I stilled. How much of my phoning had the little sod overheard? “Book?”
“Don’t send dollars less’n you get it first, see? Stupid.”
I smiled at the obnoxious little nerk. “Ah. That’s just some money I owed him.”
“He don’t squeeze, you don’t pay, Lovejoy. That’s smart.”
“It is?” I wondered if he had any leanings towards being an antique dealer. With his instinct for fraud, he’d do a bundle.
“Get the whole book, Lovejoy. One page is stupid.”
He’d heard everything. “But what if—”
He glared at me in fury, yelled, “Who’s doin’ the buying, man? You or him? You? Then don’t pay’s smart. Lemme talk to him.”
We discussed this proposition until we’d finished. I said I’d follow his advice, meaning I’d make sure nobody was listening next time, meaning Zole. I just hoped he wouldn’t say anything to Magda. With her circle of clients I’d be done for in a day.
BRIAN Tarnley can’t be trusted either, but that’s because he’s an antiquarian bookseller. The important thing about him is he owns a dingy upstairs room near Floral Street, Covent Garden. There, Easy Boyson works rent free.
It’s a strange partnership, founded on two things. First is that Easy Boyson’s daughter is Brian’s wife. Second is that Boyson’s on the run, has been these five years. He was unbelievably a major, as in rank. His august old regiment was understandably vexed when the regimental silver vaporized. The peelers failed to find Boyson, or the tom. Which was lucky for Brian, who’d married Easy’s daughter and could provide the scarpering major with a safe nook. Investigations revealed gaping holes where the military’s bulging bank accounts should have been.
Neighbours occasionally query the two Tarnley children’s tales about a grandfather who lives in their attic and isn’t allowed to come out and play. Brian tells everybody that Alice’s dad’s poorly.
Which is great for Brian, because Easy Boyson’s a forger. And the police are still unravelling the handwriting on withdrawal forms in Glyn Mills, bankers of Pall Mall.
Zole followed me to the phone, eager to show me how to defraud the phone company. I declined, and told him I was phoning a lady and my talk was not for little boys. He went off disgusted.
“Easy Boyson? Wotcher. It’s Lovejoy.”
“Where the hell are you, Lovejoy? A tank exercise?”
Brisk, military. I warmed to him. He still rises at six, spick and span by seven, ready for action.
“Conan Doyle, Easy. Do me a Sherlock Holmes page. You’ll find examples of his handwriting in —”
“Leave recce to me, Lovejoy. Degree of authenticity?”
“Complete,” I said. Another fortune down the nick.
“Excellent!” Forgers love perfection. ”Continuation?” He meant was there a chance the buyers would want the whole thing later on.
“Possibly.”
“Right.” He pondered a moment, named a price that staggered.
“Fair enough.” I told him. “I’ll have it collected.”
“Good luck, Lovejoy. Regards to New York.”
And rang off. I supposed it was the traffic or something gave my location away. But Easy Boyson was an officer and a gentleman. Word his bond. Thank goodness for standards.
Then I used my last dollars to do something truly momentous. I scribbled a note to Mrs. Gina Aquilina, saying I didn’t quite know where I stood, but had faithfully followed her instructions, and had striven to identify the source of the Hawkins grailer. A sample page would soon be on hand, when I would send it. I signed it, put it in an envelope, and got a cycle courier to come to the coffee shop. He was there in an unbelievable space-age time of two minutes, and hurded off on payment of my last groat.
Nothing for it. I walked all the way back to Fredo’s, signed in for the remainder of the day, and started my cheery greetings to all comers. Until the fire touched the fuse.
Middle of the midday rush it happened, one o’clock and every seat in the place occupied, people arguing sports and politics and prices and traffic in the way I was growing to love, all peace and racket.
“Lovejoy? Take a break.”
“Wotcher, Tye.”
“Hey, what about my order?” a customer called angrily from along the counter as I doffed my apron. I shrugged. Zole had taught me how to yell, but not what to reply. Fredo tore out of his office in a state.
“Glad to catch your visit, Lovejoy,” he groused.
“Not be long, boss.”
Tye gave me a look that sank my spirits, conducting me to his car. It was misparked, but without a parking ticket.
“I don’t know what it is about you, Lovejoy,” he sighed, opening his passenger door. “But you’re sure attracting Gina’s attention lately.”
When you need a light quip, none comes. Ever notice that?
THE road north from New York splits into a frond of motorways. We bent right, and distantly I recognized a stretch of water. “Hey, Tye!” I went, excited. “That’s where we sailed!”
“Lovejoy. You a wiseass or dumb?”
He’d obviously got out of bed the wrong side. I ogled the scenery. Small towns came and went. Connecticut’s pronounced with a load of Ds it hasn’t got. The sun lit hills. Trees shone a strange and lovely russet I’d never quite seen before, quite like Chinese amber. We drove less than two hours, to a mansion with porticos and white pillars, lawns which people hate you to call manicured. No gates, but a goon in seeming somnolence that fooled nobody. He bent, peered at Tye, me, the limo’s interior, shrugged us through.
“Reckon there’s Civil War antiques here, Tye?”
He sighed, made no reply. We alighted and Blanche, lovely as ever but even more distant, ushered me in to a drawing room whose very length tired the ankles. Gina was sitting writing letters at a pathetic rubbishy desk, fetchingly decorating a window alcove against sunlight and olivine curtains.
“Lovejoy.” No sit down either. ”You found what?”
“The grailer, Gina. I think.”
She slowly ran her gaze from my scuffy shoes to my unruly thatch. I felt specimened, candidate for a museum jar.
Her slender hands held the card I’d posted, and my scribble. She didn’t ask where, how, what. Just examined me. A reaming, draining inspection. Her eyes were bleak as a winter sea.
“What did I order you to do, Lovejoy?”
“Er, well, missus.” My voice quivers when I’m scared and my throat dries so it’s hard to get a conversation going.
“What?”
I jumped, stammered, “To, er, make up to Sophie Brandau, report what I learned.”
She beckoned me gently. I went close, stooped when she crooked her finger. Her hand lashed my face. The silly cow nearly ripped my eye from its socket, missing by a whisker. My head spun.
“And did you?
“I’ve no money, except the marked stuff that’ll get me arrested.”
She considered that.
“Lovejoy. I’m no longer interested in whether you’re as innocent as you seem, or double shrewd.”
She could have expressed slightly more enthusiasm. I’d saved her from kidnap, or worse.
“Now I’m changing the rules. I give you orders day to day, understand? You start now.” Why do agitated women clutch their elbows when they march about? I dithered, not knowing if I had to follow her. She returned, halted, gorgeous. “Tell me about the Hawkins thing.”
I did, speaking with utmost sincerity into her eyes and only occasionally losing my place. Whistling bravely past the graveyard, I said only what I’d rehearsed.
“I spent every cent on phone calls to England. Dealers I know, who owe me, ones I could trust. And I kept it down to no-name stuff.” I fluttered my eyes, the best I could do for shyness. “A… lady I know. She’s married. We used to be, well, close friends. I got her to sift her husband’s reserve records. He’s a big antiquarian.”