'Lovejoy,' he said after a bit. 'Is she real?'
'What's it to you, Trout?' I said evenly.
'Not knocking her, honest. Lovely gal. I mean it, straight up, mate. Only, will she be all right on her own?'
'She's clever and resolute.' We all listened to what I would say. I went for it. 'She's my apprentice. She's down to me.'
'Good she knowed about them clocks, eh?' Tinker said to break the ice, spitting phlegm into the gutter. 'Time for a jar, lads.'
The money was burning his pocket, and pubs abound along the Thames. I left them to it. I wanted results.
Clocks, though? I started south across Tower Bridge. Everybody in the country has an old clock that doesn't go, kept because great-grandad liked it. Or some old watch forgotten in a drawer that the Swiss museums would give an absolute fortune for -
meaning like a hundred thousand American zlotniks, sight unseen if only somebody would take it to be auctioned. I crossed over to see my favourite view, the Pool of London, Wapping Old Stairs facing Cherry Garden Pier.
The trouble with antique clocks is that fakers love them for two cogent reasons: their complexity, and the ignorance of the buying public. Timepieces, clocks, watches, the lot, are a paradise for forgers. I'd have to see what Lydia came up with. I found something in my pocket as I reached the start of Tower Bridge Road. It was a card.
Sharon J. Butts, attorney at law, of Lincoln's Inn. Good old Shar, who'd sprung me from that eternity of suffering I'd undergone in that infernal dungeon! Well, one night in the cell. The plod had given me tomato soup, slices of bread, and egg and chips.
My spirits rose. It was six o'clock. I went on, a spring in my step.
Shar was at home. I was warily relieved. After all, she might have had some bloke on her rope. I looked penitent. She wasn't glad to see me, but let me in.
'I'm going out soon, Lovejoy.' She was dressed to the nines, that shop-ready look women achieve before the off. 'I expected you in chambers.'
Had she? 'Sorry. I had to see a friend.'
She hesitated. I stood like a spare tool.
'Can't it wait until tomorrow, Lovejoy?'
'Just one thing, love. Is there any way I can find out if some bloke's been in trouble with the law recently? It's rather important.'
That caused her some doubt, but nothing must be allowed to impede a woman on a date. She made all sorts of promises to find out. Then it was goodnight, Lovejoy, don't call me, I'll call you. I left, obviously supplanted by some rich Lothario, but not before the oddest thing happened.
'The name, Lovejoy?' she asked. 'You haven't told me who.'
'Dieter Gluck.' I gave her the address. And just for an instant she paused, but took it down calmly enough. I didn't know how to spell Dieter, but she did. We parted amicably.
I didn't hang around, zoomed into Piccadilly's crowds as I headed towards Shaftesbury Avenue and the office where Caprice Rhodes would be slogging producing stage shows.
Can you believe that people do it for a living?
'Caprice told me to stop by,' I told the girl on the desk. 'The show, see?'
'Right, Lovejoy.' I'd given her my name. She nodded as if she really knew me. It always works. Everybody in theatre is scared stiff of everybody finding out that they don't know everybody else. 'Caprice is on the phone. Take a seat.'
They're always on the phone. I sat and read the posters of past shows. Amazing what some folk do. Phones rang. People with torticollis rushed about the warren of rooms, talking into phones on their shoulders. I can't understand why they do it.
'Lovejoy?' Caprice stood there, smiling.
'Sorry about the time, love.' I followed. She started on the phone while I waited some more.
Caprice is married to a bloke she possibly never sees. Thirtyish, bonny, always looking sort of smooth and dolled up. She has - honest, I'm not making it up - a woman who comes into the office every single day to do her toe nails. I thought queasily of Trout's pal Failsafe's feet, 'two plates of warts'. Maybe Caprice could slip Failsafe in for a free go?
'Look, daaaaahling,' Caprice was ending into the receiver. 'Your poor cow might have got a fortune in Plymouth's pantomime, but that doesn't mean we all must join her parade.' She listened, sighed. 'You piss me off. So your poor cow dated His Royal Highness once, Mori, then got the shunt. Am I expected to pay her a fortune to forget her fucking lines? She's dead in the water.'
She clicked the phone, came and sat on my lap. A secretary dashed in with faxes.
Caprice riffled through them, discarded all but one. The lass dashed out.
'Can't you give the actress a job, love?' I asked. 'She might be great.'
'She can't walk, talk, sing, dance, move, or open her mouth except for two functions, Lovejoy.' She ruffled my thatch. 'Even for an actress this is somewhat limited. What're you after, scrounger?'
I was chastened. 'Sorry. Remember when we met?'
She carolled a pretty laugh. Their faces. Better than a play!'
It had been in the most august London auction. A mad variety of Russian art was being sold. They'd imported a galaxy - their description - of paintings, sculptures. In true auctioneering style, meaning cavalier but mentally dim, they'd forgotten one small
