The Lies of Fair Ladies (33 page)

Luna had something of an eye for jewelry, I discovered to my
delight. I'd taught her to fake amber, of course, using various resins (copal's
the faker's standby) and incorporating dead insects or chips of dried bark or
pinecones shredded in a food mixer. The usual. (Don't overdo it, if you try
this. I had to admonish her for stuffing the fake ambers with everything but
the kitchen sink. One insect wing's fine, a zoo's a giveaway.) By Friday, I
wore strings of her fake ambers under my shirt to get the right shine. I'd
carved a few into small religious scenes from an invented saint's life. Future
archaeologists will write theses on them in years to come.

Another curious thing: Luna was red-hot on modern stuff—
"tomorrow's antiques," the oldest of frauds. I mean, she bought a
watercolor sketch by Leon Bakst (never heard of him). Costume, like nothing on
earth. She was ecstatic, hugged me afterwards in the car park. It was from La
Boutique Fantasque, 1918, apparently worth a new motor. Can you believe it? I
shrugged. Not antique at all. I liked the hug. I'd taught her erotic tobacciana
at Jenny Calamy's. She snapped up, on description alone, a score of cigarette
cases—some cheapish Birmingham Edwardian enamels, others French Art Deco 1920s,
others German Edwardian in debased silver. They all had sexy scenes; "risqué"
if you're posh, "naughty" if you're not. Ladies up to no good, in
various postures. The rule is: The more erotic the more pricey. She bought from
a wandering shuffler, the sort of bloke no respectable dealer will look at
twice. Luna paid him on the nail. He vanished for an hour. Just when I was
getting uneasy, in he shuffled, stinking and bleary, carting this old sack of
tobacciana. I was proud of her.

Yet she missed others. I can't understand it. There's a pretty
famous bronze called Tiger Devouring a Gavial. It's gruesomely explicit. In
1831, Bayle the Frenchman exhibited this bronze—they're faked a-plenty by now,
of course—and created a sensation. Within milliseconds, all Paris was churning
out little animal bronzes. Tigers devouring elephants, lions chewing serpents,
even innocents like rabbits and kipping cows. Bronzes vary from Viennese
cold-painted cheapos to stallions being boring (a month's wage). Bronze workers
are called animaliers, in the antiques trade, but the posh pronounce it through
the nose, prefixing it with "les." This enables you to charge double,
if the buyer's a nerk. Luna missed a 1585 bronze she-wolf, probably Padua, when
it was worth all the rest put together. I told her to stick to modern.

There's a limit to what you can buy in a night pub. You have to
travel for the bigger-priced antiques, furniture, paintings, collections of
porcelains.

I developed a strategy.

"See, Luna," I told her after we'd unloaded that night.
"We're vulnerable."

"But Mr. Gunge takes it away safely, Lovejoy." She
instantly checked the latch. "Don't we trust him? We should."

Luna's sound instincts: Trust Gunge. "Look about, love."

She did. The place was crammed with antiques, fake antiques, going-to-be
antiques. I'd given IOUs like confetti. Later tonight, when she'd gone home to
Grolly Ollie, I’d do my late-night ritual reckoning, how close I was to the
thin red line. I must be skating on the very edge. Money really gets me down,
the way it spends itself.

"I've taken options on some paintings. And church woods—old
pews, lecterns, vestry wall panels. No. It's all right, Lune. The Church
Commissioners have approved their sale." I smiled disarmingly. The Church
Commissioners would have hysterics if ever they heard about the transactions.

"So we have to travel?"

Divvying antiques is prodigious emotional effort. It's not like
the January sales. It's draining. And recovering's like a shattering re-entry
from space. It was a long time since I'd done something straightforward and
pleasant, like making a fifteenth-century manorial table out of redundant
chapel pews. The profit on these is fabulous. Cost: about five or six quid,
going to press as they say. London selling price: two months' wages. On the
Continent, about six months' wages. All for enjoying yourself, a day's light
handiwork.

"We can't, until after next week's meeting, Lovejoy."

"Can't? Meeting?" I'd promised myself this re-energizing
therapy. I wasn't going to be balked. We'd set up about thirty meetings, pubs,
auctions, an oyster fishery even. "You do the meetings, love. You're a
natural dealer.''

She colored, smiling. "Silly. Mr. Vervain. It's
tomorrow."

"What?" I didn't remember any meeting.

"The answer phone. You agreed to attend. The Moot Hall."

I would have collapsed on the divan, but it was covered with
mounds of Dux porcelains wrapped in tissue paper. Scantily clad nymphets draped
about mirrors and marine shells are the vogue. There are plenty about, from
1860 on. Think of unglazed surfaces in pastel colors and you'll make a fortune.

"I can't," I said, narked. Just when I'd got my own scam
going. God, I was nearly within reach of Miss R., the mighty dollop broker,
where all would be revealed. And now this media mouthie was—

"Oliver has gone to inordinate lengths for Mr. Vervain,
Love-joy." Reproach time. Luna looked soulful, but the divan was
inaccessible. "Think of the benefit for our town! Such an important
personality ..." She wasn't a mayoress for nothing. Oliver must have
worked on her. Why did he want me there?

"Can't I postpone it?" It was more than worrying.

Sod his ratings. Vervain's tactics were as transparent as Oliver's.
Politicians and broadcasters are in the same game: grabbing acclaim. The
slightest wilt means lying awake night after night as the fear burns into the
brain that you aren't loved out there. They'll stop at nothing. And Oliver had
as good as admitted that he and Vervain were fellows in a common cause.

"No, Lovejoy. You've given an undertaking." I couldn't
remember this conversation. But she was honest and true, right? She said
firmly, "You can't shirk it."

One word I'd ban if I were king for a day is "shirk."
It's always used at me. As if the word itself aims blame. People missile the
bloody word at whatever I want to do. I hate it, my cross since Day One.

"What have I to do?" my traitorous reflex asked
dejectedly.

"Come to the Moot Hall to examine the Borough Regalia. A
crowd of dignitaries, headed by Oliver, will be present. Del Vervain will make
a speech about the community in local broadcasting, and declare it open."

"Declare . . . ?" My headaches wait until I run out of
aspirin. You'd think doctors would get off their fat bums for once and find a
cure. And chemists these days only sell batteries.

"The fund. To launch the Borough Broadcasting Station."
She smiled fondly. "It's my idea. I mentioned it to the Vervains. Oliver
won Council approval.''

"What's this got to do with me?"

She spoke at length on community bondings, whatever they are,
Oliver's need of revenue enhancement . . . Once a mayoress, always political.

After she'd gone, with much hesitation tonight, I did my sums,
reaching a sorry conclusion. Money spends fast, earns slow. I tend to re-learn
old truths every day, with surprise.

I came into this through Drinkwater's mistake. Him thinking I'd
done the Cornish Place robbery. Then Prammie Joe's death drew me deeper—police
now guessed some wandering psychopath. Then came the inexplicable clustering of
antiques into grand-scam patterns. So unlike East Anglia, home of the titch
scam. And they multiplied: Tits Alors the prostitute, Connie, anybody with
money, plus dealers without. Big Frank's next fiancée Calamity Jenny . . .
Mostly clients of Marvella. Then Rye's fall to death.

Which was frightening. Unprecedented, as politicians say when
they've ballsed up the economy yet again.

Money. Luna's wadge and Laura's formed quite a sum, but I needed
more, thanks to Oliver's defection. I had Laura's number, to ring at ten-thirty
each evening. She'd made me swear in blood never to ring any other time.

"Hello? Lovejoy. Laura?"

"Wait." Clatter, mutter. To another phone? "Yes,
Lovejoy?"

"I'm running out of groats, love."

"Hasn't a certain politico's spouse funneled you
enough?"

Birds have this knack of inferring you're sleeping with another
woman even when they're only asking you to pass the toast. Narked, I said,
"Look. There's nothing between Mrs. Carstairs and me—

"No? Why is she supplying your wants, Lovejoy?"

See what I mean? Ten meanings, one set of words.
"Investment," I snapped. "And if you can't talk about money
without bringing—"

She purred, "Don't take on, Lovejoy. I'm on my way."

On her way? I hadn't asked her to come. It took four goes to
replace the receiver.

She arrived in less than half an hour. We sat and talked. I got a
check for another quarter. With that, I'd be well in. We talked for a short
while. Not long enough. I tried sussing what she was playing at, her funding a
shoddy like me.

"You're an investment, Lovejoy,” she told me several times.
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.”

"Investments aren't a gift."

"No. They have strings attached, called profit." I found
some sherry. She was amused. "The last time I was offered leftover Christmas
Tio Pepe I was fourteen, Lovejoy. Is this how you seduce Mrs. Carstairs?"

"Mind your own business. It's all I've got."

She did that slow-waggle stroll, touching the antiques, feeling
the divan. I'd cleared part of it, for sleep.

"Is this where you . . . what's the term you people use,
Lovejoy? Shag?" She smiled, cocky, watching my face. "Lay? Bonk?
Hump? . . . our esteemed mayoress, Lovejoy?"

"Listen, you." I was getting hot under the collar. She
was gorgeous, agreed. But she had no right to come hard. "I don't disclose
confidences about birds. It's my way. If you think your gelt buys you
confidences, you can take it and shove off."

No good. It only fueled her interest. Her eyes were shining.
"You love antiques so much, yet you'd abandon them? Just to preserve . . .
?" She came close. I was having a hell of a time getting the sherry cork
out. Rusted in, probably. "She must bed really fantab."

"That does it. Out."

I slammed the bottle down and pushed her. She fell back, onto the
divan. I just managed to rescue two Royal Dux pieces before she hit.

"You silly cow!" I blazed, gathering them safe from this
marauder. "These damage easy! Don't you know the effort that went into
making—?"

"Best you've ever had, Lovejoy, was she?"

"Any one of these is worth two of you, you dozy bitch."

"Better than you think I could be, Lovejoy?" She was
swinging her foot, her shoe almost off the upturned toes. Her legs were
slender, beautiful. Might as well talk to the wall. I surrendered.

"What is it, Laura?" Wearily I put the Dux pieces on a
harmonium keyboard out of her way. "After a bit of rough scruff? Between
college Romeos? Mrs. Carstairs beat you at tennis? Doing down Daddy's
hand-picked fiancé? What?"

"All nine, Lovejoy." She moved the rest of the
porcelains to the harmonium. "I hope these are new sheets, Lovejoy."
She stood, shivered elegantly. She was beautiful. "Turn the heating on.
I'll catch my death."

"Heat spoils polishes." My voice had thickened.

She laughed, dropped her clothes, slipped into bed. "My teeth
are
chattering
. In, for Christ's
sake. Get me warm.''

"Look," I tried weakly. What's the use? Women can do
what they like. We pretend for our self-respect that we're making decisions.
We're not. It's a woman's world. The proverbs lie.

Next morning she was gone by seven o'clock. She stared astonished
while I made us both breakfast, followed me about saying how on earth, all that
kind of woman's incomprehension. She dressed after I'd had both our breakfasts.
She wasn't hungry. She smiled, paused in the porch to ask who said thank you
and to whom.

"Etiquette doesn't cover this, does it, Lovejoy?"

"What's etiquette?" I said, making her laugh. She seemed
so familiar, her face filled with life. Almost as if I'd known her in a
previous incarnation. Lovely.

"Verdict, Lovejoy?" I had to work that one out. Was she
better sex than arch enemy Mrs. Carstairs.

"That's confidential." I was narked. "I have no
relationship with that lady." Who keeps score, making love? Love is
yippee, hundred percent of itself. Believing there are grades of totality is a
woman's myth. I didn't tell Laura this. They never believe me.

She left in her colossal motor without a wave. It howled off up
the lane, round at the chapel, then silence.

Reliable old Gunge, the dealer who could be trusted, came about
thirty minutes later to make his usual daily collection. He was in distress.
Connie Hopkins had gone missing. Gunge asked did I know where she'd gone. He'd
searched high and low. No sign of her in her shop. He seemed to have a key. Interesting,
this. I didn't know he and Connie had got that far. I went through the daft
rigmarole that telly series have taught us, where did you see her last, have
you phoned her parents. Quite lunatic. Lost is lost. The only person who'd know
about Connie was sitting on the divan, head in his hands, stuttering, in a
state of collapse.