The Judas Pair

I wasn't taking that from any bloke. 'You're a friend of Eric Field's?' I interrupted, peeved. My speedster might stutter a bit, but so did Caesar.

'An old friend.' He went all pious like they do. 'I try to visit Muriel—Mrs. Field, that is—as often as I can, to lend solace.' He sighed. 'It's been a very difficult time for her, seeking readjustments.'

'I do appreciate that, Reverend,' I said, considerably moved for a second or so.

It's pleasant being holy, but isn't it boring? Holy duty done with, I got down to business. 'I know you'll think it a bit of a cheek, Reverend,' I began apologetically, 'but I'm trying to complete a set of accessories for a pistol I have, in a case.'

'Oh.' His eyes glinted. I was onto a real collector here, no mistake. 'Any special variety?'

'Very expensive,' I said with the famous Lovejoy mixture of pride and regret. 'A pocket Adams revolver.'

'Oh.' His fire dampened. 'Percussion.'

'Yes, but almost mint.' I let myself become eager. 'There's one nipple replaced, and a trace of repair…'

His lip curled into an ill-concealed sneer. 'Well, Mr. Love-joy,' he said, still polite, 'I'm afraid percussion's not my first choice.'

'Flinters?' I breathed in admiration.

'It so happens…' He controlled himself and said carefully, 'I am interested. If you ever do hear of any flintlocks, I would be most happy to come to some arrangement.'

'They're pretty hard to find these days, Reverend,' I told him sadly. 'And the prices are going mad. Never seen anything like it.'

'You're a dealer, Mr. Lovejoy?' he asked, as if he hadn't guessed.

'Yes, but only in a small way.' He would check up with the shop lady as soon as I was gone. Always admit what's going to be found out anyway. 'I'm mainly interested in porcelains.'

I got another smile for that. 'I'm glad we're not flintlock rivals.'

'I only wish I had the money to compete,' I confessed. 'What I came about—'

'The flask?'

'If you still have it,' I said, carefully measuring my words in case this all turned into a real sale, 'I'd like to make you an offer.'

To my surprise he hesitated. 'They're fairly expensive,' he said, working out private sums.

I groaned and nodded. 'Don't I know it?'

'And you'll require a flask more appropriate to a percussion—'

'Oh, that's a detail,' I interrupted casually. 'It doesn't matter too much. Anything goes these days.'

I sank out of sight in his estimation. As far as he was concerned, I would forever be a tenth-rate dealer of the cheapest, nastiest, and most destructive kind. Even so, he still hung on, hesitating about selling me his flask. It was only after a visible effort that he steeled himself to go no further and courteously refused. I tried pushing him, offering a good market price, though it hurt. By then he was resolved.

We said nothing more. I didn't enlighten him about my visit to Muriel Field's. He'd be on to her soon enough. But, I wondered, had Eric told him about the Judas pair?

I went down the new road. This little estate miles from anywhere probably hadn't an antique from one end to the other. On the other hand, there were a few shapely birds here and there, but the sense of desolation was very real. I would phone Sheila and ask her to come back to Lovejoy's waiting arms in time for me to meet her off the London train in the romantic dusk. As I trotted around the corner I planned a superb meal for the luscious lady who would bring a little—maybe much— happiness into my humdrum existence. I would get three of those pork pies in transparent wrapping, a packet of frozen peas and carrots mixed, one of those gravy sachets, and two custard pies for afters. Lovely. How could any woman resist that?

I leapt into my chronic old speedster and started it by releasing the handbrake to set it rolling on the slope, wondering as I did so if I had any candles to make my supper party a really romantic seduction scene. I didn't give the sad new dwellings another glance. Give me bird sanctuaries any time.

Chapter 7

I should own up about women.

It's a rough old world despite its odd flashes of sophistication. Women make it acceptable the same way antiques do. They bring pleasure and an element of wonderment, when oftener than not you'd only be thinking of the next struggle. There's nothing wrong in it all. It's just the way things are. Morality's no help. Keep cool, hang on to your common sense, and accept whatever's offered. Take what you can get from any woman that is willing to give it.

And before you even start to argue—no! I won't listen to all that junk about waiting for spontaneous out-of- the-blue 'true love.' Love is made. It is the product of many makings. A man and woman just don't fall in love at a glance, sighing and longing and whatever. They have to make love, build it up month after month, having sex and becoming loving toward each other. When they've made enough love and built it around themselves brick on brick, then they can be said to be in a state of love. Read those old religious characters. They knew all about love as a spiritual event. It didn't come to them by a casual notion as a sudden idea that sounds not too bad or from a weekly magazine. Love, that mystical magic stuff of a lifetime, came from working at the very idea of it, grieving and straining and suffering the making of it. Then, in possession of it, comes the joy and the ecstasy of knowledge in the substance of love.

Well, sorry about that.

I make it when and where I can. Any honest man will tell you that the main problem is where the next