The Judas Pair

'You're making me uneasy.'

And she was. Tinker was loyal, wasn't he? I paid him well by comparison with other dealers' barkers. I never disclosed a confidence. Twice I'd bailed him out. Once I'd rescued him from Old Bill, and once saved him getting done over by the Brighton lads. But you could never tell. Was it this suspicion that was worrying me? Something niggled in my memory, something I had seen.

We were out of town and down on the estuary in no time. It's not much of a place—four small boatbuilders in corrugated iron sheds, the usual paraphernalia of the pleasure-boating fraternity, and a few boats hauled up on the mud by the wharf. Those big Essex barges used to ply between here and Harwich in the old days, crossing to the Blackwater and even London, but the two that are left are only used for showing tourists the Colne estuary and racing once a year, a put-up job.

I found Barton planing wood. The lights were on inside his boathouse though outside was still broad daylight. You could see the town-hall clock in the distance some five miles off. I waited until he stopped. Well, what he was making could be a valuable antique in years to come. Never interrupt a craftsman.

'Hello, Lovejoy.' He stopped eventually and nodded to Sheila as we sat on planks.

'When are you going to give this boat lark up, Dick?' I said. 'You could go straight.'

It gave him a grin as he lit his pipe. 'Dealing in antiques?'

'Maybe,' I offered. 'I'd take you on as a substandard junior partner for a year's salary.'

'I like a proper job,' he countered, winking at Sheila. She was quite taken with him.

'On second thoughts, I couldn't see you standing the pace.'

'Of course,' he yakked on, 'I can see the attraction. Nothing really matters in antiques, does it? Right or wrong, you get along.'

'It's time for his tablet,' I apologized to Sheila. 'This feverish air down on the waterside, you understand. His blood's thin.'

'I turn into a man after dark,' he said solemnly to Sheila. 'If ever you're thinking of ditching this goon, give me a tinkle.'

'Flinters, Dick,' I said gently. There was silence. A waterbird made a racket outside and something splashed with horrid brevity.

'Ah, well,' he said.

These pipe smokers are one up on the rest of us. It might be worth taking up just for the social advantages. If you want a few moments peace, out it comes and you can spin out the whole ritual for as long as you feel inclined. The universe waited breathlessly until his pipe was chugging to his satisfaction.

'Launched?' I asked. 'Better now?'

'Flinters,' he said. 'They're a problem, now, aren't they?'

'You are telling me?'

'And rare.'

'And desirable. Go on, Dick. And costly.'

'Ah, yes.' He stared down the short slipway. 'About a month ago I decided which pair I'd keep. I have two Sandwells and the Mortimers. The Mortimers can go, but I want exchange. A revolving rifle, English.' Sandwell was an early brass-barrel specialist, lovely stuff.

'And cash adjustment.'

'Something of the sort.'

'And the Mortimers?' I could feel that old delicious greed swelling in my chest. Magic.

'Mint,' he said.

'Really mint?'

'Not a blemish.' He'd let his pipe doze. 'Cased. Casehardening. I don't think,' he said, winking at Sheila, 'you'll be disappointed.' The understatement of all time. Casehardening. Something scratched again at my memory, worrying me.

If you keep any metallic object in an unopened case for long enough, it acquires a curious characteristic. If the surface was originally made an acid-protected rust brown, it simply becomes shinier, almost oily in appearance. If previously made a fire-protected shiny blue ('gunmetal' blue), the surface develops an odd mother-of-pearl effect very like the sheen of gasoline on water. This casehardening is an especially desirable feature of anything metal having a protected surface, from coins to weapons. On no account clean it off; you will be doing posterity a cultural favor and yourself a financial one by leaving it intact.

'Look, Dick.' I drew breath and launched. 'I can lay my hands on one.'

'Good?'

'A faulty spring I've not touched. Otherwise mint.'

'Cased?'

'Come off it.'

'Who by?'

'Adams, London Bridge. Five-chambered.' I photographed it in my mind's eye. 'It's beautiful.'

He thought a second in a cloud of smoke. 'How would we adjust?'

'Because you're a close relative,' I said, in agony, 'I'll pay the difference.'