Days (14 page)

At last he approaches the mahogany desk. The sole remaining Matchbooks sales assistant is a man whose white hair and sallow, wrinkled features put him somewhere in the same age bracket as Frank. The name on his ID badge is Moyle, and at present his attention is absorbed by the matchbook he is examining through the jeweller’s loupe screwed into his right eye-socket. The ponytailed man ahems to attract his attention. He ahems again, and this time Moyle notices. He looks up, the loupe dropping expertly into a waiting cupped hand.

“Sir,” he says. “How may I help you?”

“I’m looking for a birthday present for a friend of mine. He’s into matchbooks.”

“Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place. What did you have in mind?”

“I’m entirely in your hands.”

“Avid collector is he, this friend of yours?”

“Oh yes, very.”

“Then I suggest the easiest thing to do would be for you to name a price range, and I can tell you what we have that fits the bill.”

The ponytailed man mentions a figure that causes Moyle to raise his chin and purse his lips in a silent whistle.

“A most generous birthday present, sir. A close friend of yours, I take it?”

“Very close.”

“Well then, let’s see what we’ve got, shall we?” Moyle turns to the baize-covered board behind him to which are pinned several dozen more of those vinyl wallets containing matchbooks of various colours and sizes – prime specimens all. He plucks three down.

“This is no less than a Purple Pineapple Club matchbook,” he begins, holding the first wallet up delicately by the corner for the ponytailed man to view its contents at close quarters. “As your friend will no doubt be able to tell you, the Purple Pineapple Club was shut down three days before it was due to open when the principal member of the backing consortium filed for bankruptcy and took his own life. Fifty specimen promotional matchbooks were printed up, but only about half that number are believed to be currently in circulation. Note the use of purple metallic ink for the logo and the cheerful cartoon illustration.”

“All of your matchbooks have had the matches removed.”

“Oh, sir, one never leaves the matches attached. Oh no.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, the phosphorus discolours the card. Mainly, though, it’s because matchbooks are better stored and displayed flat.”

“I didn’t know that. All right, how much?”

Moyle picks up a scanning wand from the desk and runs its winking red tip over the barcode sticker attached to the back of the vinyl wallet. The price appears on the readout of the credit register linked to the scanning wand by a coil of flex. He draws the ponytailed man’s attention to the figure.

“I see,” says the ponytailed man. “Anything slightly more expensive?”

“More expensive,” says Moyle, with poorly disguised eagerness. “Well, there’s this one.” He picks up another of the wallets. “A special edition released to coincide with the official coming-out of a member of the royal family. Note the coat-of-arms motif featuring a pink crown and an entwined pair of human bodies. Rampant, as a heraldry expert might say. The story behind this one goes that the royal in question got cold feet at the last minute, hence the public proclamation of his sexual proclivities was never made, but a small number of the special edition matchbooks were pocketed by an equerry and thence made their way into the hands of private collectors. Naturally the palace press office denied there ever was going to be a coming-out announcement of any description and implied that the matchbooks must have been issued by an anti-royalist faction in order to discredit the royal family.”

“Like they need discrediting.”

“As you say, sir. Regardless, palace-authorised or not, a tiny quantity of these matchbooks exist, and the story attached lends them a certain novelty, don’t you think?”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way of guaranteeing its provenance?”

“None at all, I’m afraid, sir. That’s the trouble with what we call curio matchbooks.”

“Pity. My friend’s a stickler for provenance.”

“All the best phillumenists are.”

Frank, hovering close by, observing all this unnoticed, makes a quick check of the security cameras. Every one he can see is trained on the ponytailed man. Good.

Eye?

Still here, Mr Hubble.

Is there a guard on standby?

I’ve alerted one. He’s two departments away. Name of Miller.

Well done.

You see? We’re not all incompetent idiots down here.

I wish I could believe that.

There is a spurt of sarcastic laughter.
You’re on form this morning, Mr Hubble!

Thinking thunderclouds, Frank returns his attention to the scene being played out at the counter.

“What about that one?” says the ponytailed man, pointing to the third matchbook Moyle has selected.

“Ah, this one. The Raj Tandoori, an upscale Indian restaurant. First printing. Lovely design but, as you can see, there was a typographical error. ‘The Rat Tandoori.’ Unfortunate oversight or malicious printer’s prank? Who can say? Either way, the restaurateur felt, understandably, that the association of rodent and food might not encourage repeat custom and ordered a new batch printed up and the originals pulped. A few, however, survived. Much sought-after. Almost unique. But there is some slight damage to the striking pad, as you may have noticed, and the cover hinge has a tiny split in it.”

“May I take it out and have a look anyway?”

“Certainly. Just be careful with it, I beg of you.”

“Of course.”

The ponytailed man slips the matchbook out of its wallet and looks it over. Moyle watches with a concern that is not wholly proprietorial, which is almost that of a parent for a child, his hands poised to catch the matchbook should it happen to drop, but the customer seems to know how to handle precious artifacts such as this, holding it by the corners only, touching it with his fingertips alone, treating it with the kind of awed respect usually accorded a venerable, crumbling religious relic.

Satisfied that the man isn’t about to damage the matchbook, Moyle turns back to the baize-covered board. Tapping a thumb against his lips and humming, he casts an eye over the stock, then reaches up decisively and unpins two more wallets, which he lays in front of his customer just as the ponytailed man is resealing the “Rat Tandoori” matchbook into its wallet.

“Interested?” Moyle enquires.

“Not in that one, no.”

“Any particular reason why, might I ask?”

“My friend has a penchant for the immaculate.”

“For a mint-condition ‘Rat Tandoori’ original you’re looking at a price considerably higher than the admittedly handsome sum you mentioned, sir, but I could try to track down one in slightly better health if you like. One’s bound to turn up at an auction sooner or later.”

“Bound to,” agrees the ponytailed man. “But in that case, I’d rather buy it myself and avoid your outrageous mark-up.”

“Then I’m afraid neither of these will suit you,” says Moyle, puzzled by his customer’s sudden bluntness.

“They both look a bit tatty,” the ponytailed man agrees, glancing briefly at the new offerings.

“Remember, we’re dealing with ephemera here,” Moyle points out. “The appeal of matchbooks as collector’s items is their very lack of durability. I’m sure that’s the way your friend feels about them.”

“I’m beginning to think I’d be better off spending my money on something else for my friend,” the ponytailed man says. “Thanks for your time anyway, but no sale.” He turns to go.

Moyle’s shrug doesn’t adequately hide his obvious dismay.

Eye?

Yup.

Get Miller to intercept. He’s heading back out of the Peripheries into Oriental Weaponry.

He boosted? I didn’t see a thing.

Let’s hope one of the cameras did.

Cunning devil
, thinks Frank as he dogs the ponytailed man out of the department.

9.19 a.m.

T
HE PONYTAILED MAN
has stopped to admire a pair of
katana
in beautiful black-lacquered scabbards when a hand grabs his upper arm, fingers digging into his biceps with a polite but insistent pressure.

“Excuse me, sir.”

The ponytailed man looks round into a crinkled, saturnine face into which are embedded a pair of eyes the colour of rainy twilight. He fails to recognise a man he has seen at least twice already in the last quarter of an hour.

“Tactical Security,” says Frank. “Would you mind if I had a word?”

The ponytailed man immediately starts looking for an exit, and in doing so catches sight of a security guard ambling towards them. The guard is over two metres tall and as broad at the waist as he is at the shoulders, packed densely into his nylon dollar-green uniform like minced meat into a sausage skin.

The ponytailed man tenses. With a weary inward sigh Frank realises he is going to make a run for it.

“Please, sir. It’ll be so much better for everyone if you stay put.”

Miller, the guard, is still ten metres away when the ponytailed man wrenches his arm out of Frank’s grasp and makes his bid for freedom. Miller moves to intercept him, and the man blindly dashes right, running headlong into a rice-paper screen on which has been mounted an array of
shuriken
. The screen folds around him and collapses, and the ponytailed man collapses with it. Throwing stars fly off in all directions, spinning like large steel snowflakes.

Miller rushes forward, but the ponytailed man scrambles to his feet, snarling and brandishing one of the
shuriken
like a knife.

“Get away! Get away from me!”

Shrugging, Miller raises his hands and backs off a few paces.

“False arrest!” the ponytailed man shouts. “I haven’t done anything! False arrest!”

A small crowd of spectators swiftly gathers.

“I haven’t stolen anything!” The man gesticulates frantically with the throwing star.

Frank is by Miller’s side. “Can you take him?” he asks.

“Course I can,” Miller growls. “When I was inside, I used to kick seven shades of shit out of blokes like him all the time. Just for fun.”

“What about the throwing star?”

“He doesn’t know what he’s doing with it. You get ’im on disc?”

Eye?

I’m searching, I’m searching. Hang on. Yeah, there it is. Shit. That was
fast
.

Frank nods to Miller, and the guard breaks into a huge, humourless grin.

He moves swiftly for a man of his bulk. Three brisk strides, and he is inside the arc of the ponytailed man’s arm. Before the man can bring his weapon around, Miller’s hand flashes out, encloses the fist holding the
shuriken
, and squeezes. The ponytailed man shrieks as the star’s points pierce his palm. He falls to his knees, and Miller twists his arm behind his back, still squeezing. Blood streaks the ponytailed man’s wrist and smears the back of his jacket. He tries to writhe his way out of the hold Miller has him in, but the guard only tightens his grip on the
shuriken
-wielding hand, forcing the throwing star’s points further into the flesh of the ponytailed man’s palm until they grind bone. The man bends double, snivelling with the pain, unable to think about anything except the pain, the riveting, sickening pain.

Frank has his Sphinx out. He hunkers down beside the agonised shoplifter and recites the Booster’s Blessing.

“For the record, sir,” he says, “at 9.18 a.m. you were spotted removing an item from the Cigars & Matchbooks Department without having purchased it and with no obvious intent to purchase it. For this offence, the penalty is immediate expulsion from the premises and the irrevocable cancellation of all account facilities. If you wish to take the matter to court, you may do so. Bear in mind, however, that we have the following evidence on disk.”

Frank holds the Sphinx’s screen up before the man’s face and the Eye duly transmits a recording of the theft.

It was a skilful piece of sleight of hand, one no doubt practised countless times until it was honed to perfection. While Moyle’s back was turned, the ponytailed man whipped out a duplicate of the “Rat Tandoori” matchbook from his pocket, simultaneously palming the original into a slit cut in the lining of his jacket. It was the duplicate he was reinserting into the vinyl wallet when Moyle turned back to the counter, and were it not for Frank the substitution would most likely have gone unnoticed until the day a genuine matchbook aficionado with money to burn chose to add that particular rarity to his collection.

The crime is replayed on the Sphinx’s screen in two short clips from two different angles. The first clip shows the fake matchbook coming out but not the real one going in. The second leaves little room for doubt, although, even when slowed to half-speed, the exchange seems to take place in the blink of an eye. Much as he hates to, Frank has to admire the shoplifter’s dexterity. Just as he thought: a professional.

“Do you understand what I’m showing you?”

Frank isn’t certain the ponytailed man was looking, but when he repeats the question, the man nods and says yes.

“Good. Now, I need to see your card.”

“Come on, you, on your feet,” says Miller, hoisting the ponytailed man upright. “Get your card out. Slowly. No tricks.”

His face is livid and streaked with tears but the ponytailed man’s eyes are still defiant as he reaches into his inside pocket with his uninjured hand and produces a Silver.

“Cheap sod,” mutters Miller. “Couldn’t score better than that?”

“Fuck off,” says the ponytailed man, without too much enthusiasm.

Having extracted the
shuriken
from the ponytailed man’s palm, the guard proceeds to handcuff him. Frank, meanwhile, runs the card through his Sphinx. Central Accounts has no record of the card being reported as stolen, but when the account-holder’s picture appears on the Sphinx’s screen it doesn’t take Frank long to deduce that the man standing in front of him is not Alphonse Ng, aged 62, a balding, jowly, pugnacious-looking Korean.