“Not really,” I said into Mame’s novice-nun smile. Her eyes betrayed the daytime agony of the poor sleeper, but she was still up to innuendo. (“Oh, but you were!”) My own expression felt false, a ghastly give-away rictus.
“Now we’d like to buy you guys lunch,” Irwin said. His Episcopalian timbre forbore refusal.
Steerforth nudged me. “Why, thank yoooou!”
“There’s a price, Jim!” Irwin winked openly at George. “We’re going to pump you about these antiques. Right, George?”
“Don’t wear them out totally!” Sweetly from Mame. “They’re going to show us around later!”
“Antiques?” Steerforth’s ignorance made him hesitate.
“Certainly,” I said, relaxing. No harm can come to poor slobs who follow orders. To Steerforth’s relief I encouraged them. “I’ll divvy the whole lot if you like.” Most of them I could do from memory anyway. “In return I want to hear everything about how you two set up your antiques business.” I meant it as a joke, but Steerforth warned me with a glance. George and Irwin went oho and laughed as the lift lofted us to the roof restaurant.
“Lovejoy wants company secrets, George!” Irwin whooped.
George was itching to tell. “Well, I met Irwin in Minneapolis. He was a furniture salesman and I ran a downtown store…”
The meal was a jovial business, George and Irwin reminiscing and pulling each other’s leg, Steerforth playing the campy innocent, me chuckling at their sallies, Lorna and Mame hugging themselves and swapping carefully timed glances.
We seemed in the sky. The restaurant was walled with glass panels so that Hong Kong’s harbor formed a panorama of toy skyscrapers and blue water drawn upon by the wakes of ships. Only too glad to be noshing, I hadn’t taken much notice. Then Lorna exclaimed, “Just look at that!” and we saw the most remarkable sight.
Junks were streaming round all the headlands, but mostly from the western approaches. They came steadily, without sails. Encased in the glass turret, we were unable to hear the engines, but the spectacle made me gape, hundreds converging on the typhoon shelters in Kowloon and closer by in Wan Chai. I asked a waiter what was up.
“Typhoon warning. Number One. Junks come to shelter.”
“A typhoon coming?” I asked Steerforth. I wasn’t sure what one was. The weather looked the same, a hot blue day. I’d seen a film about a cyclone once. The whole world was saved by one palm tree that gamely stuck it out.
“Perhaps,” he said. “They start out in the South China Sea. If we’re in the path, it hits us. If not, it goes on to Japan.”
“When?” Mame was excited.
“Actually they usually don’t arrive. Typhoon One is the first grade of warning. The higher the number, the greater the likelihood of our being hit.”
I’d have liked to hear more, fascinated by the vast fleet slowly cramming into harbor, but antiques called, so I helped to get a move on. It only took us a couple of hours to be down into the thick of the antiques. The women got bored and drifted off to the hotel shops with Steerforth. By four I was checking the last two or three items.
Interestingly, George and Irwin already had separate reports from somewhere.
“You’re pretty well informed.” I was impressed.
They laughed. “Organization. An amateur like you won’t realize, Lovejoy. But us old pros’ve got reps in every major city. It pays.” George added, “Our staff surveys every auction—Geneva, London, New York—you name it, our people’re picking over the spoils. It’s money, boy.”
Money again. I kept my face smiley, or thought I did, though George’s manner was beginning to irritate.
“Staff of sixty, Lovejoy”—from Irwin.
“Cost us enough!” boomed George. “That’s how we made Brookers Gelman the wholest antique wholesalers you ever did see! Hey, seen this crappy porcelain?”
I drew breath to explain, then gave up, too narked to play the fool anymore. I’d done my bit, as ordered by the Triad. Let him make a fool of himself. Had he looked properly, he would have noticed that lot 463 was far too translucent for porcelain. It was a simple white mug enameled with a picture of maidens with a basket between trees, lovely deep glass made in Germany about 1770, using tin oxide. A mint specimen is an utter rarity. As they moved on I touched it to feel its superb quality speak to my senses.
“Yes, rubbish,” I agreed, giving the mug a pained mental apology. Quickly I eased my smile back into place, for Lorna’s steady eyes were reflected in a chevalier mirror. That was the start of the death. The finish occurred after we were gathering in the foyer.
A series of display cases stood expensively showing off luxury wares. Naturally I crossed over to take a look, and surprised Johny Chen daydreaming out of sight behind one.
“Wotcher, Yank,” I said. “Private eye, huh?”
He grinned. “Shamus to yoh, man. Godda do—”
“Whatcha godda do?” I did the best accent I could. “Look, Johny. The auction’s six o’clock tonight. Bid on 463.” I told him a limit price.
“Sho’ can, man. Say no mo’.”
The others were audible then, so I emerged casually as if inspecting the pricey modern dross jewelers make these days. We separated, George and Irwin to meet two of their buyers flying in from London. During the meal they had agreed that we take Lorna and Mame on an island tour, though I felt I’d done enough touring to last a lifetime. I’d have rather been at the auction. We went out and hired a hotel limousine to take us.
Doesn’t sound much of a killing gambit, does it? But it was, it was.
Take every superlative. Multiply it by every exotic adjective of praise known to all lexicographers. Apply the
