Remember Adrian? I spent part of the night cleaning the lumpy box—it was a genuine flea box. I kissed it reverently, drew all the curtains, doused my lamp, and rolled up the carpet. Underneath was the hinged paving stone. Down I went, eight wooden steps underground into my secret cave. Eight feet by eight, cold as charity, dry as a tinderbox, safer than any bank vault on earth. I laid the box on a shelf and climbed out, replacing the stone flag and making sure the iron ring lay in its groove. It wouldn't do to have a visitor tripping up over an unexpected bump in the carpet, would it? I smoked a Dutch cigar to celebrate, though they make me sleep badly, and went to bed. It was four o'clock.
Field's brother was a collector, apparently. One of the indiscriminate kind. To his wife's dismay he filled the house with assorted antiques and semi-antiques and modern junk, a mixture of rubbish and desirable stuff. In short, a collector after my own heart.
Somewhere, somehow, Field's brother found the Judas pair, so Field told me, not realizing they were anything more special than a pair of supreme antique flintlock duelers made by any old passing genius. He seems to have mentioned to all and sundry about his luck and I daresay let interested callers click the triggers—knocking guineas off their value at every click. Tender-hearted as I am, by this point in Field's narrative I was getting the feeling his brother might have got the same fate from me, but I suppressed it.
Anyway, one night several months ago Field had a phone call from his brother, who told him very excitedly that the flintlocks were very special, unique in fact, if not world-shattering. He would bring them over next day, it being Saturday, and show him.
"He never came, Lovejoy," Field told me.
He was found by Field himself, at noon. Field drove over to see why he hadn't turned up. He was in his living room among all his clutter. Blood seemed to be everywhere. He seemed to have been shot through his eye, but the bullet was never found not even at the post-mortem.
"Sorry about this," I said, "but did the pathologist say what bore?"
"About twelve, but he wasn't sure."
"Could be."
Take a pound of lead. Divide it into twelve equal balls. They are then twelve-bore bullets for flintlock or percussion weapons. No cartridges, remember, for the period we're talking about. The impetus comes from your dollop of gunpowder and the spark. Flintlock weapons range from two-bore, or even one-bore monsters which throw a bullet as big as a carrot, to narrow efforts like the eighteen-bore or less. Duelers went with fashions, but twelve-bores were not unusual.
"Where did he buy them?"
"He never said." Wise man.
"Nor how much he paid?"
"No." Wiser still.
"Were they cased?"
"Cased?"
"In a special box, the size of a small cutlery box, maybe up to two feet by one, maybe four inches deep."
"There was a box that went with them."
I stirred from desire. "And the accessories?"
"As far as I remember, there were some small screwdrivers and a couple of metal bottles, and pliers," he said slowly, "but that's as much as I can recall." He meant a flask and mold.
"So you actually saw them?"
He looked surprised. "Oh, yes."
"And… you didn't notice if they were of any extra quality?"
"To me they were just, well, antiques."
I eyed him coldly. You can go off people. "Did you notice the maker?"
"Eric—my brother—told me. It's such an unusual name, isn't it? Durs. And Egg. I remarked on it." He grinned. "I said, I'll bet his mates pulled his leg at school."
"Quite," I said, knowing the feeling well. "And of course you searched for them?"
"The police did."
"No luck?"
"Not only that. They didn't believe me about them."
No good looking for a gun—of any sort—if there's no bullet.
"They said he'd been stabbed with a metal object."
"Through the eye?" It sounded unlikely.
"It's hopeless, as you no doubt see."
"What theories did they have?"
"Very few. They're still searching for the weapon."
"Without knowing what sort of weapon it was?" I snorted in derision.
He leaned forward, pulling out an envelope. "Here's five hundred," he said. "It's on account."
"For… ?" I tried to keep my eyes on his, but they kept wandering toward the money in his hand.
"For finding that weapon." He chucked the envelope and I caught it, so the notes inside wouldn't bruise. Not to keep, you understand. "My brother was shot by one of the Judas weapons."
"The Judas pair don't exist." My voice sounds weak sometimes.
"They do." For somebody so hopeless at pretending to be a collector he was persistent. "I've seen them."
"They don't," I squeaked at the third try. It's funny how heavy a few pound notes can be.
"Then give me the money back," he said calmly, "and tell me to go."
"I could get you a reasonable pair for this," I said weakly. "Maybe no great shakes, not cased, and certainly not mint, but—"
"Yes or no?" he asked. Some of these quiet little chaps are the worst. Never give up no matter how straight you are. Ever noticed that?
"Well," I said gamely, feeling all noble, "if you really insist…"
"If you've got a pen and paper," he said, smiling in a rather disagreeable way, "I'll give you all available details."
I'd tried, hadn't I?
Adrian brought Jane Felsham along. I handed him a check.
"You're flush!" he exclaimed. "Come across a Barraud?" Barraud, a London watchmaker, about 1815 made some delicious flat-looking watches. Only the central sun decoration and the astounding nineteen-line movement and the sexy gold and enamel surface and the beady surround (pearls) tell you it's somewhat above average. The highest artistic imagination crystallized in a luscious context of brilliant science. I smiled, I think. People shouldn't make jokes. I'd once missed a Barraud by five minutes, late for an auction.
"Steady progress," I replied.
"Will it bounce?" He draped himself elegantly across a chair. Both he and Jane couldn't help glancing sharply around in case any of my recent finds were on display.
"Don't you want it?" I brewed up to show we were still friends.
"I must confess little Janesy and I were discussing whether you'd have the wherewithal, dear boy."
"It was touch and go."
"Business going a bit slow, Lovejoy?" Jane lit one of her long cigarettes and rotated her fag holder. "Not much about for the casual visitor to see."
"I have these two warehouses…" They laughed.
"That chap last night," Jane pressed. "A client?"
"Trying to be," I said casually.
"After anything we could help with?" from Adrian.
"I doubt it." I rattled a few pieces of crockery to show I was being offhand.
"A furniture man, I suppose." Jane waggled her fag holder again. A psychiatrist I sold a warming pan once told me something odd about women who habitually sucked fag holders. For the life of me I can't remember what it was.
"Asking the impossible as usual." I hoped that would shut them up. "Wanting something for nothing."
"Don't they all?" Adrian groaned.
"Did you risk him in your car?" Jane was smiling.
"Of course. Why not? I gave him a lift to the station."
"Did he survive?" She's always pulling my leg about my old bus.
"He said it was unusual."
"A death trap," Adrian interposed. "All those switches for nothing. Trade it in for a little Morris."
This sort of talk offends me, not that I'm sentimental about a heap of old iron. After all, though it's a common enough banger, it does give off a low-level bell or two.