'Let's settle it tomorrow,' he said, and we shook hands.
Sheila rose. 'Is that all that happens?' She seemed peeved.
'What do you want, blood?' I demanded. I was drenched with sweat, as always. The excitement of the forthcoming deal was brewing in me. Tomorrow, with luck and good judgment and money, I would be in possession of a pair of casehardened flinters made by the most aristocratic and expensive of all the great London makers, Henry Walklate Mortimer.
'Thanks for coming, Lovejoy.' Dick came to the door of his boatshed to see us out. 'Still got your steamer, I see.'
'Any more jokes about my motor and the deal's off,' I shot back. 'At least I've got a license for it. Have you, for that thing?' I pointed to his pipe.
'Bring your lovely lady again, Lovejoy,' he called, and I replied with rudeness.
He was able to get his own back because my wretched banger refused to start despite all the cranking I could manage. Dick borrowed a trio of amused boatmen to push us off, to a chorus of catcalls and derision.
'Why don't you put an engine in, Lovejoy?' was Dick's final bellow as we pulled off the wharfside and escaped onto the road up from the village. I didn't reply because I was white-faced and my teeth were chattering.
'Love?' Sheila asked. 'Are you ill?'
'Shut up,' I hissed, foot flat on the accelerator. The needle flickered up to twenty and we pottered slowly upward past the church. It was almost time for lights.
'What is it?' She tried to pull me around, but I swore and jerked my face away.
'I've just remembered something.'
'For God's sake, darling—'
'This bloody stupid car!' I almost screamed the words. 'Why the hell don't I get a new one? What's the matter with it?'
'Darling, pull over to the side and I'll—'
'Shut up you stupid—' My hands were ice-cold and my scalp prickled with fear.
'Please, love. I'm frightened. What is it?'
'That frigging box!'
'What box?'
'That apothecary box! There's something in it. A… a…' The words wouldn't come.
'The bottles? Drugs?' I shook my head and strove to overtake the village bus, to the driver's annoyance. He hooted and pulled in as we crawled past toward the town. We were up to thirty. 'Those little scales?'
'That other thing.'
'You said it was junk the auctioneers put in to make it look complete. Wasn't it a screwdriver?'
'It was casehardened!' I snarled. 'Who the hell puts a screwdriver away in a felt-lined case to preserve it for a whole bloody century?' I was practically demented, kicking and blaspheming at the decrepit motor, begging it for greater speed. 'And its handle was hatched—
Sheila grabbed my arm. 'Lovejoy, if we see a taxi, flag it down.'
'Yes, yes, yes,' I whimpered. 'Please send a taxi. Please, please.'
'What time do they close?'
'Half past five.'
'It's twenty past.'
'The swine will go early. They always do, those bloody attendants, the idle sods.'
We reached the trunk road roundabout by the river bridge at twenty-five past five, and swung left away from the Ipswich road. East Hill was well into lighting-up time as we screeched to a graceful stop outside Seddon's. It was closed and dark.
'Knock,' Sheila said, climbing out.
'They've gone.' I was lost, defeated by the calamity.
She remained resolute and banged on the main door. I stepped down to join her just as one of the stewards opened the partition. My relief almost made me faint.
'What the hell—?'
'Jim,' I said weakly. 'It's me. Lovejoy.'
'Closed till tomorrow.'
'Not for me you're not.' I pulled out a note. 'A single question, Jim. Just one.'
He eyed it and nodded. I gave it to him and asked, 'The question is, Will you let me find my nail file? I dropped it in the showroom an hour or so back.'
'Gawd.' He hesitated. 'Mr. St. John has the keys.'
'And so have you, Jim.'
