To take over from that buffoon of a husband?'
He suddenly emitted an inane cackle that set heads turning all about the taproom.
'I like this fourth effort best, Lovejoy. The shipment thing. Of what?'
I did my most convincing shrug. 'Any indigenous antiques. Good ones. Dulwich Picture Gallery's the one I have in mind.'
'Dulwich?' His eyes narrowed suspiciously, the way I wish I could do. 'Isn't it impregnable now?'
'Not really,' I lied. 'Plus it has a trump card. The Ace.' I smiled, with humility and cowardice in there. 'It can't afford insurance.'
He gaped. 'Can't…?'
'So many priceless Old Masters. Get it, Mr Gluck? A thief—'
'Could dictate his own terms!' I'd never seen such fervour. He couldn't keep still.
'To the Minister for Arts, National Heritage. Think of the nation's gratitude when somebody returned them to a grateful country!'
Well, I swear he almost choked. 'Lovejoy, that's beautiful! I'd be the white knight!
Adored! Worshipped!' He shook my hand against my will. Uneasily I imagined rumours getting back to friends. 'Then do it, Lovejoy. I am your partner. Tell me when it's set up, not before.' He rose, elegant, in charge.
'Hang on,' I bleated. 'What's the deal?'
'You pull the robbery. Then you offer them to me. I buy them back, saving the nation's honour. Of course, no money will change hands, because I have none. But I will pretend I paid a fortune to the robbers.'
I croaked, 'What robbers? Who? What about me?'
'You do the best you can to escape the consequences, Lovejoy.' He smiled as Sir Ponsonby and his luscious Moiya came to join him. She looked even more glorious. Sir P. had the grace to look embarrassed. 'Highly placed politicians will recommend me! It's foolproof, and it's not yet even taken place!'
He left, laughing. Moiya December swung every cell of her anatomy, drawing eyes. Sir P. mouthed a faint regret to me, and stumbled in their wake. They embarked in a waiting Rolls. So much for leading righteousness's charge against evil. I was now my enemy's serf.
The four best scams - that I'd paid to have planned out for me - were now known to Gluck. He would win. I'd lose, and Mortimer would go down with me.
Smouldering, I knew that I'd been careless. I needed a last-minute plan Gluck couldn't even guess at. 29
LONDON HAS EVERYTHING. That doesn't mean it's yours for the taking. But it's there, it's there.
Terence O'Shaughnessy's claim to being Irish is that he once drank a pint of their black stout. In Germany. Nonetheless, he talks a good nationality, as they say. His workshop's off Drury Lane, a stone's throw from a myriad theatres. I found the building, went over the wall, saw a light in his basement. He's janitor of this night school - creative writing, leaping in leotards to music, self-identity through inner plasms.
'Tel?' I went into his one room with care, remembering when I'd barged in on Wrinkle and what he'd been up to. Tel didn't even look round. He has this giant St Bernard dog, slavering and droopy, called Plato. 'Wotcher, Plato.'
'Top o' the morning, Lovejoy.'
Oirish brogue still. Once, he'd been a big-spending Yemeni oil baron, but came unstuck when the police pointed out that he wasn't anything of the kind. He's the only bloke I know really born in a suitcase. His grandma delivered him. I've met her, heard the story a hundred times. The telly was on, racing at Newmarket.
'Don't give me your County Galway, Tel.'
O'Shaughnessy's room is always a shambles. Old clothes strewn everywhere, plastic bin bags, newspapers, half-eaten grub, soiled plates there since I'd seen him a year since.
He wore a singlet, braces dangling, the same smeared slippers, belly protruberant, stained trousers. He'd improved. Usually he's a mess.
'Can't offer yer any ale, Lovejoy. I'm thirsty meself.'
He had a row of brown ale tins ready for action. A heap of empties had accumulated nearby in a kind of metallic snowfall. As he spoke he lobbed a new empty. It landed on the pile, which slid a bit. He popped a replacement with a sigh of repletion.
'It's okay, Tel.' Plato came and drenched me with saliva. I patted his head, but distantly. Stroke him once or twice, you get enough hairs to knit another dog.
Terence O'Shaughnessy is a knowledgeable bloke. Living as he does in London's Drury Lane heartland, he makes money selling information indiscriminately. This was my reason.
'Can I ask, Tel, or are you busy?'
He phones bookmakers with last-minute losers. Plato snuffled, demanding another pat.
I responded, finished up covered with hair.
'Ten minutes before the off, Lovejoy. What is it?'
'Dulwich Picture Gallery,' I said without preamble.
His several bellies quivered delight. He opened a tin of ale for Plato, who lapped it down. His tongue's like a sponge mat.
'Self-service theft, that place used to be, Lovejoy.' Tel guffawed. 'Any day of the week.
Not now, though.'
