The Possessions of a Lady (18 page)

But sometimes a particular idiocy's strangely hard to find. Like
policemen, crooks are sometimes never there when you want them. It galls me.
Nine phone calls, and all I'd got was scatty wives, bored boyfriends, irate assistants.
Soon I was in a blazing temper, very unusual for a patient caring bloke like
me. Then I struck oil, in the person of Wanda Curthouse.

'Wanda?' I sweated relief. 'That you? Lucky me! First number I
try!'

'How sweetly you lie, Lovejoy!' Wanda purred. 'In what desperate
straits are we this time?'

'That's unkind.' I was hurt. 'You've forgotten.'

'That we were friends, until a young tart strolled by? Then you
were off like Dick Turpin on
his
mare.'

Wanda made me feel bad for nothing. It's not fair. I put a
high-quality smile into my voice, trying to ignore the packed nosh wagon.

'I hoped for a better welcome, love. I'm trying to make amends.
How's business?'

'Excellent. My husband Bertie does my accounts now.'

'Good!' I really meant oh hell fire. When you need a crook, go for
the best, even if she hates you. 'Above the old antiques lark now, eh? Never
mind, love. I'll get Fribble from East Mersea. He can shift bulk at short
notice. And he's not crossed swords with ArtWatch. So-long, love.'

She tried to answer but I rang off and waited breathlessly. The
lorry driver wanted his phone back, but I clung to the gadget. It rang, Wanda,
enraged. 'Lovejoy?' she shrieked.

'That you, Wanda?' I went all innocent. 'How'd you know my
number?'

'I have the right electronics. You mentioned ArtWatch. Is it that
big?'

'Sorry, love, but there's some Gloucester lads

Her voice went seductive. 'Darling, we're friends . . .'

In half an hour, I alighted at Briony Finch's gates. Nothing for
it but to live a life of phoney honesty for a little longer. During which time,
I'd see why I was expected here in the first place, especially as I'd never
heard of the blinking manor until today. I found Briony, advanced smiling, my
hands outstretched, and drew her into solitude.

'Hello, love. Sorry I was so long. My friend was ill with, er,
sickness. It's all going to be okay. I've hired a friend who leads an auction
team.'

Briony didn't smile. 'I've been told all sorts of hideous things
about you, Lovejoy. The minute you left the dealers became extremely frank.'
I'll bet they were, I thought, but stayed mute. 'Some of them were
very
charming, Lovejoy, and most anxious
to help. Why did you tell so many lies?'

'Fibs.' Smiling, I took her arm. 'It's code. She's bossy, a bit
scarey.'

'Then why did you hire her?'

'She's got the right electronics, love. Anything else been pinched
or whacked while I've been busy?'

'No,' said this innocent, pleased with herself. 'I've had to be
vigilant, though. One gentleman was actually paying a dealer for one of Kate's
chairs! As if he actually owned it! Can you imagine?'

Well, yes. I sighed. Moncing's the oldest trick in the book, to
distract while thieving, at an auction viewing.

'Get near the door, Briony. Try to be a deterrent.' I was worn
out. With Briony's vigilance we'd be lucky if there was anything left to
auction. No sign of Spoolie, but I'd have to get hold of him and ask what the
hell.

Please, God, I prayed, bring Wanda Curthouse on swift angel wings
even if she still hates me. An enemy in need, friend indeed.

15

Ever get the feeling that your head's so filled with clutter
you're demented? I found a loo, went in and sat. Solitude is restorative. I'll
bet that half the Venerable Bede's parchments came to him when he was on the
loo, maybe Shakespeare's too. But even there you're sometimes not safe. I
babysit for the village women. For sanctuary I once sat in the toilet, but the
infants battered in hollering for me to come out and play. I kept hearing the
dealers' mutters as they passed the door. One deep voice, Brummy accent, showed
his temper.

'That casting's stinking the bloody place out. Warn Brady to cool
it.'

'Can't be cooled, Vet,' somebody snickered.

'Fewer effing jokes, you,' Vet growled.

I almost smiled. The trick when casting white metal is the
temperature. You test it with a burnt match. Touch the end into the molten
metal, it emits a wisp of smoke. No smoke, don't proceed. Too much smoke, give
up. But just a wisp, pour the molten metal into your quick-set mould, and you
have a good replica. Very few circuses—antique dealers in scarey numbers—bring
their own delly men. A delly man's a faker who'll fake anything on the spot,
moving with his hirers, day to day. They're pretty rare. Each has his own modus
op. One I know does it mainly in a van, a mobile lab. They were probably
dellying a lovely silver vinaigrette. I'd seen it in a cabinet pathetically
labelled
Please do not TOUCH
. It was
worth stealing, for vinaigrette collectors spell money.

Back in the eighteenth century, such was the stink in London's
streets, and of unwashed bodies in fashionable assemblies, that the more
sensitive gentry carried silver containers of herbs soaked in vinegar to defeat
the offending pongs. Collectors go wild for vinaigrettes made as
likenesses—Byron, Nelson.

The real risks to the delly man's activities are in the auction
room. The auctioneers might not let you hold the item, for example. In a country
house auction, though, it's simple. It might be necessary to hire a slip man.
They're around still, these archaic entrepreneurs, though like lamplighters
they're dying out. You pay them fee-for-item. Describe the item to the slippo,
and he'll hand it to you in quarter of an hour. Pay him instantly. You make
your mould, and return it. Later, maybe even after some days, he'll find you,
smiling. You're expected to 'dash' him, as the trade still says in 1880 Gold
Coast lingo. (Never use that horrible word 'tip' to a slip man; he'll be
mortally offended, being a true gentleman crookster.) The 'dash' is half what
you paid him before. Fail to dash him, you'll never hire a slippo again as long
as you live. A close and sophisticated lot, they. Here, in this innocent house
you could have nicked the entire manor, no slip man needed.

When it seemed quiet I left the loo. I'd already made up my mind
to stay and see the auction through. I had to find Spoolie, who had known I'd
be here when even I hadn't known that.

More people were in now, casual 'women'—meaning stray gapers, male
or female—and swarms of dealers on the merry round of picking and nicking. The
auctioneers arrived. I knew none, thank God. They looked right prunes, two
oldies and a bossy youth they called Lionel. Briony welcomed them like
conquering heroes.

She told me, glowing, 'You can relax now, Lovejoy.'

'Eh?' I stared at her.

'You've been on tenterhooks! Should we have tea?'

'No, love. I'll stay here.' With me by the door, some dealers had
at least hesitated. I shuttled between the exits, but it was like those school
problems about a forty-gallon bath leaking from different holes. The dealers
nicked stuff, stowing the loot in their parked motors and coming grinning for
more.

The auctioneers conferred, glanced my way, sent their toffee-noser
across.

He tapped my chest. 'Okay, squire. Piss off'

'Are you sure, sir?' I went servile.

A sour-featured whiffler with a hand under his left lapel tapped
his shoulder. 'Sure, Teazle,' Lionel said.

'Ta, Mr. Lionel.' Teazle gave a triumphant smirk.

'Er, excuse me, sir.' I was narked, seeing Teazle stealing with
that old trick. He didn't even pause, went on down the wide steps. He'd be gone
in minutes. I could feel the sweet clamour of the antique concealed under his
collar. He'd been hiding handies in his gloves. He'd examined several pieces of
jewellery, got two in his trouser turn-ups, one in his hat's leather
brim-lining. One was a pearl pendant, only mid-Victorian but, I was sure,
Faberge of St Petersburg.

Lionel took my arm in a tough rugby grip. 'I said piss off'

'Really?' I said, 'Briony said to list the thieves.'

'To
what
?' Lionel
couldn't believe his ears, bawled, 'Jasp! Get Al and Mack! We've got a right
one here.'

'I've counted eleven thieves, sir. Including you.'

'You . . . ?' Three whifflers approached. One hung back, an
elderly geezer in a waistcoat and watch chain. Somebody with sense, then. I'd
an idea I'd seen him before. 'You cheeky sod. Out, lads. Mind the brickwork.'
His joke. He gestured, and the ignorant pair advanced.

'The donty'll cost you, Lionel,' I said, less servile, 'if they
lay a finger on me.'

The whifflers halted. Lionel didn't understand.

'Donty? What's a donty?'

'Tell him, old man.' I spoke only to Waistcoat. 'And tell him how
I know.' In the distance, I heard an engine chopping the air, growing louder.
My spirits rose. Could this be Wanda, arriving at last, in style? The old man
spoke with serfly diffidence.

'Donty, Mr. Lionel, is when auctioneers mark antiques down, to
deliberately sell to their own planted bidders.'

'And . . . ?' I prompted.

'And have hirelings selectively remove items that might attract
bidders.'

Mr. Lionel acted furious. 'I'll have the police on him! Slander! Get
Inspector Derrick, Jasp.'

Derrick? I groaned inwardly. If the worst happened, I could still
hoof out and leave this mess to poor Briony Finch. I knew Derrick, and he me.

'For . . . ?' I asked Jasp.

'For the auctioneer staff to buy themselves

An elderly austere auctioneer joined us as I finished for Jasp. '.
. . at a private ring auction afterwards. Thus stealing six value equivalents,
the going rate for a donty.'

'What's a value equivalent?' Mr. Lionel demanded.

This is ignorance for you. There should be a university degree in
ignorance, B.I. (Hons), Bachelor of Ignorance with Honours. Post-graduate
courses, M.I., then finally a Ph.D. in it. Maybe they already have?

'What's going on here?' the old auctioneer asked the air. I like
the officer class's pretensions. Like old jokes.

Lionel seethed. 'This tramp's making accusations, Mr. Stibbert.'
Stibbert was the name on the vans, leader of the pack. 'I'm evicting him.'

'What accusations?' Stibbert spoke to a distant throng, Adam's
apple yo-yoing.

'Of a donty. It's some trick or other.'

Stibbert gave a wintry smile. 'Then he's read my book, Lionel!' He
lowered his gaze to me. All ex-officers are thin, over three yards tall. 'The
donty is an auctioneer's confidence trick. The word was coined by one Lovejoy
three years ago. You'll not find it in dictionaries, only in . . .' He
twinkled. '. . . my glossary!' He snuffled, the ex-officer version of a laugh.

'Rotten book, Mr. Stibbert,' I remarked. 'Make your staff read it,
though.'

A helicopter landed in a paddock about four furlongs off. Through
the window I saw a lovely figure alight, shake out her blonde hair. I was
astonished. How could Wanda have done so well without me? She'd prospered
mightily. Three other birds dropped to the grass. Well, I'd hired her. I
wondered if her husband was a big bloke. Wanda stretched, and signalled to five
cars coming through the ornate gates. As organised as ever, Wanda. I smiled the
smile I'd been keeping in reserve. Relaxed, I strolled away as old Jasp
whispered to his elderly boss.

The marquee seemed placid after that. Sundry folk were drifting
in, reserving chairs near the auctioneer's podium.

'What're you after here, son?' an old lady asked me. 'That silver
teapot? Just like my old mother's.' She dabbed her eyes. 'Will you bid for me?
Only, I've never been to an auction before.'

'You thieving old bitch,' I said. 'Knock it off or I'll pull your
teeth out.' She gasped with outrage, but boxers are always indignant. A boxer
is somebody on a dealer's payroll, hired to inveigle innocents into bidding for
an antique on her behalf. During the bidding, boxers make a fuss, withdraw
bids, start arguments, create confusion. The public is deterred and the
exasperated auctioneer scrubs the item entirely. Boxers are usually frail crones
or old soldiers, plucking on heart strings with their bony scavenger fingers.
They're paid a flat rate.

Time to watch, not to do. I heard the helicopter cough aloft, and
smiled. Wanda's team could outdo a brigade. I could have killed for a cup of
tea. I wondered what stunt Wanda would pull. She never lets you down—when moved
by her own special brand of greed and carnal lust. Old Jasp woke me minutes
later. I'd dozed off from excitement. 'Lovejoy?' Mr. Stibbert says please join
him forthwith.' 'Ta, Jasp. Forthwith no.' I smiled into his worried face. 'If I
were you, I'd clear off before it happens.'

'There's no way out, Lovejoy.' He'd sussed me all right. Wanda's
hooligans must already be legion out there. It was what I wanted to hear. I
reclined. I'd need all my energy later. And if Spoolie was so desperate, he'd
find me, and I'd no need to search at all. The murmurs of the growing crowd
lulled me to sleep.