Every Last Cent

13

I LIKE THE way women look. I mean the way they glance, stare, peer. They look even when they're not looking, if you follow. Mostly they do it at other women, sizing rivals, is she likely to cause trouble or just a stain on the backdrop. They're interesting because they're interested.

There's a species of frog that lives in trees, if you can imagine anything so daft, that generates chemical molecules called splendipherin. It's a sex pheromone that makes the male frog become gorgeous with tones, hues, colours, so the female Litora splendida gives him a glance and thinks, hey, what a dazzler, and clambers to his branch to make smiles. We blokes need something. We're a pretty dull lot. If I could bottle that stuff I'd make a fortune selling it in our market.

My actors' army made me sigh. I'd seen better routs. The Duke of Wellington's crack came to mind: 'I don't know what Napoleon will think of our new recruits, but by God they frighten me!' and other anecdotes. They stood there, nervy and shambolic. The nerk called Larch, like me lacking splendipherins, had tarted himself up in dark leathers, obviously borrowed to impress. My gran used to say, 'Fashion today, fool tomorrow,'

and it's true. Pictures of 1920s flappers in their cloche hats and strapped bodices make you exclaim, 'They wore that?' and roll in the aisles. And those wide Windsor bags, trousers with creases unbelievably pressed sideways – the late Duke of Windsor's only contribution to civilization, 'tis said – make you think, 'God in heaven, who donned those?'

'You know the drill?'

I'd gone over it as we'd driven over in Jacko's coal wagon, him my last resort singing bad opera as we clattered across East Anglia. They were still dusting themselves down, Tina and Wilhelmina – mercifully minus her shahtoosh – were angry. So was I, because they'd made a special dress effort when I'd told them not to. On a scale of ten, I felt twice as narked.

'I thought it was a real production, Lovejoy,' Larch said. Jules was quiet, sensing my desperation.

'Larch, it's more real than you'd ever imagine.'

'I'm nervous,' Wilhelmina whispered as Taylor Eggers came to the door and smilingly beckoned us. 'What if I forget the signal?'

'You won't, love.' If she'd podded off her woollen and done as I said, she must have serious gelt. The thought of all that profit from her granny's shawl made me realize how lovely she was. I felt myself redden as Tina caught me looking. (See? Women's glances.)

Susanne Eggers was waiting, smoking elegantly, seated in the library. I recognized a silver-framed photograph of Arthur Goldhorn, RIP, and his missus with a bonny baby boy. The boy was, is, Mortimer. His mother lives in sordid but affluent sin among muscle dancers in Soho, Bondi Beach and other exotic climes. I don't really miss her.

Mrs Eggers was reading a volume set on a wooden Moorish stand, beautifully carved.

I'd sweated blood carving that from Resak wood for Mortimer's parents' wedding. I don't really like paler woods; the dark brown smooth varieties are a delight. Seasoning Resak drives you mad, of course, but it's the carver's friend for hard, heavy, classy joinery. Her book was modern and therefore gunge, meaning printed after 1939.

'Wait,' she commanded, not looking.

We waited. Mr Eggers smiled, bustled, nobly held himself back from offering us chairs or tea. Larch, Tina, and Wilhelmina were frozen in awe of the money lady. Jules used the moments silently sussing out the room's antiques.

He'd done five years, three with remission for good behaviour, mainly for seducing the Countess, whenever she commanded him to do so. He used to drive her pantechnicon to Eastern Europe. It was loaded with relief supplies to the Balkans after mayhem set people refugeeing all over the place. Sounds rum? Not really, because charities are the biggest ripoffs on earth. (You know the scam: please send us money so we can feed the Hungry Out There, et phoney cetera.) If in doubt, check any major charity. It'll have splendid offices, highly paid staff living in tree-lined suburbs with swimming pools and servants. Think of the United Nations and the World Bank, and there you have it. I call the lot of them Crooks, Inc.

The Countess is a major antiques dealer near Long Melford. She funds ('from my profits, daaahlink!' she always says at her trials) heart-rending charity runs. Folk –

meaning you – donate clothes, money, medical supplies, and off the great vehicles go.

One convoy's leading lorry was driven by Jules. It got stopped because some well-meaning Customs blokes wanted to give some medicines to the convoy, and discovered that Jules's wagon was ramjam packed with antique furniture, silver, porcelain, and paintings, not a single crust or a bandage. The clean lorries went on. Jules earned the villification of the entire nation. The Countess naturally went scotage free ('Ay didn't know a thing, daaahlink!') and still lives on donations nicked from her charities, antiques, and men, more or less in that order. Local dealers felt almost nearly sincerely sorry for Jules, but secretly rejoiced that a rival dealer was removed to where he couldn't compete, namely in nick. Ten minutes after his conviction, the entire trade was back dealing with the Countess. This was why I'd told Tina to pick him, from sympathy.

Always a duckegg.

'Right.' Mrs Eggers closed the book with a thud and surveyed us. She looked even better today, a superb royal blue satin dress, with baroque pearls that must be Scotch naturals from Perth, earrings to match, gold bangles. She was worth the county, me thrown in. 'Names.'

'I'm Lovejoy. This is Tina. Wilhelmina. Larch and, er, Jules.'

'You're all divvies, I believe. Score these antiques correctly. Some, I'm told, are forgeries, others not.' She crossed to a sofa table, its leaves raised for maximum space.

On it stood four antiques. Straight off I saw her ploy: choose right, you were in; get one wrong, off with your head. 'Men first, women next, in,' she commanded icily, 'order of age. Cards and pencils.'

Taylor smilingly handed out cards, beaming. 'They're numbered from the left. Put a tick or a cross,' and retired grinning like a Cheshire cat. I wished he'd frown. I distrust smiley folk the same way I hate charmers.

Jules stepped forward, walked along the four antiques, marking his card. He initialled the back and handed it to Taylor. Larch took his time. Tina then Wilhelmina followed suit. I didn't like the way Larch posed, swirled and pondered, mmmhing and fingering his chin. Silly melodrama stuff. Wilhelmina tried for some mythical part in Rebecca, hoping the non-existent cameras were catching her best side.

'Lovejoy?' To my stare Mrs Eggers said angrily, 'Go on, dolt.'

Me too? I got a card, went along the row. The sofa table was not genuine, though somebody had had a high old time doing french polishing, kidding us it was a genuine sofa table of about 1820 that had been fopped up in late Victorian times. More crud, by definition. To check, I leaned down as if to adjust my shoe, and looked along the grain.

The surface was entirely without pores. Now, you can't have this, not by the original french polishing techniques, so somebody had cleverly used an alkyd wash. This spreads out of its own accord, giving you the pluperfectly level finish. Then you can polish any way you like to your heart's content, because the lovely table will come up like a genuine table that some Regency lady would use for tea while reclining in languor on her sofa to the admiration of her visitors. I'd signalled it false to the others, but I gave it a tick, for genuine.

A pewter drinking goblet was early Victorian. Some burke had tried to clean its patina off with potash or soda (some nerks use ammonia; they should be gaoled). It was genuine right enough, but I grew angry for the poor little vessel. Homemade, probably, or recast by some wandering tinsmith. They went from village to village in the old days, remaking battered pewter cups. If you have to clean pewter, and I recommend that you don't, please put it in a simple hay bath – three pints of chopped hay into a big metal pan. Fill it with water just too hot to touch, then immerse the pewter in it for seven or so hours. Please promise you won't use solvents or hot sand, no matter what professional books say. I couldn't help glowering at Taylor Eggers. Mortimer was daily providing fresh evidence of being a true divvy, so I knew he wouldn't be the vandal who'd ruined the goblet. I apologized mentally to the poor genuine thing. I marked it a fake.

A little marble statuette of a faun was tagged Number Three. Nigh on two hundred years old, Italian from the look, but some hard-hearted swine had etched a mark on its foot with some coarse cleaning agent, probably oxalic acid, to ruin the patina and make a casual observer assume it was a reproduction. Such blemishes are common in fakes.

So Susanne Eggers must have thought it worthwhile to injure a genuine antique just to make her test more effective, the rotten cow. I ask you, what morality is that? Now I'd hate her for ever. She must have been desperate about something vital. I scored it fake, to be wrong again.

The last object was an earthenware galena-glazed moneybox shaped like a hen sitting on a crude nest. Three hundred years old or so, these things are highly valuable. They have a slit for coins. Full, you simply smashed the pot and tot up your loot. (Hence our saying, 'nest-egg'.) Very few have survived, though we – I mean dishonest forgers and fakers, not me – make them when desperate for gelt, hoping some buyer will jump to the wrong conclusion. This was genuine, making real bongs in my chest. Worth a decent motor on a good day. So I scored it a dud.

'That it, missus?' I gave Taylor Eggers the card.

'Wait outside,' she ordered. 'This is confidential. Understand?'

We swore eternal fealty and trailed out to stand on the gravel. I felt embarrassed.

They'd done really well, got every one correct. I was the only one to get them wrong.

'Are we in still in character, Lovejoy?' Wilhelmina asked in a whisper.

'Not any longer,' Tina said, smiling fetchingly at me. 'Did we get your signals right, Lovejoy?'

It took a millisec to answer. She'd just proved she was a treacherous bitch.

'Aye, well done all of you.'

'Will she tell us straight away which of us gets the part?'

'Maybe she'll want everybody.' I tried to do one of Taylor's hearty beams, on the theory that optimistic lies are best.

'That'd be superb,' Larch said to Wilhelmina. She smiled at him. I realized he must have overheard my spiel about her priceless shahtoosh. I sighed inwardly. So near and yet so far.

'Lovejoy?' Taylor appeared at the door. 'Thank you for your services. Mrs Eggers will send word. You will each get expenses.'

One last beam, then slam. We looked at one another. I wondered if the deal was off, whatever it was. Maybe Susanne Eggers's mystery ghost had its own way of working. I led the way in silence to the road and we clambered aboard Jacko's lorry. Only because I was looking, I saw a shadowy figure in the shrubbery by the huge ornate gate. It raised a thumb and little finger, sign of the telephone. I just nodded.

We drove back to town while Jacko sang that high C thing from The Daughter of the Regiment. I hummed along but, unlike Jacko, in tune with the composer's intentions until Tina snapped at me to shut up. Jacko bawled atonally on. Well, it was his lorry.

Larch and Wilhelmina talked quietly. Tina then settled down, smiling inwardly at a good job done, the traitorous cow. Jules only once was careless enough to catch my eye and swiftly looked away. He too knew we'd been had, maybe guessed who by.

We alighted at the war memorial. I told Tina to give me a list of phone numbers where I could reach them. It was only then that I wondered how the hell could I phone Mortimer like he'd signalled, if the phone people had disconnected me. We split up, and that was the end of a perfect day until I was reminded of a death, the only one in recorded history that was not my fault.