The Judas Pair

'Those over there aren't jade at all. Agate.'

'The bastard!' he exclaimed. 'You mean I've been done?'

'No. You've got some stuff here worth half your business, Dandy.'

'Straight up?'

'Yes. Those dark green things are modern—for heaven's sake don't scratch them. It's a dead giveaway and you'll never sell them. These, though, are rare. Price them high.'

I gave him the inky dragonfly, though my hand tried to cling hold and lies sprang to my lips screaming to be let out so as to make Dandy give it me back for nothing. I hate truth. Honest. I'm partial to a good old lie now and again, especially if it's well done and serves a good honest purpose. Being in antiques, I can't go about telling unsophisticated, inexpert lies. They have to be nudges, hints, clever oblique untruths that sow the seed of deception, rather than naive blunt efforts. Done well, a lie can be an attractive, even beautiful, thing. A good clever lie doesn't go against truth. It just bends it a little around awkward corners.

'You having me on?'

'Price them high, Dandy. My life.'

The enormity hit him. 'Do you think they're worth what I paid?'

'Whatever it was, it was too little.' I rose to go.

He caught my arm. 'Will you date and price them for me, Lovejoy?'

'Look,' I told him, 'if I do, promise me one thing.'

'What?'

'You won't sell me that bloody inky dragonfly. It's worth its weight in gold four times over. If I put a price of two hundred quid on it, then offer to buy it from you, don't sell.'

'You're a pal, Lovejoy,' he said, grinning all over his bleary face.

I pulled off my coat and set to work. I saw Margaret make a thumbs-up sign across the arcade to Dandy, who had to rush across and give her the news. Morosely, I blamed Field's mad search. If I hadn't needed Dandy's gossip, I could have tricked most of the old jades out of him for less than twenty quid and scored by maybe a thousand. Bloody charity, that's me, I thought. I slapped a higher price on the dragonfly than even I'd intended. Give it another month, I said sardonically to myself, the way things are going and it would be cheap at the price.

I eventually had three leads from Dandy Jack, casual as you like. I think I was reasonably casual, and he was keen to tell me anything he knew. Lead one was a sale in Yorkshire. Jack told me a small group—about seven items is a small group—of weapons were going there. The next was a sale the previous week I'd missed hearing of, in Suffolk. Third was a dealer called Brad. He deserved to be first.

I loaded up with gasoline at Henry's garage.

'Still running, is it?' he said, grinning. 'I'll trade you.'

'For one that'll last till Thursday?' I snarled, thinking of the cost of gasoline. 'You can't afford it.'

'Beats me how it runs,' he said, shaking his head. 'Never seen a crate like it.'

'Don't,' I said, paying enough to cancel the national debt. 'It does six—gallons to the mile, that is.'

I drove over to the estuary, maybe ten miles. Less than a hundred houses sloped down to the mud flats where those snooty birds rummage at low water and get all mucky. A colony of artists making pots live in converted boathouses along the quayside and hang about the three pubs there groaning about lack of government money. Money for what, I'm unsure.

Brad was cleaning an Adams, a dragoon revolver of style and grace.

'Not buying, Brad,' I announced. He laughed, knowing I was joking.

'Thank heavens for that,' he came back. 'I'm not selling.'

We chatted over the latest turns. He knew all about Dandy's jades and guessed I'd been there.

'He has the devil's luck,' he said. I don't like to give too much away, but I wanted Dandy to learn from Brad how impressed I'd been, just in case he'd missed the message and felt less indebted. So I dwelled lovingly on some of the jades until Brad changed the subject.

'Who's this geezer on about Durs guns?'

You must realize that antique collecting is a lifetime religion. And dealing is that, plus a love affair, plus a job. Dealers know who is buying what at any time of day or night, even though we may seem to live a relatively sheltered and innocent life. And where, and when, and how.

This makes us sound a nasty, crummy, suspicious lot. Nothing of the kind. We are dedicated, and don't snigger at that either. Who else can be trusted but those with absolute convictions? We want antiques, genuine lustrous perfection, as objects of worship, and nothing else. All other events come second. In my book that makes us trustworthy, with everything on earth— except antiques. So Brad had heard.

'Oh, some bloke starting up,' I said.

'Oh?'

I thought a second, then accepted. 'An innocent. No idea. I took him on.'

'They're saying flinters.'

'Yes.'

'Difficult.'

I told him part of the tale I'd selected for public consumption. 'I thought maybe duelers, a flash cased set.'