The Judas Pair

'Oh, green,' I told him. 'Leaves and all that.'

'Yes.' He twinkled as a little girl entered carrying two glasses of rum yellowed by ginger. 'Yes, you're Lovejoy all right.'

'Seen me at auctions, I expect, eh?'

'No. Heard about your famous Braithwaite car.'

'Braithwaite?'

He saw the shock in my eyes and sat me on a trestle. The little girl wanted to stay and sat on the trestle with me.

'Herbert Braithwaite, maker of experimental petrol engines early this century. Some o.h.v. cycles. Yours must be the only one extant. Didn't you know?'

'No. Well, almost.'

'Drink up, lad.' He settled himself and let me get breath. 'Now, Lovejoy, what's all this word about a pair of Durs guns?'

I told him part of the story but omitted Sheila's death and the turnkey.

'And you came here, why?'

'You were at the Field sale.'

'And Watson got the Bible pistol. Yes, I recollect.' He took the little girl on his lap and gave her a sip of his rum. 'Fierce man is Watson. One of those collectors you can't avoid.'

'The Field sale,' I persisted.

'Nothing very special for me, I'm afraid. Naturally,' he added candidly, 'if you're trying me for size as a suspect, ask yourself if I would dare risk this orphanage.'

'Orphanage?' It hadn't struck me.

'I don't breed quite this effectively,' he chided, laughing so much the little girl laughed too, and finally so did I.

'You saw Watson there?'

'Certainly. He'll be not far from here now, if indeed he's in one of his whirlwind buying sprees.'

My heart caught. I put the glass down. 'Near here?'

'Why, yes. Aren't you on your way there too? The Medway showrooms at Maltan Lees. It's about eleven miles…'

I left as politely and casually as I could. Nice chap, Major Lister. I mentally filed him away as I moved toward the village of Maltan Lees: Major Lister (retd.): collector flck dllrs; orphanage; plants; clean hedgehogs.

Then I remembered I'd not finished my rum. Never mind, that little girl could have it when she'd finished his.

Four o'clock, Maltan Lees, and the auctioneer in the plywood hall gasping for his tea. I had no difficulty finding the place, from the cars nearby. They were slogging through the remaining lots with fifty to go. The end of an auction is always the best, excitement coming with value. By then the main mob of bidders has gone and only the dealers and die-hard collectors are left to ogle the valuables. Medway's seemed to have sold miscellaneous furniture, including bicycles, mangles, a piano, and household sundries, leaving a few carpets, some pottery, a collection of books, and some paintings, one of which, a genuine Fielding watercolor, gave me a chime or two.

I milled about near the back peering at odd bits of junk. The auctioneer, a florid glassy sort, was trying unsuccessfully to increase bids by 'accidentally' jumping increments, a common trick you shouldn't let them get away with at a charity shout. Among this load of cynics he didn't stand a chance. Twice he was stopped and fetched back, miserably compelled to start again and once having to withdraw an item, to my amusement. Another trick they have is inventing a nonexistent bidder, nodding as if they've been signaled a bid, then looking keenly to where the genuine bidder's bravely soldiering away. Of course, they can only get away with it if the bidder's really involved, all worked up. Therefore in an auction keep calm, keep looking, keep listening, and above all keep as still as you can. You don't want anybody else knowing who's bidding, do you? If you can do it with a flick of an eyebrow, use just that. Don't worry, the chap on the podium'll see you. A single muscle twitch is like a flag day when money's involved. Where was I?

You've only to stay mum and patterns emerge in a crowd. The old firms were there—Jane, Adrian, Brad, Harry, and Dandy Jack—and some collectors I knew—the Reverend La-grange, the Mrs. Ellison from the antique shop where I'd bought the coin tokens while returning from the bird sanctuary, Dick Barton, among others.

A handful of traveling dealers had descended on lucky Mal-tan Lees. They smoked and talked noisily, moving about to disturb the general calm and occasionally calling across to each other, full of apparent good humor but in reality creating confusion. It's called 'circusing,' and is done to intimidate locals like us. They move from town to town, a happy band of brothers.

I watched a while. One of the traveling dealers paused near me.

' 'Ere,' he growled. 'Are you 'ere for the paintings or not?' I gave him my two-watt beam free of charge. 'I said,' he repeated ferociously, 'are you 'ere for the paintings?'

'Piss off, comrade,' I raised my smile a watt. He rocked back and stared in astonishment at me before he recovered.

'You what?'

'Where I come from,' I informed him loudly, 'you circus chaps'd starve.'

'Clever dick.'

He barged past me, tripping over my foot and ending up among assorted chairs. His pals silenced.