kept safe so far by kindly locals, lives more or less wild.'
'Such contumely!'
'He's keeping out of the way of some people. I need to know what folk come here.
Anything that might help.'
She was pleased. 'To my establishment? One characteristic constantly delights a lady's heart, Lovejoy. It is emotion.' Her eyes closed in rapture. 'Hate, anger, passion, love, desire.' She swallowed, fanned herself, sipped to calm down.
'Well, something's got to be done, Mercy.' Even to me I sounded lame.
'I shall assist, Lovejoy. And you shall deliver me a dozen other works of art. Payment,'
she said, eyes over the rim of her cup, 'to be arranged.'
'Right. About these folk, then.'
'Might I enquire if they include the…' she moaned a little '… the slayer?'
'Possibly,' I said. 'But possibly means possibly not.'
'Will you kill them, Lovejoy?' She was breathing hard now, breasts rising and falling, lace handkerchief dabbing her throat. 'You've been involved in such occurrences. I realize that I have never actually been present at such a reprehensible event. It almost precipitates one's inner sentiments into a strange ineluctible craving to witness the perpetration of such a catastrophic calamity.'
What the hell did she mean? I went all noble. 'I shall simply bring them to justice, if it's any of these.'
She took the list I passed her, her eyes holding mine. 'Pull the other leg, Lovejoy,' she said coarsely. 'It's got fucking bells on.'
I'd listed everybody I could think of, from New Caledonian Market on. I'd even included me, to show the extent of my desperation, but kept Mortimer's name off. I arranged to phone her for news. I wanted to leave with some cavalier quip, but what can you say to a vision of purity? I said so-long, and left her on her terrace, sipping from her Royal Doulton, reading my list and moaning softly.
How different men and women are. My visit to Doldrum's scrapyard took a millisec by comparison.
Maybe forty or fifty diced vehicles were crammed into the farmyard. I found him under some motor. Doldrum's been in the same overalls ever since I met him. Fortyish, chunky, decisive, he only ever hires from Cockneys because, he says, they are thick as thieves anyway. You daren't laugh.
'Doldrum? It's me, Lovejoy.'
'Wotcher, mate.' He rolled out on some skateboardy thing, grinning. He leaves his teeth in a jamjar in his shed. Don't ask me. 'Heh's yer fahver?'
'Fine, ta, Doldrum. You?'
'Slogging my guts aht. Wanner motor?'
'No, ta. Any news of local blokes selling posh motors?'
He inflated his lungs, bawled a few names, yelled, 'Get lorsst, will yer?'
Three or four oil-soiled blokes emerged from vehicles and wandered into a wooden shed, shutting the door. Doldrum stood, lit a fag by striking a match on a drum of petrol, flicking the match anywhere. I winced, but we made it. He blew smoke.
'Local? When?'
'Eastern Hundreds. Lately.'
He gazed about, smoked a bit. You've to let blokes like Doldrum think. I knew him from coming across an old motor car in the corner of a neighbouring farmer's field. It turned out to be an Invicta, 4.5 litre S-Type, the ugliest racing tourer you ever did see. I'd dissuaded the farmer's lady from taking it to the auctions, and instead got Doldrum to do a half-and-half with her. Half the proceeds of restoration go to the restorer, half to the owner. He sold it to a crook, but it did Doldrum - and the lady, who still sees Doldrum on the sly - a power of monetary good. I knew I'd get a straight answer.
He eventually started mentioning names. Mostly blokes, some women. He mixed folk up with cars indiscriminately. E-Type this, S-Type that, numbers and letters, descriptions of sales, the fate of this motor, that axle. He must have been going maybe quarter of an hour before he said a name I recognized.
'Goldhorn?'
'He's croaked. Five motors, two near mint, nuffin on the clock.'
'Who came, Doldrum? Where?'
'Foreign bloke called Gluck brung Goldhorn's motors. Wonnied cash up front,' he grumbled. 'He'd already sold them to a mate down Catford.'
'When?'
'Said he were running a posh antiques gaff down Chelsea Reach. Showed me Goldhorn's registrations. I made the lads see him orff. Pushy burke, thought I were born yesterday. It wer wiwin a monff or two.'
'He sold them, then?'
'Fortune.' Doldrum gets really glum thinking of deals done without him. 'That it, Lovejoy?'
As I said so-long he said after me, 'Hear of anybody wrappin' their motor, Lovejoy, let me know.'
'Promise,' I said. 'Tarra.'
See how uncomplicated talking with a bloke is? Now I knew Gluck was so desperate for money that he'd tried to sell Arthur Goldhorn's pristine old motor cars to two separate car dealers. Hell of a risk. Gluck was on even
