"I want no trouble."
"And you'll get none, old pal." I beamed at him. "Remember the Field sale? Eric Field, deceased?"
"I thought you hinted a bit too much," he said. "Nothing wrong, was there?"
"Nothing," I said easily. "Your new job's trying to remember everything about it: sales lists, who the auctioneer was, who was there, who bought what, and how much they paid—"
"Confidential." Remarkable how self-important these pipsqueak clerks are.
I went all concerned. "What about your arm?" I asked anxiously.
"What about it? Nothing wrong with my arm."
I beamed into his eyes and winked. "There will be, Jim. It'll be broken in several places."
"Eh? You're mad—"
"Left or right, Jim?" I was really enjoying myself. No wonder people change when they get religion if this is what faith does for you. Faith's supposed to cancel doubt, isn't it? Marvelous how much calm conviction can bring. If Jim's four brothers had called about then I'd have said the same thing. Numbers are a detail when principle's the prime mover.
"Get the message?" I was so contented. "Don't get in my way when I'm moving. Now, you've got three seconds to agree, and by six tonight I'll have the invoices, the lists, the sales notes, and all essential details of the Field sale. You bring them around to my cottage and wait there until I come."
"You're off your bleeding head, Lovejoy," he moaned. "I've no car."
"Don't miss the bus from the station, then. Remember it's a rotten bus service."
"Get stuffed," he said, kicking at my foot.
My forehead felt white-hot. For a moment I struggled for control, then moved up into the doorway, pushing him back. I kneed him in the crotch and butted his nose with my head. Heaven knows where I learned it. I honestly am a peaceable chap. He tried to scramble away in terror and found an upright modern Jameson piano, only teak and 1930, to lean against. His face showed white above his two-day stubble.
"For Christ's sake—"
"Peace be unto you too, Jim," I said. "Now, be a good lad and get me the details."
"You've broken me ribs," he wailed. I nodded patiently. Some people just can't be hurried. Others must learn.
"And I'll break your arm at ten past six if you don't get me the answers, Jim."
"I've got to get to a doctor."
I shoved him down to his knees again and twisted his arm behind him.
"No doctors, Jim. No hospitals. You've a job to do, right?" He nodded through pain and fear. "Another word, Jim. I'm on the move. It's not a pretty sight. Now, you can call the law like any decent citizen and turn me in. I won't deny your allegations. But as God's my judge I'll came back and maim you for life if you do. You just do my little job like I ask and I'll leave you alone ever afterward."
I turned to go while he was sick all over his Afghanistan—he'd have said Persian—carpet, flower-fruit design with that rather displeasing russet margin they adopt far too often for my liking. I paused at the door. "Oh, and Jim."
"What?"
"Miss nothing out. All details complete, or you'll have to suffer the consequences. I must know everything about the Field sale. Understand?"
He managed a nod and I departed thinking of at least one task well done for a starter.
There wasn't a soul on East Hill except for a queue at the baker's and the car was quite untouched.
Black day. Traipsing from one cop shop to another making bother till they gave in. An inspector went over reports of Sheila's death word for word in the manner of his kind. Ever noticed how many people talk like union officials nowadays? Anonymous speech is everywhere—politicians, lawyers, priests in pulpits, auctioneers, the lot. Too many maybes. Listen to a political speech. I'll bet you a quid everything definite he says is canceled out by something else he says a moment later. Daft. As I sifted through the details I wondered where all the common sense had gone. It vanished about fifteen years ago, about the time those bone ships made by our French prisoners from the Napoleonic scraps vanished. You don't get either any more.
From the police I went to Camden Town, where Sheila's pal lived. Betty, fabulous for multicolored lipsticks, cleavage, and a legendary succession of loves, all with wealthy City men. Her husband, twice her age, kept model trains. I letched away as she gave her tale. She'd missed Sheila at home-time that day. Betty, all nineteen years of her, explained she'd had to work late. I pretended to believe her from politeness.
Seeing her old man was playing trains outside, I gave her my deep dark Lovejoy smolder. I only wished she'd been a customer. I swear I could have got rid of that tarty Dutch cutlery at last. You get no tax allowance for stock. Bloody Chancellor.
I held Betty's hand at the door. They measure you with their eyes, don't they? I said how I felt biological toward her. She liked biological and gave me the address of a little executive cottage she visited at certain times. These places can be a mine of antiques. What more pleasant than searching for antiques, up and down stairs with the help of a huge cleavage? Two birds per stone and that.
But no clues. Maybe the steam was going out of my crusade. It depressed me. I knocked about, saw the Bond Street arcade, did time in Fairclough's, did a few deals. The four-thirty train was on time from Liverpool Street.
I reached home at ten to six. Jim was waiting, gray-faced, hurting, obedient. I drove up with the now familiar knot of tension in my belly at the sight of him. It pleased me. My crusading zeal had only momentarily tired because of so many false leads. Here was one I relied on to give me a few more details.
He gave me a photocopied list of the Field sale and every single invoice to do with it. In his own clumsy handwriting was a list of everybody who'd attended, the auctioneers, clerk, and his two mates who assisted.
"There's a good lad." I patted his head. "Look, Jim—"
"Yes?" He stood mournfully on the gravel.
"I don't want to hurry you, but the doctor's surgery closes at seven. You'll just make it on the bus."
"Aren't you going to give me a lift?" His spirits were on the mend. There was a faint hint of the old truculence.
I smiled. "Good night, Jim," I said and closed the door.
Chapter 12
Some people kill me. You can invent a name for anything and it will be believed. Say anything and somebody'll cheer fit to burst. I'll give you an example. There was Dandy Jack looking for cracks on this piece of "cracked" porcelain—and him a dealer old enough to be my great-granddad. Of course, Dandy Jack was as indisposed as a newt, as one politician cleverly said of that minister who got sloshed and shot his mouth off on telly..
"Give it here, Dandy." I took it off him, exasperated. "Crack porcelain doesn't mean it's got cracks all over it." His bloodshot eyes gazed vaguely in my direction while I gave him the gory details.
"Kraak," not "cracked" porselain (note that "s"). Once upon a time, the Portuguese ship Catherine was sailing along in the Malacca Straits when up came a Dutch ship and captured it, there being no holds barred in 1603. Imagine the Dutchmen's astonishment when they found they'd bagged not treasure but a cargo of ceramics of a funny blue-white color. The Catherine was a carrack, or "Kraak." The nickname stuck. It looks rubbish, but folk scramble for it. I priced it for him and said I'd be back.
The town was jumping. I felt on top of the world without knowing why. A bad memory of something evil having happened recently was suppressed successfully in a wave of sun and crowds. No dull weather, kids well behaved, trees waggling, and people smiling, you know how pleasant things can look sometimes. And the little arcade was thronged. Margaret waved from her diminutive glass-fronted shop. Harry Bateman was there with a good, really good, model compound steam engine of brass and deep red copper, Robert Atkinson about 1864 or thereabouts, and shouting the odds about part exchange for a John Nash painting, modern of course, all those greens and lavender watercolor shades. It would be close.