The Judas Pair

He whistled. 'I can understand your concern. Shall I ask about?'

'If you would, Adrian. Many thanks.'

He cooed a farewell, waving a spotted cravat from his doorway as we went back to the car. I'd got a ticket from a cheerful traffic warden and grumbled at Sheila for not having reminded me about putting up my infallible 'Delivering' notice.

Seddon's is one of those barnlike ground-floor places full of old furniture, mangles, mattresses, rotting wardrobes, and chairs. The public come to see these priceless articles auctioned. Dealers and collectors come to buy the odd Staffordshire piece, an occasional Bingham pot, or a set of old soldier's medals. The trouble is, the trade's nonseasonal at this level. To spot the public's deliberate mistake, as it were, you must go every week and never let up. Sooner or later there'll be a small precious item going for a song. It's not easy. To see how difficult it is, go to the auction near where you live. Go several times and you'll see what dross is offered for sale and gets bought! Now, in your half-dozen visits by the law of averages you could have bought for a few coppers at least one item worth a hundred times its auctioned price. The people who actually did buy it weren't simply lucky. They study, read, record, assemble information and a store of knowledge. It's that which pays off eventually. That, and flair—if you have any.

I stress 'nonseasonal' because almost all of the antique business at the posher end is seasonal. It's too complex and full of idiosyncrasies to give it my full rip here, but in case you ever want to buy or sell anything even vaguely resembling an antique, follow Lovejoy's Law: All things being adjusted equally, sell in October or November to get the best auction price; buy between May and early September for the lowest prices.

It was viewing day, when you go around the day before the auction and moan at how terrible the junk is, and how there's cheaper and better stuff in the local market. That way, innocents hear your despair and go away never to return. Result— one less potential buyer. Also, it provides the auctioneer's assistants with an opportunity for lifting choice items out of the sale and flogging them in secret for a private undisclosed fee. We call it 'melting down,' and deplore it—unless we can get our hands on the stuff, in which case we keep quiet.

I took Sheila in and we milled around with a dozen housewives on the prowl and a handful of barkers. Tinker was there and came over.

'Any luck?'

'Yes, Lovejoy. Hello, miss.'

Sheila said hello. We left her leafing through a shelf of drossy books and went among the furniture where nobody could listen in.

'I've got a cracker, Lovejoy,' Tinker said. 'You won't believe this, honest.'

'You're having quite a run,' I commented.

He got the barb and shook it off. 'I know what you're thinking,' he said, 'but it's a whizzer. Listen. You're after a mint pair for that Field I put onto you—right?' I nodded. 'I've found a cased set going.'

'Where?' My mouth dried.

'Part exchange, though.' This was Tinker creating tension. 'Not a straight sale.'

'What the hell does that matter?' I snarled. 'Who the hell does a straight sale for the good stuff these days anyway? Get on with it.'

'Keep your hair on.' We chatted airily about mutual friends while an innocent housewife racked herself over a chest of drawers before marking it carefully on a list and pushed off steeling herself for tomorrow's auction.

Tinker drew me close. 'You know that boatbuilder?'

'Used to buy off Brad down the creek?'

'Him. Going to sell a pair of Mortimers, cased.'

'I don't believe it, Tinker.'

'Cross my heart,' he swore. 'But he wants a revolving rifle in part exchange. Must be English.'

I cursed in fury. Tinker maintained a respectful silence till I was worn out.

'Where the hell can I get one of those?' I muttered. 'I've not seen one for years.'

I actually happened to have one in my priest hole, by Adams of London Bridge, a five-chambered percussion long arm. There's bother with a spring I've never dared touch, but otherwise it's perfect. I cursed the boatbuilder and his parents and any possible offspring he might hope to have. Why can't people take the feelings of antique dealers into account before they indulge in their stupid bloody whimsies? Isn't that what all these useless sociologists are for? I came manfully out of my sulk.

Tinker was waiting patiently. 'All right, Lovejoy?'

'Yes. Thanks, Tinker.' I gave him a couple of notes. 'When?'

'Any time,' he answered. 'It'll be first come first served, Lovejoy, so get your skates on. They say Brad's going down the waterside early tomorrow. Does he know—?'

'The whole bloody world knows it's me that's after flinters,' I said with anguish.

When a punter puts money on a horse at two-to-one odds, as you will know, nothing happens at first. Then, as more and more punters back it, the odds will fall to maybe evens, which means you must risk two quid to win only two, instead of risking two to win four as formerly. In practically the same way, the more people want to buy a thing, the dearer it becomes. Naturally, merchants will explain that costs and heaven-knows-what factors have pushed the price up, but in fact that's a load of cobblers. Their prices go up because more people want a thing. They are simply more certain of selling, and who blames them for wanting to make a fortune?

Gambling is a massive industry. Selling spuds is too. Buying flintlocks or Geneva-cased chain-transmission Wikelman watches is not a great spectator sport, so the field is smaller. A whisper at one end therefore reverberates through the entire collecting world in a couple of weeks, with the effect that those already in possession of the desired item quickly learn they are in a position to call the tune. They can more or less name their terms. Hence the indispensable need of a cunning barker.