We agreed on the Tudor Halt restaurant, six o’clock. A bit posh for me, but I’d scrape the gelt together somehow. And Jo might give me a lift home afterwards, during which dot-dot-dot to the sound of the waves upon the shore, with any luck.
I don’t blackwash people, because what’s the use? All reputation is just whitewash carefully applied. So for me gossip, the sole means of communication among antique dealers, is valueless unless it’s filtered by an expert.
Tinker, my only employee, is that all-time gossip-filtering expert. He was hard at work becoming paralytic in The Ship tavern when I arrived. I wheedled Sandra the barmaid into letting me slate his next few pints. She blames me for having stood her up once, and makes me earn my badges back every now and then. Women never forget what you owe. On the other hand, they’re great at forgetting repayments. Swings and roundabouts.
“Ta, Sand,” I said. “Don’t give him more than six.”
Tinker cackled. I leaned away as his alcoholic fetor wafted past and moved him from the bar. He was with a group of barkers boozily trading rumor. I kept my voice low. The barkers had shut up and were oh-so-casually inclining their ears at an eavesdropping angle.
“Tinker. Where the hell’s Tipper Noone? Gimbert’s viewing today and he’s not showed.”
“Not been in the Arcade more ’n a week.” He drained his glass. I sprinted for a refill.
“Listen. Here’s what I think, Tinker. That bureau we had shipped down was nicked. The driver protested, and got done. They owffed it to the hangars. It changed hands a few times as usual. Then—”
“—Dutchie got Tipper Noone to twin it, shipped it out.” Tinker nodded. “Benjie bought it, then Nacker Hardie, then Alison Verney, but nobody remembers how it first come.”
He’d done well to find all that out. “Tipper’s a home bird,” I reminded.
He said nothing, stared at his empty glass. Sprint, smile at Sandra, refill. Resume. “Aye.
Never goes anywhere, doesn’t Tipper. But he’s not in the Eastern Hundreds any more.”
This was making me uneasy.
Tinker suddenly looked sober, a novel but alarming sight. “It’s bad news.” His rheumy old eyes were on me. “Are we in trouble, Lovejoy?”
“Yes,” Maslow said, sitting down beside me. There was a faint stir In the taproom smog. I looked across. The mob of barkers had vanished as if by magic.
“Another false arrest, Maslow?”
He grinned from behind his pipe. The match tufted flame so bright I turned away.
“False arrest isn’t trouble, Lovejoy. Trouble’s the body of a man washed ashore off the estuary.”
I drew breath to ask the question, but Tinker was clobbering my arm with his glass. I took the clumsy hint and rose for another refill.
“Some boating accident?” I said sympathetically, returning after telling myself to watch my big mouth. Sometimes Tinker’s worth his weight in gold.
“Possibly, Lovejoy.” Distastefully Maslow watched Tinker slurp the ale. “You know, you repel me, Dill. A doss- house fusilier. I’m sick of the sight of tramps like you.”
Tinker said humbly, “Yes, Mr. Maslow.”
“Tinker’s the best barker in the business,” I said. Maslow narks me.
“And you, Lovejoy. Pillock. You could have made something of yourself. Instead you haunt junk shops, shag your way through women’s handbags. You’re pathetic, you know that? You’re too cunt-struck, Lovejoy.” He was really motoring now, glaring and practically yelling. “You two burkes—”
“Get stuffed, Maslow.” I can bawl as good as him. “You frigging peelers should be out there finding who drowned poor bloody Tipper Noone instead of—” I paused, aghast.
Tinker groaned, head in his hands. Maslow smiled.
“How did you know the body was Tipper Noone, Lovejoy?” he asked gently. “Fancy a ride to the station?”
« ^ »
—— 5 ——
They let me go, shaken but not stirred, about four that afternoon. I’d seen poor Tipper’s horrendous mortal remains. A fishing line had entangled his legs. His head was stove in, but Maslow said the pathologists never learn anything from drowners. Tipper must have been in the water some days. His drifting dinghy was found a couple of miles out to sea. I’d been in clink at the time, a fact I mentioned every chance I got.
“You see, Lovejoy,” Maslow said, staring morosely at the traffic from the police steps.
“This isn’t a game, is it? And you’re deep in because as soon as you’re sprung from one problem you’re asking after a furniture restorer who lo and behold comes bobbing in without a boat.” He added his pipe’s carcinogens to the lead-soaked traffic pollution.
“You’re no killer, Lovejoy, not really. You fancy yourself, but you’re brimful of cowardice, cant, and crap. O’course you didn’t do for Tipper. Never believed you did.
Any more than I believe that Tipper accidentally drowned.”
He wouldn’t let me reply, just reamed his pipe like they do. Pipe smoking’s a job.
“I’m telling you all this by way of warning, Lovejoy. Witnesses are a public’s protection of innocence. Consequently they’re at risk. They tend to get eliminated. Now you’re tied in with the wagoner’s death and Tipper’s. So stay in the company of friends, close to that Customs officer’s pretty wife, or Mrs. Dainty, or yon Scotch lass, or—”
