lift in his car to within a mile of Archie’s place, and told me all about astronomy.
Three-Wheel Archie gets his nickname from a tricycle he rides. He grew up in an orphanage somewhere near Whitechapel. When I say grew up, I mean his head and features did, but the rest of him sort of lagged behind. Mind you, with most of us others it’s the opposite, isn’t it; relatively big over all but very little brain. Archie ended up a thickset titch who walks with a low swagger. He deals in engines, mechanicals, and watches, and lives alone down the estuary. I like him.
He was cleaning his dazzling new motorcar when I arrived. It lives grandly in a brick-built garage—cavity insulation, dehumidifier, air conditioner, the lot. He’d run it out on polished lino. He lives in the near-derelict cottage adjoining.
“Sprung, eh, Lovejoy?” he panted, sprawled on the bonnet polishing like mad. “No way a soft bugger like you could clobber a big Brummie to death. The Old Bill are stupid.”
“I’ve come about the lithophanes.” I walked round his car admiring. “Posher than ever.
How old now?”
“Ten next September thirtieth. She’s Libra.”
“Er, great. Still going okay?” It has one mile on the clock, in and out of the garage once a fortnight. Five yards a month mounts up.
“Brilliant, Lovejoy,” he said proudly, sliding chutewise down to the ground carrying his sponges. “Glass?”
“Ta, Archie.” When I said new, I used the term loosely. Archie’s one ambition from birth was owning a saloon car. He bought it a decade gone, and built for it that luxurious garage. Of course he’s so dwarf he can’t reach the pedals to drive the damned thing, but he loves it. He runs the engine every week, has engineers in to service it. Once, a local dealer laughed at Archie for having a new /old car he couldn’t drive. Archie’s never spoken to him since. Nor have I.
“Here, Lovejoy.” He gave me some homemade wine. “Last autumn’s blackberry.”
“Mrnrnmh.” I smacked my lips. Dreadful.
“The lithophanes’ll cost you, Lovejoy.” We sat on packing cases beside the glittering vehicle.
“Archie. If you wanted an antique bureau twinned up, who’d you get to do it?”
“You, Lovejoy, on that rare occasion you’re not dicking some bint. Otherwise Tipper Noone at Melford. He’s done lovely stuff lately.”
“I mean a rush job.”
“So do I.” Archie drained his glass. He knew what I was asking, the crafty devil.
“Somebody said Tipper did one a few days back, for shipping to the Continent.”
I sighed. That’s the trouble with East Anglia. Most is coast, inlets with busy little ships steaming to and fro. And continentals spend like lunatics when they’ve a mind.
“I’m the one who told Tinker, Lovejoy.”
Useless. That was as far as we’d got before a car pulled in and Jo descended. I introduced Archie to her. He rose, shook hands gravely. I knew she’d behave properly, thank God.
“Good of you to come, Jo.” I was mystified.
She stood in the mucky yard, hands plunged into the pockets of her floppy coat. Her collar was up, framing her face. Women stand with elegance, don’t they, one foot slightly averted so they’re all one lovely composite shape.
“Won’t you sit down?” Archie offered her a crate. She sat without a trace of hesitancy. I really like Miss Josephine Ross. More, she gravely accepted a glass of Archie’s wine and said reflectively that it was possibly a little too dry, like her father’s recipe. Archie adored her.
“Don’t let me interrupt, Lovejoy,” she said, smiling. “I only wanted to say sorry, cutting you off on the phone just because you’d been … seeing the police. It was mean of me.”
Her color was high. “We shouldn’t be swayed by public stigma.”
“Don’t mix metaphors,” I said, to get us off ethics. “Give me a lift and I’ll forgive you.”
Me and Archie settled the deal over the lithophanes while Jo admired the car, wisely not touching it. She had quickly registered the difference between Archie’s grotty residence and the opulent garage, but said nothing. Archie came to see us off. The swine wouldn’t let me have the lithos on approval.
“Four wheels on your motor,” Jo said. “Why Three-Wheel?”
“Come on, Jo.” I got in her car irritably.
“Tell her, Lovejoy.” Archie was grinning, saw I wouldn’t budge, and walked over to a shed. He pulled the door open to reveal a beautiful tricycle with an elegant canopy.
“How lovely, Archie!” Jo exclaimed. “Do you ride it?”
“Makes me mobile, Miss Ross. Courtesy of Lovejoy, five years ago now.”
She looked at me. “Really.”
“Can we go?” I called wearily. “Bloody time-wasters.”
Archie waved to us. By the time we left the yard he was already buffing the car’s hubs.
We drove a couple of miles before she said anything. “Lovejoy?”
She wanted to prattle about Archie, but I wasn’t having any. “You only gave me the box number for that bureau, Jo,” I said. “Is there more?”
