The Judas Pair

'Now?' I asked.

'Please.'

I glanced around the bar. There were two people I had business with. 'I have a cottage not far away. We can chat there.'

'Fine.'

I crossed to Jimmo and briefly quizzed him about his Chinese porcelain blanc de Chine lions—white pot dogs to the uninitiated. He told me in glowing terms of his miraculous find.

'Cost me the earth,' he said fervently. 'Both identical. Even the balls are identically matched.'

For the sake of politeness (and in case I needed to do business with him fairly soon) I kept my end up, but I'd lost interest. The 'lions' are in fact Dogs of Fo. The point is that even if they are K'ang-hsi period, as Jimmo said, and 1720 A.D. would do fine, they should not match exactly to be a real matched pair. The male dog rests one paw on a sphere, the female on a pup. Jimmo had somehow got hold of two halves of two distinct pairs. I eased away as best I could.

Adrian—handbag, curls, and all—was next. He and Jane Felsham were bickering amiably over a percentage cut over some crummy 'patch-and-comfit' boxes. 'Real Bilston enamel,' Adrian was telling her. 'Pinks genuine as that. Oh.' He saw me at his elbow and stamped his foot in temper. 'Why won't the silly bitch listen, Lovejoy? Tell her.'

'How many?' I asked.

'He's got six,' Jane said evenly. 'Hello, Lovejoy.'

'Hi. It sounds a good collection.'

'There you are, dearie!' Adrian screamed.

'Only two are named.' Jane shook her head. 'Place names are all the go.'

These little boxes, often only an inch across, were used in the eighteenth century for holding those minute artificial black beauty patches fashionable gentry of the time stuck on their faces to contrast with the powdered pallor of their skins. Filthy habit.

'Any blues?'

'One,' Adrian squeaked. 'I keep begging her to take them. She can't see a bargain, Lovejoy.'

'Any mirrors in the lids?'

'Two.'

'Four hundred's still no bargain, Adrian dear,' Jane said firmly.

'Show us,' I said, wanting to get away. Field was still patient by the fireplace.

Adrian brought out six small enameled boxes on his palm. One was lumpy, less shiny than the rest. I felt odd for a second. My bell.

'I agree with Jane,' I lied, shrugging. 'But they are nice.'

'Three-eighty, then,' Adrian offered, sensing my reaction.

'Done.' I lifted the little boxes from his hand and fought my way free, saying 'Come around tomorrow.'

Adrian swung around to the surprised Jane. 'See? Serves you right, silly cow!'

I left them to fight it out and found Field. 'My car's just outside.'

I gave the nod to Tinker that he'd finished on a good note. He beamed and toasted to me over a treble gin.

The cottage was in a hell of a mess. I have this downstairs divan for, so to speak, communal use. It looked almost as if somebody had been shacked up there for a couple of days with a bird. I smiled weakly at my customer.

'Sorry about this. I had a, er, cousin staying for a while.'

He made polite noises as I hid a few of Sheila's underclothes under cushions and folded the divan aside. With only the table lamp, the room didn't look too much of a shambles. I pulled the kitchen door to in case he thought a hurricane was coming his way and sat him by my one-bar fire.

'A very pleasant cottage, Mr. Lovejoy,' he said.

'Thanks.' I could see he was wondering at the absence of antiques in an antique dealer's home. 'I keep my stock of antiques dispersed in safe places,' I explained. 'After all, I'm in the phone book, and robbery's not unknown nowadays.'

Stock. That's a laugh. I had six enameled boxes I'd not properly examined, for which I owed a mint payable by dawn.

'True, true,' he agreed, and I knew I had again struck oil.

In his estimation I was now careful, safe, trustworthy, reliable, an expert, and the very soul of discretion. I drove home my advantage by apologizing for not having too much booze.

'I don't drink much myself,' I confessed. 'Will coffee do you?'

'Please.'

'Everybody just calls me Lovejoy, Mr. Field,' I informed him. 'My trademark.'