot from worry. Two pudgy uniformed constables alighted for a smoke and a chat. I was on the pavement by then, having closed the door, switched most lights off.

  "No damage except a window.” I pointed. “Some kids. Means I’ll have to be here all frigging night now."

  The two nodded, asked me how much wage I got, were there any perks. I said it was all confidential, grinned, and told them a fortune, precisely doubling what I guessed was their salary. “Free car, too,” I said. “Not this crap heap. Recreational use permitted. And home-buy assistance, two percent mortgage.”

  They whistled, envious. This would fuel grumbles in the police

  canteen. I added more money details, keeping my crash helmet on and standing with my back to the street lamps.

  “Hang on a sec. My squawk box.” As they talked and made comparisons I went to the door where I’d left my tiny tape recorder hanging. “Hello. Operator Four Three. Come in.”

  Click on. “Report now and time, come in,” my falsetto voice crackled back at me.

  Click off. “Police car’s called. Nothing missing. Am on standby until eight A.M. as directed.” Pause. “Wilco. Over and out.” It sounded good to me, anyway. I tried to sound bored, faintly irritated, as I rejoined the two police. We chatted a bit more, until I said my half-hourly check was due. We parted, grumbling. I turned off my whizzer light and waved as they sleepily left to cruise the bypass and clock up more unearned inflation-proof pension.

  I reentered the hall, closed the front door and locked it. And rested a second, breathing and sweating hard. A lot of effort and risk, but I was inside with the approval of the Plod.

  The item I quickly chose was selected with my sense of irony uppermost. A fine tea service of silver, St. Petersburg, tea urn, teapot, tray, sugar, cream, the lot. It was glorious, but heavy as lead. I packed it with supreme care and put it in my holdall.

  An hour later I was on the London train, in my own clothes. Sensibly I reached the platform by climbing the hoardings bordering the unlit car park, avoiding the ticket bloke. Not many people traveling at that hour. I left my blue serge suit, buttons and other clobber removed, near the cafe in Euston Station’s concourse. It would be nicked within an hour. And the boots outside in the garden. Some wino would benefit. The minitape I’d erased on the train and slung out onto the dark embankment as we’d hurtled through Ingatestone. The minirecorder I left on the tube train, a gift to the gods. Badges and buttons I drip-fed into litter bins with my sewing set. The crash helmet I left on a Central Line tube platform, having scratched off the transfers. No finger prints. My gloves I simply discarded as I walked toward Wardour Street. The holdall with the Russian silver I put in a drop near St. Giles church—a restaurant whose owner knew Big John. He telephoned Sheehan’s men the minute I handed the stuff over.

  The Novello Room is highly posh. It actually belongs to the British Library, a part of the British Museum conglomerate. Though the British Library’s central offices are in tiny Sheraton Street, you enter the Novello Room through the much grander doorway at 160, Wardour Street. I like Soho, with all its quirks. It has atmosphere. I was embarrassed because the Novello is probably the poshest banquet suite around there, and I never look well groomed at the best of times. I positioned myself in the hallway awaiting Lydia. I’d combed my hair and done my nails in the loo, and was clean if a bit curled at the edges. As Lydia entered, I called to a group of trendy assistants assembling for the nosh, “Oh, thanks for the lift, er, Jay!” so she’d hear me, and went toward her.

  And stopped. My breath was gone. I stared.

  "Good evening, Lovejoy.”

  Pause and silence, the hubbub from the film people in the anterooms a son of unheard din.

  “I do hope I’m in good time.” As if there was any question of that. She’s never late, a right pest. The pause stretched. “Have you been waiting long, Lovejoy?” I got my breath going in useful volumes. "How did the noon meeting go?” In the absence of response she resorted to complaint. “Your tie’s crooked.”

  “You’re beautiful.” My voice was a distant bleat.

  “Now, Lovejoy.” She colored up, beautiful times three, times any number.

  She wore a dark silver dress with a high frill collar. Her arms were ensheathed in a lace material of the same color. Her blonde hair was unbunned, a seemingly casual asymmetry. The jewelry was a complete suite of necklace, two bracelets, earrings, aquamarines on silver. Okay, that closed-setting French style of 1760 isn’t fashionable now, but that’s only because women lack the elegance to wear it properly matched with the right hair and form; stridency’s the game nowadays. Each principal stone in the necklace, some forty, had its own subordinate pendant stone. Each bracelet aquamarine had two pupped stones, the earrings three. She’d never told me she had a suite so delectable, lovely enough to move you to tears. She was a heartstopper.

  "Shouldn’t we be joining the others?”

  "Look, love.” I went red and glanced in. The anterooms were filled with wealth in every size and shape. "They’re grand in there. It’s a whole banquet.”

  "Of course. It’s the celebration for last stage of the film. Brookes are the caterers!” She was impressed.

  “But I’m a scruff, love. You’re exquisite. Shouldn’t I get Max for you? He’s on his tod.” I’d al
ready seen him, looking out of his depth but in a dinner jacket.

  "Certainly not, Lovejoy.” She had a matching stole and drew it round her. "Without you this film can’t progress. You’re the divvy, not they. They need you. Come.”

  And in we earned.

  Lydia was a sensation. The assistants for once were outdone. Some had dressed over the top, others had dressed down. Variety was the order of the day. Oddly, Lydia fitted with uncanny ease into every group. Noisy technicians tanking on beer accepted her with open admiration and quickly moderated language. Dressers and the props girls, kaleidoscopically trendy in every dress from period costume to mod pops and full lengths, instantly asked opinions. She even chatted with Vance’s gaggle of bafflers, and had them listening and laughing. It was astonishing. I was really proud of her. Saffron Kay, who fetched her psychiatrist as companion, anxiously sought Lydia’s company. Stef Honor tried to move in, but Lydia must have given him some steely put-down because people nearby grinned as Stef retired sulkily to a trio of worshipers. Until Lydia arrived I’d thought them stunning. Lorane hated Lydia, I could tell. She made a couple of scathing remarks to Ray Meese, but he only pursed his lips and looked from Lydia to me. I glanced away in time, and shoved my way through to Pal Trevelyan. He was with Hank, the stunt arranger.

  "Here comes Lovejoy,” Hank said. “You two met?”

  “Yes. At the meeting today.”

  “Spare tool, more like,” I said. Pal seemed friendly and laughed.

  "Well, you’ve got your Equity card.”

  “Eh?”

  “Equity. Actors’ union.” Hank pretended to be the Hunchback of Notre Dame. “You can even do stunts now.”

  “What do I want an Equity card for?”

  “To act.” Pal nodded. “Not me. I’m only the gun man. But if you actually go in front of the camera—”

  “Who, me?” I was suddenly anxious. That bad feeling was back.

  “Yes. You’re in the robbery scene.”

  Me? “You sure?”

  “Typical cock-up,” Pal said, laughing. "No wonder movies go over budget. It’s them silly bitches of coordinators. You’re in the script. One of Lancelot Lake’s merry men.”