The Judas Pair

are interested, say, in picking up a William IV dining set. Now, a barker's job is to get clients: buyers or sellers, but preferably the former. He's no right to go saying, Oh, sorry, sir, but my particular dealer's only interested in buying or selling oil paintings of the Flemish School, so you've had it from me. If a barker did that he'd get the push smartish. So whatever the mark—sorry, buyer —wants, a barker will agree his particular dealer's got it, and not only that, but he will also swear blind that his dealer's certainly the world's most expert expert on William IV dining sets or whatever, and throw in a few choice remarks about how crooked other dealers are, just for good measure.

Now a dealer coming strolling in at this point only showing interest in penny-farthing bicycles would ruin all the careful groundwork. The customer will realize he's been sadly misled and depart in a huff for the National Gallery or some other inexperienced amateur outfit. Also, and just as bad, the barker (if he's any good) pushes off to serve another dealer, because clearly the first dealer's going to starve to death, and barkers don't find loyalty the most indispensable of all virtues. The dealer then starves, goes out of business, and those of us remaining say a brief prayer for the repose of his soul—while racing after the customer as fast as we can go because we all know where we can get a mint William IV dining set at very short notice.

'He has a very high opinion of your qualities,' Field informed me.

'That's very kind.' If Field got the irony it didn't show.

'You made a collection for the Victoria and Albert Museum, I understand, Mr. Lovejoy.'

'Oh, well.' I winced inwardly, trying to seem all modest. I determined to throttle Tinker. Even innocent customers know how to check that sort of tale.

'Wasn't it last year?'

'You must understand,' I said hesitantly, putting on as much embarrassment as I dared.

'Understand?'

'I'm not saying I have, and I'm not saying I haven't,' I went on. 'It's a client's business, not mine. Even if South Kensington did ask me to build up their terracotta Roman statuary, it's not for Dill or myself to disclose their interests.' May I be forgiven.

'Ah. Confidentiality.' His brow cleared.

'It's a matter of proper business, Mr. Field,' I said with innocent seriousness.

'I do see,' he said earnestly, lapping it up. 'A most responsible attitude.'

'There are standards.' I shrugged to show I was positively weighed down with conscience. 'Ordinary fair play,' I said. Maybe I was overdoing it, because he went all broody. He was coming to the main decision when Tinker came back with a rum for me and a pale ale for Field.

I gave Tinker the bent eye and he instantly pushed off.

'Are you an… individual dealer, Mr. Lovejoy?' he asked, taking the plunge.

'If you mean do I work alone, yes.'

'No partners?'

'None.' I thought a bit, then decided I should be straight— almost—with this chap. He looked as innocent as a new policeman. I don't know where they keep them till they're grown up, honest I don't. 'I ought to qualify that, Mr. Field.'

'Yes?' He came alert over his glass.

'There are occasions when an outlay, or a risk, is so large that for a particular antique it becomes necessary to take an… extra dealer, pair up so to speak, in order to complete a sale.' I'd almost said 'accomplice.' You know what I mean.

'In what way?' he said guardedly.

'Supposing somebody offered me the Elgin Marbles for a million,' I said, observing his expression ease at the light banter. 'I'd have to get another dealer to make up the other half million before I could buy them.'

'I see.' He was smiling.

'For that sale, we would be equal partners.'

'But not after?'

'No. As I said, Mr. Field,' I said, all pious, 'I work alone because, well, my own standards may not be those of other dealers.'

'Of course, of course.' For some reason he was relieved I was a loner. 'Any arrangements between us— supposing we came to one—would concern…?' He waited.

'Just us,' I confirmed.

'And Dill?'

'He's free lance. He wouldn't know anything, unless you said.'

'And other employees?'

'I hire as the needs arise.'

'So it is possible,' he mused.

'What is, Mr. Field?'

'You can have a confidential agreement with an antique dealer.'

'Certainly.' I should have told him that money can buy silence nearly as effectively as it can buy talk. Note the 'nearly,' please.

'Then I would like to talk to you—in a confidential place, if that can be arranged.'