The Judas Pair

'Right.' He smiled. 'I'll remember.'

I brewed up, quite liking him and wondering how to approach his money—I mean, requirements. So far he hadn't mentioned flinters. On the drive back in my jet-propelled Arm-strong-Siddeley we had made social chitchat that got us no nearer. He seemed a simple chap, unaware of the somewhat horrible niceties of my trade. Yet he appeared, from what Tinker had said, to have gone to a lot of trouble to find a dealer known to have a prime interest in flinters.

'How long have you lived here?'

'Since I started dealing. I got it from a friend.'

She was a widow, thirty-seven. I'd lived with her two years, then she'd gone unreasonable like they do and off she pushed. She wrote later from Siena, married to an Italian. I replied in a flash saying how I longed for her, but she replied saying her husband hadn't an antique in the place, preferring new Danish planks of yellow wood to furniture, so I didn't write again except to ask for the cottage deeds.

'Instead of London?'

'Oh, I go up to the Smoke maybe once a week on average.' And do the rest of the Kingdom as well, inch by bloody inch, once every quarter. On my knees mostly, sniffing and listening for my bell. I didn't tell him that, seeing I was supposed to be temporarily the big wheeler-dealer.

'To the markets?' he persisted.

'Yes. And some, er, private dealers that I know.'

He nodded and drew breath. Here it comes, I thought. And it did.

'I'm interested in a certain collector's item,' he said, as if he'd saved the words for a rainy day. 'I'm starting a collection.'

'Hmmm.' The Lovejoy gambit.

'I want to know if you can help.'

He sipped and waited. And I sipped and waited. Like a couple of those drinking ostriches, we dipped in silence.

'Er, can you?' he asked.

'If I can,' I countered cagily. For an innocent novice, he wasn't doing too badly, and I was becoming distinctly edgy.

'Do you mean Dill didn't explain?'

'He explained you were interested in purchasing flintlocks,' I said.

'Nothing else?'

'And that you had, er, sufficient funds.'

'But not what it is I'm seeking?'

'No.' I put down my cup because my hands were quivering slightly. If it turned dud I'd wring Tinker's neck. 'Perhaps,' I said evenly, 'you'd better tell me.'

'Dueling pistols.'

'I guessed that.' Flintlock duelers are the P. & O. line of weapons men.

'A very special pair.'

'That too.' I cleared my throat. 'Which pair, Mr. Field?'

He stared at me across the darkened room. 'I want the Judas pair,' he said.

My heart sank. With luck, I could catch Tinker before Ted called time at the pub, and annihilate him on the spot for sending me a dummy. No wonder he'd been evasive when I asked him on the phone.

I gazed back at the poor misguided customer. 'Did you say the Judas pair?' I said, still hoping I'd misheard.

'The Judas pair,' he affirmed.

Digression time, folks.

Flintlocks are sprung iron gadgets which flip a piece of flint onto a steel so as to create a spark. This spark, at its most innocent, can be used to ignite a piece of old rope or other tinder and set it smoldering to be blown into a flame for lighting a fire, candles, your pipe. This is the standard tinder lighter of history. You'd be surprised how many sorts of tinder lighters there are, many incredibly ingenious. But these instruments are the humdrum end of the trade, interesting and desirable though they are. You see, mankind made this pleasant little system into the business bit of weapons for killing each other.

About the time of our Civil War, the posh firing weapon was a wheel lock. This delectable weaponry consisted of a sprung wheel spinning at the touch of a trigger and rubbing on a flint as it did so. (The very same mechanism is used in a gas-fueled cigarette lighter of today, believe it or not.) They were beautiful things, mostly made in Germany, where there were clock-and-lock makers aplenty. A ball-butted German wheel lock costs the earth nowadays. And remember, the less marked the better. None of this stupid business of boring holes and chipping the walnut stock to prove it's old. Never try to improve any antique. Leave well alone. Sheraton and Constable knew what they were doing, and chances are that you are as ignorant as I am. Stick to wiping your antiques with a dry duster. Better still, don't even do that.

These wheel locks were rifled for accuracy. Prince Rupert, leader of his dad's Cavaliers, had a destructive habit of shooting weathercocks off steeples as he rode through captured towns. However, they were somewhat slow, clumsy, heavy, and took time to fire. The reason was the spark. It plopped into a little pan where you had thoughtfully sprinkled black gunpowder. This ignited and burned through a small hole into your end of the barrel, where you'd placed a larger quantity of gunpowder, a small lead bullet about the size of a marble, and a piece of old wadding to keep it all in. Bang! If you knew the delay to a millisec, the shift of the wind, could control your horse, pointed it right, and kept everything crossed for luck, you were one more weathercock short. It asked to be improved.