I had this pal who knew horses—they used to come to him even when he'd no sugar. He and I once collected a Chippendale from near a training stables and we paused to watch these nags running about like they do. 'Quid on the big one,' I said, bored. 'The funny little chap,' he said, and blow me if it didn't leave the rest standing. It was called Arkle, a champion, they told us. See what I mean? To me that tiny, gawky, ungainly brute breathing all wrong was horrible. To my pal it was clearly the best of the lot. Now, to him a Turner painting—screaming genius over every inch of canvas—would look like a nasty spillage. Not to me. I've only to see an eighty-eight bus labeled 'Tate Gallery' and my bell goes like the clappers. Like I say, a gift.
Once I brought this dirty old monstrosity for ten quid. It looked for all the world like a little doll's house with a couple of round windows stuck on, and a great sloping piece of broken tin fixed to the back. The boys at the auction gave me an ironic cheer, making my face red as fire. But my bell was bonging. My find was eventually the only original Congreve clock ever to be exhibited within living memory—a clock worked on a spring controlled by a little ball rolling down a groove cut in an inclined plane, designed and made by the great inventor William Congreve almost two hundred years ago.
If you've got the courage, find out what your own particular knack is, then trust it. Obey your bells, folks. They're telling you about cold stone certainties.
Where was I?
Tinker Dill. S and four D's, and he'd sounded frantic. Ten thousand.
S and D's? Look in any antique shop. Casually, you'll find yourself wanting some lovely little trinket, say a twist-stem drinking glass. The more you look the more you want it. So you search it for the price and find a little ticket tied on marked HA/-, or some such.
We use codes, all very simple. One of the most elementary is that based on a letter-number transposition. Each code has a key word—for example, SUTHERLAND. Note that it has ten letters. For S read 1, for U read 2, and so on to N, which is 9. For D read not 10 but nought, because you already have a letter to denote 1. So the glass goblet you fancied is priced at forty-eight quid. There are several ten-letter codes. A quick look around tips you off.
One further point. X is often used to denote the pound sign —?—or zero. That way, the customer thinks the ticket is something mysterious to do with bookkeeping or identification. Not on your life. When in doubt, it's money. The code price marked is often what the dealer paid for the glass in the first place, so naturally he'll stick about fifty per cent on, if not more. And remember you may actually look a mug. In antiques you pay for appearances—yours, the antiques themselves, and the antique dealer's wife's fur coat. So my tip is: Argue. Even though it goes against the grain in polite old Britain, never pay the marked price, not even if the dealer offers an immediate discount. Hum and ha, take your time, look doubtful. Spin it out and then, as gently and sincerely as you possibly can, barter.
Listen to me, giving away my next year's profit.
'Look, Tinker,' I said, not daring to believe him.
'I know what you're going to say, Lovejoy,' he said, desperate now.
'You do?'
'Trade's bad. Profits are bad. Finds are bad. Everything's bad.'
Like I said, some are psychic.
'Who's got ten thousand these days?' I snapped.
'It's right up your street, Lovejoy.'
'Where's the mark?'
'In the saloon bar.'
Yet something was not quite right. It was too good to be true.
'How did he know you?'
'Came in looking for barkers and dealers. Somebody in the Lane told him we used this pub. He's done a few pubs at the Lane and on the Belly.'
Petticoat Lane and Portobello Road, the London street markets. To ask after reliable dealers—and I'm the most reliable of all known dealers, honest—was reasonable and sounded open enough.
'He spoke to you first?'
'No.' Tinker was obviously proud from the way his voice rose eagerly. 'I was at the bar. I heard him ask Ted.' Ted is the barman. 'He asked if any antique dealers were in the bar. I chipped in.' He paused. 'I was in like a flash, Lovejoy,' he added, pained.
'Good lad, Tinker,' I said. 'Well done.'
'I told him I was your runner. He wants to see you. He's got your name in a notebook.'
'Look, Tinker,' I said, suddenly uneasy, but he protested.
'No, no, he's not Old Bill. Honest. He's straight.'
'Old Bill' was the law—police. I had licenses to worry about. And taxes, paid and unpaid. And account books. And some account books I hadn't got at all.
'What's he after?'
'Locks. Right up your street.'
My heart almost stopped.
'Locks locks, or just locks?' I stuttered.
'Locks,' Tinker said happily. 'Flinters.'
'If you're kaylied,' I threatened.
