Moonspender (6 page)

"Unbelievable, these days," Geoffrey was saying as I
helped him over a stile. He has these feet. "Stupid sod."

"Raymond's daft. Won't be told," I agreed. "Want a
rest?"

"No, ta," he panted, hobbling and leaning on me, though
I was the one who'd been
cavalried
. "He'll get
six months, Lovejoy. Mark my words."

"Stroll on," I mourned. Three of us—me. Big Frank and
Margaret Dainty—had clubbed together to finance good old Raymond's escapade. If
he got clinked, we'd be responsible for his antique shop until they released
him. Unwritten and tiresome rules of our hopeless game. I'd known Raymond
hadn't the brains to pull it off, but he's Margaret's cousin and you know
women.

Geoffrey halted, mopped the interior of his cavernous helmet.
"We're here, Lovejoy. In you go."

Surprised, I stared at the great glass edifice projecting from the
lovely old mansion house's side. It was almost an exact shoebox shape, an
aluminum-framed slab erected by Neanderthals. It was labeled Modem Farm Centre
Restaurant in simulated microdot typeface, red on gold. "Hell fire,
Geoffrey. Do I have to?"

"Good morning, Lovejoy," said this lady, smiling from
the French windows, so I went in and left Geoffrey to the mercy of his feet.
"So you're the unspeakable lout who assaulted Christopher?" Unspeakable
after all, note.

"Look, missus," I said uneasily. "I can come back.
I don't mind leaving it—"

"Do stay. I need you. Like our new place?"

She led me through a forest of tubular steel tables, red plastic,
and unusable slump chairs designed to immobilize the unwary. Flowers looked
ashamed in intense blue slit glass vases, Czechoslovakia's idea of art.
Dangling wicker baskets marauded on the ceiling, drooping orange blossoms
trying to escape. The whole place had an air of a travelers' Gothic, dreadful.
I just made the office without retching. I'd give twice a lot for ten minutes
of her, but not for her horrible restaurant. Instantly I knew what was wrong:
She'd hired an expert.

"Candice told me all about it," she said, lighting a
cigarette. She didn't need me. She needed Sandy and Mel, because they could
make this ghastly clinical restaurant look really homely, except
Sandy'd
scream and
Mel'd
get one
of his famous heads.

"Oh, aye." My tone must have told her I'd been the
victim of many such impartial reports. Unexpectedly she gave a broad infectious
smile, and suddenly I liked her.

She had a kind of tooled elegance some women call grace. Not Mrs.
Ryan's vibrant showiness, but a precision-made look that announced: I'm still
trendier than anybody. I'm not much up on the subject of women's garb, yet all
the signs of wealth were there: the strap-round yeoman boots in pricey leather,
the russet worsted skirt, bishop-sleeve silk blouse. Pearls genuine;
surprisingly, no rings. Even so, you wouldn't get much change here from a quid.

"I'm Suzanne York," this elegance said. "Thank you
for broaching the defenses. Christopher assumes the estate's already his."

Hello, I thought, heart sinking. The dreaded inheritance bit. When
property, by some miracle, is being kept out of the taxman's hands, it's never
anything but trouble. Women always find my expression a giveaway. She quickly
added, "Well, Lovejoy. My husband's passed on. Raising my niece is a
problem, a very costly one." "The hounds expensive?" I asked.
"Your butler poor?" "Don't start that." She sighed and
crossed her legs, picking a tobacco flake off her tongue. "Major Bentham
says the hounds will generate interest among the county set, who'll flock to my
new restaurant." She eyed me. "You like it?"

"Horrible, love."

She took it on the chin. "Yes, well. Just as well you're not
likely to frequent the place, isn't it?"

Touché. "Lady. The, er, reason—"

"And in any case," she said, temper rising, "the
best restaurant designers in London—"

"It's great," I cut in hastily. "That's what I
meant." After all, anyone who builds a glass and tin shoebox with scarlet
tables might be daft enough to hire me.

"You needn't crawl, Lovejoy." She was still mad at me
for hating her grottie caff. "It's just that this place is intended for
the upper bracket." 
And you're not in that class
, she
carefully didn't add, but the words rattled about the office just the same.

"Which raises the question of me." I smiled my
groveler's smile.

"Your performance on television, Lovejoy." She swung her
chair. It was one of those that businessmen use, so they can turn their backs
on visitors without having to move. She didn't go quite that far. "Was it
genuine, or rehearsed?"

"It wasn't a performance." Her skepticism narked me.
"They slung me out." I was indignant.

"I noticed you'd been replaced for the second half" Her
interest was showing so I melted a bit. "Do you want a job?"

Suddenly I saw it all. This Suzanne was the person Sykie wanted
hooked! I grinned jubilantly. I'd fallen on my feet, actually done what Sykie
wanted. "Yes. What is it?"

"I want you to find a genuine antique, for the
restaurant." I tried not to wince, imagining a Sheraton chair or an inlaid
Ince
and Mayhew table among this load of crud.
"For a raffle."

"Eh?"

"You see, Lovejoy, a restaurant needs a gimmick. They've all
been done a thousand times, the Saxon Axe Bar, King Alfred's
Kake
Kitchen, Ancient Brit, Quaker's Retreat, all the local
history tinseled up."

"And you think an antique. . . ?"

Her eyes were glowing, lovely behind the curved lashes. "Each
table is numbered. A fanfare, a drumroll, and presto! The lucky table wins an
antique!" She was so thrilled she almost applauded herself. "Isn't it
a wonderful opening?"

Which meant the place hadn't opened yet, that only the workmen had
so far glimpsed the monstrosity. Thank God for that.

"When's the off?"

"Saturday. What do you have in stock, Lovejoy?" She was
out of her depth. "I could call at your showrooms—"

Showrooms? "Er, yes," I said. "But it's more usual
for the purchaser to simply say what's in her mind. Then I'd know what items to
arrange in the, er, warehouse." I waxed eloquent. "You see, stock is
continually changing."

"Business," this dear innocent agreed with a grave
frown, "is business. Yes, I do understand, Lovejoy." The contractors
must have rooked her rotten over that garish hangar of a restaurant.
"Though Major Bentham advises us on the financial side of things."

Just as this particularly nasty penny dropped—the galloping major
her friendly treasurer—I heard a real frightener. It was a long gravelly sound,
with strangled barks, then rising to a bubbly gasp. Mrs. York went pale.
"Heavens!" she whispered. "What was that?"

I knew, and opened the door. Tinker was at the far end of the
restaurant between Geoffrey and the major.

" 'Ere, Lovejoy," he wheezed, recovering from his cough.
"They just nicked me."

"It's all right. Tinker," I called, and said to Mrs.
York, "Thank you. I'll select a number of pieces and have my assistants
display them in the, ah, display rooms."

"This lout's another one, Suzanne," called the gallant
officer. He could have made ten of Tinker, and held him by the scruff" of
his neck. Enough to make anybody cough.

"Who on earth. . . ?" Mrs. York was peering anxiously at
the trio.

"It's all right, love," I said smoothly. "One of my
messengers. We use all sorts of disguises. Mr. Tinker is a Sotheby's undercover
man. Not a word, mind."

"Of course." She sounded doubtful so I made a swift
good-bye.

By the time I reached them Tinker was puce and could only point to
his throat where the huntsman's big hand gripped. Geoffrey was standing
stolidly by, embarrassed.

"Half a sec, Tinker." I looked around, pulled a chair
close, stepped up, and swung a foot in an arc and up, kicking the major in the
belly.

His chin came forward and caught the chair back. I actually heard
his teeth rattle. Blood spouted from his mouth as he slumped, going, "
Ergh
!
Ergh
!" as he fell. I
heard somebody scream—probably dear old Candice; it seemed her role in life—and
got down, pulling Tinker along and down the steps. The quicker we were out of
this place the better, now I'd got the job.

Geoffrey hobbled after us saying wait for me and that. Wearily we
helped him down the path. When Tinker had got his breath I asked him what he'd
followed me for.

"Nothing urgent?" I asked, hoping.

"Sykie's after you, Lovejoy. He's bleedin' mad."

My blood chilled. "At me? What for? I've done all the right
things." I'd proved it to myself over and over. Hadn't I?

"Says he told you to stop home," Tinker said.
"Here, Lovejoy. Reckon they've got draught beer?"

I was just drawing breath to say I'd suggest it to Suzanne for
opening night when I decided to save the oxygen. A pair of long thick saloon
cars were waiting in the roadway. Sykie's two lads stood by wearing happy
smiles.

If you don't mind I won't go into details over the next bit. Eric
and his brother did me physical damage. That's enough description. It was more
or less as painful as what I'd done to the galloping major. It only seemed to
last forty times as long.

5

Doc Lancaster told me I was a bloody fool to keep getting into
scraps that I never won, but wasn't it lucky I had good friends like Mr. Sykes
who had come to give me a lift home. I said a bitter yes, wasn't it.

"I've been good to you, Lovejoy," Sykie announced as I
got painfully into his car. "Haven't I?"

"Yes, Sykie."

"Your face isn't even marked," he added, gratified and
forgiving. "You understand the implications, Lovejoy?"

"Aye, Sykie."

"No more naughty from you, eh?"

"No, Sykie."

"Legs all right, are they?"

"A few stitches."

"Good, good." He sounded honestly quite glad.
"Always go to the doctor's in good time, Lovejoy. My old mother used to
say that."

Sykie swung his motor onto the A604 and put us between the farms
in quick succession, driving patiently, reminiscing about the good old days
spent
duffing
up law-abiding citizens and bribing the
Plod in London's East End. He thoughtfully included a number of his dear old
mum's homilies for my edification. I said how very wise his mum had been.

"Yes, Lovejoy," he sniffed. "An angel. She raised
us to show respect. Visited our Joe in Wormwood Scrubs every chance she got.
They don't make them like her any more. Do they, lads?"

"No, dad," his psychopathic offspring said in unison.
They were beaming proudly on the rear seats. Four more hooligans followed in
the second motor.

They left me at the cottage door. The elder lad chucked a
flintstone
through my window, grinning at the crash. They
really love life. Sykie put his head out.

"What's that implication, Lovejoy?"

"No more naughty from me, Sykie."

"Good. See how easy life is?" He gave a forgiving smile.
"Stay home until somebody calls with a job for you because he's seen you
on the telly. Right?"

Hell, I thought I'd just done that, but obediently I repeated the
instruction. We cowards don't mince matters. "Why not tell me who it is,
Sykie?"

"And have you chisel him with one of your crooked
deals?" said this paragon of virtue indignantly. He eyed me, grinning.
"You needn't wave us off, Lovejoy." The joke being that my ribs were
strapped up.

They were all laughing as they drove out of the gateway. It took
me an age to reach the keys in my back pocket and open the door. I brewed up,
had a pint pot of tea, pulled out my divan, and slept for a million years.

Six o'clock I fried my breakfast, seven thick slices of bread,
tomatoes, and sliced apple sizzled in margarine. Noshing and wincing, I did the
post. Today there were a good dozen letters. I was sore as hell, but pleased.
And determined. I'd survive in this maniacal antique business if I died doing
it. These letters proved I was getting there by degrees— as lawyers go to
heaven, my old gran used to say.

About these letters. Leaving aside my lies to Suzanne York about
warehouses bulging with
tsarine
splendors, there are
only three ways of surviving when times are bad. The first is to go "on
the knocker"— literally banging on doors and doing a con on whoever opens
the door. It has its moments, but there's always aggro on knocker jobs, what
with people wanting ornaments back when realizing their value. So you need gelt
and transport for that particular road to riches. The second is to wait in your
costly well-stocked antiques shop for customers; must be nice. The third is to
bread.

Now, every antique dealer on earth has done a bit of breading in
his time. Even if Christie's or Spinks say they're above all that undignified
conning, take it with a pinch of salt. They've done their share. My technique's
to use the local free paper, the 
Advertiser
. Usually I pretend I'm
different people. Last week I'd been Bereaved Lady of Polstead, American Buyer
Visiting Bures, and Distinguished London Collector. I tell Lize that I act as a
free agent for these enthusiastic advertisers. She runs the 
Advertiser
 single-handed,
and wants to believe my lies about being hooked on Good Social Works, so I
don't disillusion her. It'd be cruel. Besides, I was using her rotten old
cheapo giveaway newspaper, so it's really me doing her a kindness, right?