“Modern fake,” I said cheerfully.
“You said you’d tell me something I could…”
“Make on? Very well.” I thought a bit, as if I hadn’t already made up my mind. “You’re rivals to the Getty Museum in California, right? Well, their male Kouros statue from Greece is said to be two thousand years old—by kind friends with a vested interest.”
He brightened, as they all do at the grief of rivals. “But its attribution is doubtful?”
“Don’t ask me. Ask Giuseppe Cellino—he’ll tell you exactly how it was peddled round every antiques museum and gallery in the known world by a Swiss dealer for three years. He has all the addresses, times, dates. Don’t say I sent you.”
Smiles and grief were still competing on his face when we drove away.
“Lovejoy?” Tye said as our limo paused at the entrance of the imposing estate. “How much of all that was true?”
“All of it, Tye,” I said sadly. “All.”
He was driving, taking us carefully out into the two-laner. “Then how come these big experts don’t know from fakes? That Sotheby Gallery place is supposed to be —”
“Tye,” I said, watching the great house recede into the distance. “There’s enough of us already in. Don’t
“Capeesh, boss.”
At the airport while Tye and his goons saw to the plane, bags, paid off the saloon car, I phoned news of the hack to Gina. Then phoned Prunella to get moving. I never carry a watch, but checked the time and reckoned Magda and Zole should be about halfway to my next destination. It’d be risky for her, but that’s what women are for.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
« ^ »
WE were airborne in an hour. Joker and his ambling mate Smith cleared us for landing in Chicago by dusk. I felt I’d been travelling for years. Tye’s two goons were still uncommunicative, the air hostess Ellie of amphibian responsiveness.
Tye still hadn’t mentioned why one of our tame vigilantes hadn’t travelled with us to Mr Mortdex’s ranch. Or why we’d been followed there and back, by a separate saloon motor that kept vanishing and reappearing. It even changed its colour once. I felt less friendly towards Tye now, because I was doing the business as well as anyone could, right?
“Tye,” I said over a meal of surreal splendour—Ellie ignored compliments— “I have a secrecy problem.”
He didn’t quite stiffen, but he was expecting Lovejoy Deception Hour. “What things?” he asked. All his food came fried. I’d never met a bloke like him for demanding fried grub.
“It’s between ourselves, okay?” I cleared my throat. “You know Prunella? She’s flying to Chicago, should be there now. I told her to book us in, er, together.”
He nodded, methodical with his fried burger slab thing, inch by square inch, regular as a metronome. His dining habits were admirable.
“So? She’s secretary, right? Doing her job.”
“No, Tye,” I explained. “She and I, er… in Manhattan last night. I’ve said she should meet us. I’ll need a little time for a special… conference.”
“You n’her?” He swigged wine, not breaking his masticating rhythm. “You got it, Lovejoy.” He paused. Three squares of burger accumulated on his plate. I realized he was laughing, possibly an alltime first. “S’long as I know you isn’t going any place.” Al and Shelt laughed along.
I couldn’t get the hang of all that water. There were even ships on the damned thing. I’d thought we were a million miles inland.
“Where are we, love?”
Prunella had a map out in a flash, dropping notes and pencils like a sower going forth to sow.
“The Great Lakes, Lovejoy.”
I looked into the darkness. It was illuminated by a trillion lights, like a city of crystal on a gleaming shore. I shivered. Prunella squeaked I must be cold. I just caught her from upping the thermostat to critical. You’ve never met anything like the heat of an American hotel.
“You know what’s wrong, Prunella? Your country’s just too big, too beautiful, too everything.”
“I’m pleased you like it, Lovejoy. But we’re a little short on history. I’ve heard of your lovely old buildings, traditions —”
I wanted to prove to Tye that we were ensconced in snuggery and up to no good. I chose my time carefully to open the envelope she’d collected from the airport. It contained the first of Easy Boyson’s Sherlock forgeries, just the one page but pretty good. I was proud of him. I concealed it in my folder, told Prunella not to answer the door until I got back, and wore myself out descending the hotel stairs.
A taxi took me from the harbourside to O’Hare International Airport. I was glad to see the end of all that water in the non-dark dark. I’m only used to lakes you can see across.
Magda and Zole were waiting in a nosh bar. I was delighted to see them. Zole was having some sort of row with the manager over a gaming machine he claimed was rigged. Magda was pale and washed out. She looked
