'What of?' He froze the place with a wintry smile. 'One little lady?'
'I was out of my depth, sir.' Too many sirs spoil the broth. I saw his contempt. He knew I was buttering him and he wasn't having any.
'Your suspicions were what, exactly?'
'Posh is trouble.' No sir this time. Take that, you arrogant diplomat.
He didn't like my mention of trouble. 'What trouble?'
'I've no money. You need it to deal in high antiques.'
He didn't quite glance at Mrs Eggers. At last a clue.
A waitress emerged carrying a tray. She set it down. I stared at the porcelain as she distributed it. I felt queer, my chest bonging and my hands clammy. I'd never seen so much wealth come out for coffee. One plate was the rarest. I'd never seen one before in any open market. It was a rare early Meissen, meaning from New Year's Day of 1710
and the few years following. Tip: they're the first really honest European (non-Chinese, I should say) hard- paste porcelain, and are a grubby white, sometimes an even grottier fawnish hue. They're priceless. It was so genuine I almost cried out.
'What?' The man was interested, watching me.
'I feel a bit odd. I don't like driving. Twisty roads,' I explained, pretending.
The waitress returned bringing a coffee pot, cream and milk jugs, sugar and whatnot.
All costly modern gunge. I almost apologized out loud to the three genuine antique pieces, them keeping such crappy company.
'Tell.' A man of few syllables.
'Tell what?'
He reached out and hit me. Actually gave me a swipe with his clenched fist so I flew off my chair. Susanne gave a loud cackle. My only thought was for the porcelain. Slowly I clambered back. We serfs know our place.
'Which are they? And no trifling.'
It was the shell game. Find the pea under the walnut shells and you win. I shook my head.
'Sorry, mate. I've had enough of your games.'
I got up, glanced at the heartbreaking loveliness of the three porcelains, and strode from the place. At least I started to. His voice halted me.
'Do I break it?' he called.
I halted. Mr Eggers, arms folded, sadly shook his head. You're a fool, his expression said. Just go along with it. There's no other way for the likes of us kulaks. Back at the table, the consul was holding up the modern Doulton sugar bowl.
'Why ask me?' I said, always the idiot.
He dropped it, ground his heel into the fragments. It was a pity, because Royal Doulton's classy, though the poor bowl was only made a fortnight gone.
The plate he lifted next, though, made my heart stop. The Meissen.
'How about this, chum?' He made a prolonged insult of the appellation, the way American gangsters do sometimes on film, like they sometimes say toodle-oo. I felt like clobbering him back, but for an old geezer he'd fairly swung his weight, and that big motor out on the dunes told me he never travelled alone.
It took me two attempts to say, 'What about it?'
And he dropped it. Smash it went, on the marble floor. I looked at the fragments. I'd not even had the time to gasp, let alone dive to save it. Pieces were everywhere. To gather them up would be a waste of time. Nobody would want a relic, as we call such desperate repairs, however valuable it had once been. In a split second it had gone from a perfect Meissen genuine hard-paste porcelain to nothing. Murder.
'Look at his face!' Susanne Eggers shrieked, rolling in the aisles.
The murderer grinned, exhibiting massively even white teeth. What is it about American politicians? They all have superb incisors and canines. Darwinian selection, I shouldn't wonder.
'Sit,' he said. I obeyed.
Susanne patted my arm. She found all this hilarious. 'Don't take on, Lovejoy. Just do as you're told and we'll get along.'
'Pick them out,' the killer commanded. 'And say what.'
For a second I sat and thought. He wanted confirmation. Yet it was weird. If he'd wanted to be sure of the Meissen plate, he could have called in any expert and got a million certificates of authenticity. But he hadn't. Therefore I was somehow vital. His cause, shared so intensely by Susanne Eggers, must be pretty desperate. It wasn't just romantic love between this fetching lady and him, passion on the sly. Despite his cool he was desperate behind his tombstone teeth and natty attire. I wondered if he was one of the antiques raj. Would they let a politician in, though? Except nowadays they might take anybody. After all, they accepted that Continental, Prince Whatsisname so they'll accept any crook. Or so people say. (I've got to add that, to prevent more law suits.) And the antiques raj didn't do their own clobbering. You'd never see their fist coming.
It was now a question of saving the other two porcelains from this maniac. I cleared my throat.
Search among your pots and pans. Wander through the village boot fairs. You might get lucky.
Continental porcelain is all the rage. The saying is: You can sell any antique in its own sector, but you can sell antique porcelain anywhere anytime. It's true. It means that you'll have no real difficulty selling paintings to a collector of paintings, jewellery to a collector of jewellery and so on, but that everybody falls for porcelain. Forgers know this, incidentally, so pay heed here.
