'The collector's the world's greatest and only remaining fanatic,' I preached fervently. 'Who else would sell his wife, wreck his marriage, lose his job, go broke, gamble, rob and cheat, mortgage himself to the hilt a dozen times, throw all security out of the window, for a scattering of objects as diverse as matchboxes, teacups, postcards of music-hall comedians, old bicycles, steam engines, pens, old fans, railway-station lanterns, Japanese sword decorations, and seventeenth-century corsets? Who else but collectors?' I looked rapturously into her eyes. 'It's greater than sex, Sheila.'
'Nonsense,' she snapped, the wind from the car's speed almost ruffling her hair.
'It's greater than religion. Greater love hath no man,' I said piously, 'than that he gives up his life for his collection.'
I wish now I hadn't said that.
'And
'I serve them.' There were almost tears in my eyes. 'I need to make the odd copper from them, of course I do. But not for profit's sake. Only so I can keep going, sort of make money to maintain the service.'
'Liar,' she said, and slapped my face.
As I was driving I couldn't clock her one by way of return, so I resorted to persuasion. 'Nobody regrets us having to split more than me' was the best I could manage, but she stayed mad.
She kept up a steady flow of recrimination as I drove into the village, the way women will. It must have been nine o'clock when I reached the White Hart. The Armstrong was wheezing badly by then. Its back wheels were smoking again. I wished I knew what made it do that. I pulled into the forecourt and pushed a couple of quid into her hand.
'Look, darling,' I said hastily. 'See you soon.'
'What am I to do now?' she complained, coming after me.
'Ring for a taxi, there's a good girl,' I told her. 'To the station.'
'You pig, Lovejoy,' she wailed.
'There's a train soon—probably.'
'When will I see you?' she called after me as I trotted toward the pub.
'I'll give you a ring,' I said over my shoulder.
'Promise?'
'Honestly.'
I heard her shout something else after me, but by then I was through the door and into the saloon bar.
Women have no sense of priorities. Ever noticed that?
Chapter 2
The saloon bar was crowded. I labeled everybody in there with one swift glance. A dozen locals, including this bird of about thirty-six sitting stylishly on a barstool and showing thighs to the assembled multitude. We had been friends once—twice, to be truthful. Now I just lusted across the heads of her admirers and grinned a lazaroid greeting, to which she returned a cool smoke-laden stare. Three dealers were already in: Jimmo, stout, balding, and Staffordshire pottery; Jane Felsham, thirtyish, shapely—would have been desirable if she hadn't been an antique dealer—blond, Georgian silver and early watercolors; and finally Adrian, sex unknown, elegant, pricey, and mainly Regency furniture and household wares. Four strangers, thinly distributed, and a barker or two chatting them up and trying to interest them in antique Scandinavian brass plaques made last April. Well, you can only try. They can always say no.
Tinker Dill was in the far corner by the fireplace with this middle-aged chap. I forged my way over.
'Oh,' Tinker said, acting like the ninth-rate Olivier he is. 'Oh. And here's my friend Lovejoy I was telling you about.'
'Evening, Tinker.' I nodded at the stranger and we shook hands.
He seemed fairly ordinary, neat, nothing new about his clothes but not tatty. He could have saved up ten thousand all right. But a genuine collector…? Not really.
'Mr. Field, meet Lovejoy.' Tinker was really overdoing it, almost wagging like a dog. We said how do and sat.
'My turn, Tinker, from last time,' I said, giving him a note to shut him up. He was off to the bar like a rocket.
'Mr. Dill said you are a specialist dealer, Mr. Lovejoy.' Field's accent was anonymous southern.
'Yes,' I admitted.
'Very specialized, I believe?'
'Yes. Of course,' I hedged as casually as I could manage, 'from the way the trade has progressed in the past few years, I maintain a pretty active interest in several other aspects.'
'Naturally,' he said, all serious.
'But I expect Dill's told you where my principal interest lies.'
'Yes.'
This guy was no dealer. In fact, if he knew a Regency snuffbox from a Rolls-Royce it was lucky guesswork.
Barkers like Tinker are creatures of form. They have to be, if you think about it. They find possible buyers who
