Which cured her scorn. She came over, curious.
'Label it as exhibited at the Great Exhibition, Alf,' I told him.
'Ta, Lovejoy,' he said, relieved. 'What, a thousand?'
'More from a collector.' I hesitated, not wanting to offend an influential politician. Who does? 'If you've the money to get some raw gutta - they fly it in from Kuala Lumpur, on order - I'll do you a few fakes.'
'Ta, Lovejoy.' He was thrilled. His daughter was getting married, and Alfredo'd never been well off. 'I'll phone you, eh?'
'Er, the phone's off.' I invented, 'The storm brought down the power lines last night.
Drop it off when you're passing.'
'There was no storm last night,' Eth said in her motor as we resumed the journey.
'There was in our village,' I shot back, narked.
When will women ever learn to accept an honest lie? They rile me sometimes.
'Lovejoy,' she said after a mile or so. 'That old cup thing. Was it really what you said?'
'Aye.'
'Worth so much? And so easily faked?' She pulled into a layby, and said, eyes gleaming,
'You mean to say…?'
Join those dots, you get the rest. She resigned from politics and entered the sordid world of commerce. She now owns an antiques firm in Wolverhampton and an auctioneer's in Lancaster. I saw her again at the West London antiques fair. I said hello.
She stared right through me, and said, 'Who is that?' and had me slung out. Sic transit whatever. The message? True greed conquers all, in antiques. Still, look on the bright side. I'd rescued the world from yet another politician. Do I deserve a medal, or what?
Dozing makes thoughts. It's unfair, because sometimes thoughts ought to leave you alone at night. Nights, I find, are to wear you out, and days exist to be worn out in. I'd taken up with Colette some time back.
The day I first met the Goldhorns, it was Dinty Carmichael sent me to Lovely Colette Antiques. He'd added money for the train fare. 'It's in the King's Road, Chelsea. Hand it only to Arthur, okay?'
The trick in the antiques game is to combine several jobs, so I did several antique shops along the North Circular Road. I'd borrowed Dolly's old Morris motor, and saved the train money for grub. Life was good. Later that day it got even better.
Carrying my valuable parcel, I'd knocked. Vannies are trained never to intrude unless invited because they've a dodgy reputation for lifting things. A lady came to the glass door and did magic things with chains. I stepped in.
'Name and where from?' she asked, suspicious.
'Lovejoy. East Anglia.'
'Code?'
Like those blinking KGB spy stories. 'Buttercup?' I said hopefully. 'Er, antirrhinum?' Dinty Carmichael's girls grow flowers.
Suspicion became hate. 'Arthur!'
A portly gent with a beer belly stepped from the office, slippers, cardigan, specs, smoking a pipe. He didn't look menacing, but the lady clearly expected him to bayonet me at the very least.
'Afternoon,' he said mildly.
'Afternoon. Sorry, I forgot Dinty's code.'
Dinty Carmichael's mad on security. His place is like the Tower of London, everything but the Beefeaters. His wife once had to go to a hotel because she couldn't work his electronic bleepers out. Daft, but there's plenty like him.
'He's one of them, Arthur,' the lady said.
'Who?' I asked, blank. 'Can't you just phone Dinty?'
'We've been robbed before. Don't think you'll get away with it!'
Late forties, hair dyed blonde, her silk dress a mass of coloured rectangles, gold bracelets, thick caked cosmetics, she looked simply beautiful.
'Got you. You bastard.' She locked the door.
Arthur had been inspecting me. 'Colette, you've got this one wrong.'
'Shut it, Arthur. Phone Demure-Secure.' She seized the parcel, and placed it on a marble Victorian wash stand, inspected the seals. She tore it open, brought out a small sauceboat and crowed in fury. 'See? It's a fake! You guttersnipe!'
'It's genuine, missus,' I told her, walking to the door.
'Colette, dear,' Arthur sighed, evidently used to her tantrums.
'Genuine?' She pointed to the seals - Dinty's parcels are all seals, with his own insignia.
'Are these seals Dinty Carmichael's, Arthur?'
I'd had enough of this, and said so. 'Dinty never lets anybody else wrap his antiques.
