The Very Last Gambado Read online

  Within five minutes I was walking toward the lights. Two police cars and an ambulance went past in the opposite direction as I got a lift on the southbound carriage from a Dutch lorry driver who talked football. Stupid as ever, I thought nothing of the hurrying police. The lorry driver supported Eindhoven, poor bloke.

  My petrol tank was only quarter full, but I had good old Ray Meese’s grand check to cash in the morning, and Laila was giving me supper tonight, so all was well until one of Big John Sheehan’s

  men flagged me down by the railway bridge and thumbed a new direction for me. It was becoming a habit. The station car park. I stopped, climbed out, and ostentatiously limped on my stick toward the huge black Jaguar where Big John sat smoking a cigar. “Wotcher, John. All right?” '

  “Fine, Lovejoy, fine. You?"

  “Fair to middling, John.” Two bigjags, undertakers’ models, six henchmen with witty Ulster faces. They waited chatting idly. “You did all right the other night, Lovejoy.”

  “Aye, John. Piece of cake. You got the silvers all right?” “Thanks be to God, Lovejoy.” Here, I thought. I’d pulled the lift, not the Almighty. And where is He when you need a leg up? "But what’s all this about other items gone missing?”

  "Ledger told me that, John. I reckon the householder’s pulling a bookie.” A bookie in the antiques game means pretending that more’s been nicked than really has—and charging the insurance for it.

  "Ah. Thought as much. You didn’t touch anything else?” “No, honest. You said not to, John.”

  “Good lad, Lovejoy.” He drummed to the radio’s melody. “What did Ben Clayton want? Social call, was it?”

  “Warned me off the Russian exhibition, John. I’m not to go. Not even buy a catalog.”

  “That definite, was he?”

  “Very, very, very definite, John,” I said fervently.

  He pondered a second. Then, "I might want you to do another jemmy job, Lovejoy.”

  “But John...” The world halted. His lads silenced watchfully, hoping for a hint of rebellion. I swallowed. "Any time, John.” He smiled. "Right, boys. We’re done.” His blokes got into their cars. I saw the car park man approach with his bag, already clipping tickets. "Don’t break this old gentleman’s legs, d’y’hear?” The wise old bloke stopped, pouched his tickets, and plodded on past. I wished I could do that. Shakily I drove into town. Odd. Nothing for weeks, then all of a sudden the world wants me to play pig-in-the-middle. Anyway, I’d soon be having a quiet supper with Laila, hahaha.

  Car parks are a modern destructive epidemic. I avoid them like the plague they are.

  I had to park down Roman Road’s old wall because of traffic, which was my one stroke of luck. I caught sight of Lydia waiting by the war memorial. She was tapping her foot, which meant ominous tidings. Beneath that camel hair coat beat a voluptuous heart. I just wish it wasn’t so uncompromisingly devoted to my interests, that's all. So I ducked through the rose garden and was soon seated with Laila in a restaurant's nooky alcove.

  This new place was plush, shadowy. It was also crowded, but cleverly arranged so you weren’t ostentatious. Good old Laila. A score of couples dined among candles in tulip glasses. We spoke of incidentals—how are you, this dreadful weather-j-for a time, which was champion because I was starving. I was just reaching cruising speed when Laila put the dig in.

  “We have to talk,” Laila said, pale and intent. We hadn’t even reached our pudding. I’d been hoping for trifle first, but her tight voice spelled doom.

  Quickly I filled my mouth, no time to waste.

  “Yes, love. About your cheval glass—”

  "Not that, Lovejoy. I mean your attitude.” She toyed with her fork. “How long have we . . . ?”

  “Five weeks?” Hopeful.

  “Eighteen.”

  "Really?” I could have sworn it was less. "Wasn’t it at that fete where your husband—?”

  "Don’t bring him into it. I mean us.”

  Nothing for it. And I’d given her the best ten days of my life—well, nine maybe. I gazed past her, tutting in annoyance. “What the hell’s Enrico want now?” Two waiters were standing by the serving door. I gave a wave. “Ignore him, Laila. Go on, darling.”

  "You’re hopeless, Lovejoy. Your mind’s always on other things, never on our relationship.”

  "I see.” I went all quiet. “So that’s it. You think I’m insin-

  cere.” Irritably I gazed over her shoulder again and said, “Bloody waiter. It’ll be some message. Sorry about this, love. I’d best see what he wants.”

  I rose and crossed to the waiters. "Sir?” one said, worried by my waving.

  “What is it, Enrico?” I asked, loudly.

  “I’m Paulo, signore,” he said, mystified. He’d never seen me before. With luck, he never would again.

  “Telephone? Through here?” I entered the kitchen. Watched by two silent cooks and a waitress I hurriedly filled a plate with cooked rice, chips, and a dollop of some stew thing. The back door opens into an alleyway leading to the Castle Park. I paused, shoving bread rolls into my pocket. “D’you do pasties?”

  “No, sir,” the cook said.

  Typical. I stepped out into the darkness. You can’t depend on anything these days.

  Some days I need rubbing out and starting again. Relationships—God, how I hate that pompous-arsed word—are the same. Me and Laila, for instance. I cut along the alley, steadily putting myself on the right side of my plate of victuals. It was coming on to rain. The streets were glistening with that exquisite black shine every bom townie loves. I finished the grub with a gulp except for a bit of gristly stuff I left for a penniless cat that chanced by, and balanced the plate on a shop windowsill before plodding across Maidenburgh toward the George.

  Don’t get me wrong. Laila’s not at all bad. I mean, she loves sacrifice in noble causes, which is really great. But if you happen to be the flavor of the month you finish up being her particular noble cause. Bad news. Her husband’s the most influential engineer here in East Anglia, and can bend an ear or two. He pollinates decaying factories into productivity for a living. She’s early forties, slenderly pretty, with an unerring eye for stylish clothes. Age never troubles me, because a woman’s potency transcends a few wrinkles—an obvious fact, this, though you try convincing a woman that age is unimportant. They’re obsessed by everybody else’s youth and their own age. And Laila’s wealth honesdy didn’t mean a thing.

  No, honest. I’m more concerned with spiritual values of people, fairness to all. Same as any antique dealer, when you come to think of it. In this state of smug ignorance Lydia caught me and finally made me go to a meeting about making movies.

  C

  ONDOR Hall lay beyond Long Melford, a vast brick rectangle lit by those vigilant antiburglar lights that automatically illuminate the known world when you step into the garden. Where has trust gone? Lydia was still furious with me, though I’d explained times beyond number that I’d not realized the meeting was tonight. The Ruby tried to hurry, but was almost clapped out.

  "It’s no good sulking, Lovejoy,” she blazed. “A left here, please. You knew perfectly well. I left a message. I also saw Lorane give you the envelope with my own eyes.”

  “No, love, honest—”

  “No, Lovejoy.” She was endearing hunched inside her coat, lovely knees together and gloved hands firmly keeping her skirt in place. “Lorane waited an entire hour at your cottage. I shall not accept your explanation for an instant!”

  You have to give in. “All right, love. I admit it. I was trying to keep out of her way.”

  “You were?” She turned her specky gaze on me.

  “Yes.” I swung the Ruby beside the eight saloons alongside the mansion. The engine cut with a chesty burble. “I rather felt that she’s, well, you know ... So I was looking around for you to come with us.”

  Uncertainty diluted her stem expression. “Why, Lovejoy?"

  “Predatory. I’m not blaming her, of course. It’s this mode
m age. It influences people.” I sprang down, caught myself and limped back for my stick. “But that doesn’t mean I should, well, succumb.”

  “Well, Lovejoy.” Still doubtful, but I was slowly winning. "If that’s the only reason.” We ascended the steps. A butler appeared at the door as we approached. Six exterior alarms, every window and door. Absurd to be so defensive, though the thought honestly never crossed my mind. "All the same, you could have telephoned their office.”

  "I just feel better when you’re along.”

  "Shhh, Lovejoy,” she said, pink. She moved apart and said good evening to the butler.

  “Good evening, miss, sir.” He looked middle-aged but pretty sprightly. More bad news for burglars. "The meeting is in the large library.”

  I left this bit to Lydia, who’s a bom nuisance but useful on these occasions. We were ushered through a massive hall—no antiques—to double doors that opened on a meeting in a library. A lay curia? I’d never seen anything like it.

  Chairs were arranged in an ellipse. Ray Meese dominated the room, Lorane next to him. Half a dozen blokes and birds were there. I'd never seen so many maniacal hair styles. For once I felt really orthodox, and Lydia looked the token shop-window straigh- tie. Everybody had clipboards. I glanced around as we entered. The books were Russian, if I’d sussed the lettering.

  “Miss Lydia, ma'am. And Lovejoy.”

  This elderly lady, one of the ellipse, was perched on cushions, maybe to stop her tiny frame being lost among the antimacassars. God, she was a titch. You’ve seen small people with disproportionately large feet, hands, faces? Well, this dowager was everything miniaturized. She had lovely ancient eyes, seen it all, which hardly gave Lydia a glance. I found her hand, shook it gently. She wore a black Victorian dress, high neck, mutton-shoulder sleeves, and a plain niello locket. Anastasia, at least.

  "Please ameetings,” she said in a distant whisper.

  "Eh? Oh. Pleased to, er.”

  "Lovejoy.” Lydia went all subdued at this encounter with a Prominent Personage. She led the way to our chairs. We sat. I was disappointed. A big mob like this you'd have thought the old crab would have laid on a bit of grub, but there was no sign.

  “Glad you made it, Lovejoy.” Meese gave a munificent wave, rose, and halted. Specs hung on chains about his neck.

  “About time,” Lorane said, ice.

  “We do apologize,” from a Lydia in panic. “But—”

  “Peace, pax, glasnost, folkeroonis,” Meese appealed. “Lovejoy—our own Big L, soldats—is the necessary input. Lorane, baby, let’s be on ... amalgam. ” He repeated this formula, delighted with his turn of phrase. "Vance. Recaperooni.” He really talked like this. I wondered if this lot have ever tried decaffeinated.

  One of the hairy woollies stirred. He sat crumpled in his chair, somehow sideways on. “Yeah, well, like I mean, see, mate, this movie like this surge a trollies gointer rip off the BM, y’know, like a blammer, balls up from sex and blam goes el fuzzo and SAS, Christ knows, O.K. Corral time, y’know?”

  “Thanks, Vance,” Meese said with humility and admiration. I’d not understood a word. “Vance, Lovejoy. Our main—did I say main? Our principal, our prime mover.” He gazed fondly at Vance, who now seemed worn out by his effort. "We've got—nay, evolved—a start date, time, team, Lovejoy!” He was so thrilled he smacked his hands in time with each word. “So go-go-go!”

  People said, “Yeah,” and “Right on, Ray,” and suchlike. One slender girl with long swingy hair radiated adoration of Meese. The mood was ecstasy.

  “The actors are on,” the thin girl said.

  “Honey wagons, technicians, services, food?”

  Various people said everything was covered. Meese began firing questions, reading from a clipboard list. “Rails? Auto-gantries? About lighting services—has to be the back entrance, the university side?—get a window shifted, right? What’s in a window for Christ’s sake ... ?” Occasionally he froze and everybody went into tableau as he pressed his temples to communicate with some astral plane.

  Lydia was fascinated, taking it all in. She looks bonny with her coat off. I caught the old lady’s eyes on me. I shrugged, gave her a discreet grin. A woman seated behind her was murmuring in the shadows. Translator? Odd sort of production meeting this, I thought. Why out here in the wilds if the film—movie, sorry—was in London? ,

  My interest wobbled further off course. The old dear’s locket was genuine niello, that lovely black and silver that Old Russia did better than any. (Tip: You can still buy these genuine Russian antiques for a song, because people think they’re modern Thailand copies. The old Russians look more matt when held at arm’s length, and are worth umpteen times more.) The matching chain was original too. I glanced about, though books never mean a great deal to me unless I can get between the pages. No paintings. No lovely antique furniture. No marvelous porcelains, tapestries, vases, statuary. An old Russian family fallen on hard times, having difficulty keeping the family retainers in vodka?

  "Gunsmiths?” Meese was snapping on. “Climbing tackle?”

  Uneasily I glanced at the enraptured Lydia. I especially didn’t want my apprentice consigning me to a shoot-out while dangling from the British Museum’s upper floors. Then I remembered I wasn’t in this, only advising.

  Niello. It never really caught on as decorative jewelry here in our dozy old kingdom. But on the Continent niello was always highly desirable—pendants, brooches, “body furniture” as antique dealers call personal jewelry nowadays when they want to justify yet another price increase. I followed the locket, chain, and found my eyes meeting the old dear’s amused gaze. Hastily I looked away, concentrating. Meese was in heavy dialogue with a duffle-coated bearded spindle called Max: "Can we have a rewrite, Max? Any lesser creativity I wouldn't dare ask. But you, Max,” with a fervent handclasp in semblance of prayer, “I’m positive—nay, conviction- ary—you’ll deliver. On time. To perfection.” A revivalist meeting, podgy Ray doing Elmer Gantry and Lorane a dilute Jean Simmons. Why this feeling I’d seen it all before?

  Max was making deprecatory gestures. “I’ll try...” Applause.

  "Now, cameras . . . ?”

  One faint bong in my chest had worried me since we’d arrived. Not the locket. Even though I could see nothing in the shadows behind the oldster my body kept being polarized. A wall decoration? Some exotic ancient Russian silver samovar? One of those peculiarly Russian costume uniforms straight out of pre-1812 Czar- ist times, hanging concealed in a cupboard?

  "Pay attention, Lovejoy.” Lydia, whispering.

  “I’m listening, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Language, Lovejoy.”

  She only speaks to me so I’ll reply so she can tell me off, if you follow. I was fed up, irritated by that black glow feeling from behind the old duchess and not being allowed a closer look. Anyway, what was an ancient Russian crone doing in a movie think tank? Some vestigial Garbo-type resurrected for another remake of a remake?

  “. . . by Lovejoy,” I heard, and came to with a clang.

  “Eh?” Everybody was waiting expectantly.

  “Be guided by you, Lovejoy,” Lydia prompted in a furious whisper. “What antiques to steal.”

  “Eh?” I gave a doubtful smile all around. People shuffled.

  “From the museum. For the film’s story.”

  “Ah,” I said. “As long as this is let’s pretend. The British Museum’s impregnable. Well, there’s a world to choose from." Pause. At least half lifted their pens in eagerness. I invented desperately, “We can go for the prints gallery at the top. It’s enclosed. Or the Far Eastern stuff, near the back, first floor. The, er, Egyptians are a dead loss because, er . .

  “He doesn’t know,” Lorane glowered. Lydia’s face was flaming. I’d catch it for this but how the hell could I be expected to make their story up for them? They had more writers and assistants here than the parson preached about. Why turn on me?

  “He certainly does!” Lydia shot back.

&
nbsp; “Then what’s this ho-hum crap? We know antiques are all over the frigging place.”

  “Your outline was insufficiently specific, Lorane.” Good old Lydia.

  "Lovejoy.” Max had his head in his hands. "That’s in the script, man. Vance has just explained.”

  "You’re here to tell how, dummy.” Lorane’s sweetly withering scorn included Lydia.

  "Hang on, doowerlink.” I’d got it. I was so relieved. “You only want to know how to nick a McGuffin from the Brit Mus? Sorry. That’s easy.”

  “Easy?” Max stared, Vance stirred, Ray Meese starred in a display of sudden heartfelt tears.

  “Course.”

  “But you weren’t even listening!” Lorane wasn’t going to let go. She wanted me executed. “There are fucking guards, alarms—” I lost patience with the lot of them. “Shut up, you silly cow. Ask me, and I’ll answer.”

  “Lovejoy! Language!” Lydia was aghast, mortified. “Apologize this instant!”

  “Well,” I said. “Birds like her nark me. All mouth and moan.” “Of all the—!” Lorane was on her pins, enraged.

  "You’ll apologize, Lovejoy! And no sulking. This very instant.” Lydia’s gloves were in her hand, tap tap. Everybody was looking. I felt a right prat.

  "Looka here, folkeroons!” Meese tried bouncily. "Lovejoy only—”

  "No, Mr. Meese.” Lydia was pale, stem. With a sinking heart I recognized the matter-of-principle speech looming. “This is a matter of principle. Courtesy preserves civilization.”

  It can last a full quarter hour even on a good day, so I cleared my throat. “Sorry,” I said at the carpet. Threadbare. Now how come a mansion’s carpet is threadbare? One day I’ll strangle Lydia.

  “Thank you, Lovejoy.” The gloves stilled. Lydia recomposed herself. "Mr. Meese, rest assured that no better person than Lovejoy exists to advise on security faults in the British Museum.” "All. . . rightee!” from Meese. He was overcome, probably

  an all time first. I could have dived under the floorboards from embarrassment. I sweat when my face goes red. “Vance, Max, Lorane, get together with Lovejoy. Gimme a report soonest, okayee? I like tomorrow noon. At the museum. You call it, Virginia.” The thin girl moved ecstatically in her sheath of lank hair to signify compliance.