Every Last Cent

35

ODD WHAT THINGS fascinate people. There's an American university offering millions, to anyone who can solve any unsolved mathematical problem. One is this: why do buses come in threes? No good telling them the old Cockney's joke: buses only come in convoys so they don't get torpedoed, ha-ha. That won't earn you the money. Another is this: why is it harder to discover a solution than have it explained? Seems simple to me, but brainboxes say no. If you can write down the mathematical proof, post it off.

Honest, they'll send you millions. They think numbers are reasonable.

Others work with equal devotion doing wrong. It's sad, bad news. In antiques there's the doc job. (This is where you go into hospital, then antique dealers raid your house.

And take everything.) If it happens to patients admitted to the same hospital then the crooked informant will be somebody in Reception who takes your details down. She tells her criminals the addresses of patients who are in for lengthy treatments . . . The plod are worse than useless. Ask the police to protect your house while you have your hip done, they'll simply go back to their snooker halls which, locals here joke, never get robbed. The box job's another version, when crooks strip your Aunt Agatha's house while you're at her funeral. (That's easier, needs no accessory other than the obituary columns.)

It was glimpsing Paul and his birds – still collecting for the hospice in the shopping precinct – that made me remember somebody he'd mentioned. I crossed over, keeping a weather eye on his latest, an irritable sparrow the size of a sack.

'Wotcher, Paul. Okay to ask?'

He smiled, said hello. He was allowing a little girl to stroke a bird with white feathers. It looked a real gangster.

'That auctioneer you mentioned. Remember? He chandeliered me once, and there was that fuss. He used to stand help you collecting.'

To chandelier is when an auctioneer takes fake bids instead of from some legitimate punter. Auctioneers are always at it. I owed him.

He thought a minute, saying, 'Ta, missus,' every time somebody clanked a coin into his tin. Then, 'Nice bloke. Still lives in Dragonsdale. Lanny Langley-Willes. Big twitcher.'

He told me the address. I had the good manners to ask Paul about his missus. His face clouded.

'She gives her time to Aspirin, Lovejoy.' He glanced about, made sure no children could hear. 'I think it's the end for us, really. Pity.'

What can you say? 'Sorry, mate.'

He smiled bravely on, telling bystanders of his birds' evil predatory habits, letting them stroke their feathers. Some folk are just kindly made, and act holy all their lives. Other people, I've heard, aren't.

Money, like lawyers, absolves the killer. Enough money could beatify Stalin. It's a feature of civilizations. Countries in the throes of revolution do without the middlemen, go straight for the gun or famine. In it all, there stands the squeeze.

Squeeze is the old China Coast word for illicit money. You want a new dress design before the catwalk show? Easy. You pay squeeze to the guards, who let you in after nightfall so you can snap it and your seamstress run it up overnight. You want to leak that secret government report on Walsall's homeless? Slip squeeze to the printers, and behold a copy comes under your door! You want your handsome bachelor boss's private curriculum vitae? Why, a little squeeze paid to Elsie who does his dinners and, surprise surprise, his CV's on your desk! So now you can accidentally bump into him, all glammed up ... and so on.

The hallmark of the squeeze? Nobody knows anything afterwards. When police hunt that somebody who stole those secret dress designs before the London Fashion Show, or filched that White Paper on the homeless, or let slip where your eligible boss went fishing, nobody knows anything. It's the old 'What, moi?' business, with the wide-eyed stare. Innocence rules.

It's everywhere. But mostly in auctions.

Think of the benefits. Suppose you knew the names and addresses of all the people who sent stuff in to an auction. You could casually meet them, then it's, 'Good heavens!

I've just been looking for a piece of pure white-paste brilliant glazed Derby porcelain!

My beloved sister collects post-1770s Derby ware! And you've actually sent it in to be auctioned? You poor thing. Auctioneers rook you, you know.' And quickly move on to,

'Look. Why don't I make you an offer? By the way, isn't your hair lovely! I've always admired women who wear blue / lemon / pink ...' etc, etc.

Not only that, you could steal desirable items before viewing day if you get the catalogue early enough. Theft is always done for a flat fee, currently fifty zlotniks an item, unless there's something special about the antique. Incidentally, your hired thief will expect at least one item's fee as a tip if he does the job well. It's polite. Your thieves will then spread the word that you're a decent wallet to work for. Add one tip extra for every five antiques they steal. So if you want, say, ten antiques stolen from an auctioneer's, pay the thief ten times fifty zlotniks plus fifty times two – total six hundred for the transaction. They pay their own transport. Don't do it for them – you don't want to be implicated in any shocking robbery, do you? You're honest! And don't pay until you receive the stolen goods.

Er, I mean I think that's probably how it's fixed.

James Langley-Willes, nickname Lanny, once did me down. He was on the hammer in a famed Bond Street auction. I'd made a legitimate bid for a late eighteenth-century lady's work table. It was exquisite, slender legs with side drawers and a shelf (tier, dealers call this) low down between the legs. What I liked though was the sliding frame on its back legs. Lift, and a pleated silk screen rose to keep the heat of the lady's coal fire, so keeping her complexion pale and interesting. (This screen always suggests eighteenth century.) I'd raised four loans, two of which I would be compelled to actually pay off, just to buy this beautiful satinwood piece.

Lanny saw my final bid. And ignored it! Knocked the antique down to a lady friend.

White-hot with rage, I exacted revenge. It took me a week but was worth it. I hired Shammer – rhymes with hammer, a man of many voices – to contact Lanny and get him to sell a photocopy of the handwritten catalogue, for a high fee. It went like clockwork. Shammer gave me the catalogue that day. I went to see Mr Langley-Willes with a video showing him leaving the photocopy in a taxi for Shammer. And paying the squeeze. Lovely camera work by Yvette. She keeps the Thames toll bridge at Dartford.

He'd actually blubbered, begged, invoked his children –all at good schools – and his lovely wife who'd just started a costume-hire shop. Then, all but on his knees, he said something that placed his entire fate in my hands.

'Please, Lovejoy. Honest to God. I'll do anything. Think of the birds.'

'No go, Lanny.' Birds?

'Then it's suicide,' he said, broken.

'Eh?' I was startled. He really did look suddenly resolute, firm of purpose. Suicide, for birds? 'Look, mate ...'

'No, Lovejoy.' Steadfastly he faced the charging hordes of Omdurman. 'You don't understand. I'm a four hundred.'

'Four hundred what?'

'A member of the Four Hundred Club.' Quietly he explained.

He loved birds. I said so did I. Only, women, migrating wrens, what?

'No, Lovejoy. Flying birds.'

Only then did I notice that his walls were covered with photographs of our feathered friends. Hadn't even pictures of his family. A nutter.

'I'm what irresponsible people call a twitcher, Lovejoy.' He gave a you-rabble-don't-understand smile. 'Only those who record over four hundred different species are true birders.' A sad noble smile played around his lips, say goodbye to the old school, Carruthers. 'I was hoping to reach five hundred.'

'Different birds?'

God, that seemed easy. I'd seen thousands, millions. Maybe I'd been a champion birder for years and hadn't known. I sometimes have thirty birds at a time in my overgrown garden.

I'd heard of these twitchers, people who're daft on bird-watching. I knew one lady who

– you won't believe this –actually sold a Newcastle Light Baluster drinking glass, stipple engraved with a Dutch ship. It had four knops –bulges in the stem – and the Dutch engraver's initials were actually engraved on the pontil stub underneath the glass's foot.

Rare, genuine antique. And why did the loon sell it? To buy a camera, so she could skulk in our sea marshes and photo swallows wading in the mud. Is that lunatic, or what?

'No, Lovejoy. Different species. Any fool can see a thousand birds any day of the week.'

Which narked me even more, because my birds are high quality. I've got some that sit on my shoulder for cheese, and I'll bet he hadn't. To stop him leaping off his balcony, seeing he looked so adamant, I went helpful.

'Look, Lanny. I'll bring details of some rare birds. You'll have your five hundred sparrows before Friday.'

He rose, his expression a pale, aghast mask.

'Falsify? You scoundrel!' He gave me a tirade of passionate denunciation.

Well, I gaped. Can you get the logic? Here was the trusted scion of famous London auctions –I won't mention which because Sotheby's and Christie's insist on anonymity –

who'd ripped everybody off. Who now swoons because I suggest pretending that he's seen a robin. Do you believe some people?

He ranted on so much his missus came in. She left with the wife's resigned exasperation when she saw he was only on about his hobby.

The name for those accursed fraudsters who exaggerate the number of species that they falsely claim to have spotted? A stringer.

'There is no more odious wretch, Lovejoy. Detestable. Beneath contempt. Hanging's too good for them.'

Well, hardly. It was strange to see Lanny, with degrees all round the envelope, ready to face firing squads merely because his fellow twitchers might believe he'd spun a tale about some fledgling.

'It took me ten years, Lovejoy. I reached my four hundredth last Martinmas.' His eyes filled. 'The happiest day of my life. I was stuck two months on 399. I wanted to sell the wife's car last year to go to see a black-browed albatross, but she wouldn't give it up.'

'Selfish cow,' I joked, jollying him along.

He agreed, to my astonishment. 'Yes, she is. The Orkneys is a hell of a way.'

This was Lanny, famed auctioneer. To pay for my silence he gave me my expenses and saw that my next bid got preference three auction days running, until some of the lads began to mutter. I'd not seen him since. If anybody would know what big money was washing around, it would be Lanny. I decided it was time I renewed my interest in birdwatching. I might see something unexpected. You never know.

It was getting dark when I bowled up at Lanny Langley-Willes's house in Dragonsdale.

Cars filled the drive. I went round to the rear, and walked into a group of enthusiasts.

They all wore working overalls. Lanny's missus was serving roast something. The wine was out, Lanny the laughing host talking birds. Beyond, the acreage showed a miniature railway line, a small engine, a little carousel with fairy lights. Building a fairground?

'Here's Lovejoy!' he called, seeing me. 'Trust him to arrive at dinner break!'

I received nods and hellos. I accepted a glass of red wine that tasted of tannin. I praised it like you have to. Everybody was pleased at my judgement.

'We're excluding a 400 Club member, Lovejoy,' Lanny explained, his eyes warning me about divulging past secrets.

Vaguely I remembered that you got shot for reporting the wrong pigeons in Norfolk's Cley-next-the-Sea. 'Er, it's about that, Lanny.'

'You're not old enough to be a nancy, mate, are you?' some old geezer asked.

He sounded friendly enough, but I stepped forward to clock him one. Lanny intervened just in time.

'No, Lovejoy's an antique dealer, not a birder.' He led me aside, chuckling. 'A nancy isn't a deviant, Lovejoy. It's one of the original birders. Nancy's Caff in Cley. It's where modern birdwatching started. We all used the caff's telephone. Now we use websited pagers.'

'Oh, good.' I made sure we were out of earshot of the others. 'Look, Lanny. Are you into insurance? Lloyd's and all that?'

'No.' His face clouded. 'I know some who are. Fingers burned lately.'

'And the auction houses?'

He sat on a low stone wall that fringed his herb garden, and lit a cigarette from a small sessile lantern.

'The American Justice Department's been gunning for the Big Two, Sotheby's and Christie's. The journals were full of it. Price fixing. Christie's decided to turn what here would be called Queen's Evidence. Asking immunity for blowing the gaff. Boss execs and chairmen resigned everywhere, to please the Yank Feds.'

'It's happened before, though?'

'Resignations? Don't you remember? Christie's chairman took a dive. Claimed those Impressionist paintings were sold when you-know-what.'

The Impressionist paintings weren't sold at all, so the market price was kept artificially high. Greed is what auctioneers' dreams are made of.

'And your pals?' I indicated his group, now passing bird photos around in the lantern light while Lanny's missus clucked, wanting them to scoff their grub.

'Only birders, Lovejoy. Promise.' He sounded offended. 'Heaven's sakes, one of them actually knew Emmett!'

'A copper?' I'd not heard the name before.

'He was the original twitcher – shook so much from cold and exhaustion when chasing a rare bird on his moped that he virtually had twitching seizures. Hence the nickname.

Above suspicion, of course.'

So they were saints.

'Right. Tell your mates tara, Lanny. And your missus.' I paused. 'Lanny? If you hear anything about insurance defaults, let me know, eh?'

'Defaults?' His face clouded. 'I suppose you mean that consular man. Poor chap. He's in for everything. Friend of the brigadier. Has some relative locally. He formed an insurance syndicate of her friends.'

'Consular chap?'

'American. Divorced. Sommon was involved in some political scandal. That randy president's political party. Invested over his head. But, Lovejoy,' this epitome of honesty said in all seriousness, 'we shouldn't listen to vile rumour.'

'True, Lanny.' A thought occurred. 'Where are you getting the money to build this fancy fairground?' It was hell of a size, for a private garden.

'This?' He became proud. 'Our birders are chipping in. It's for the local infant school.

When it's finished I'll assign that half of my plot to them in perpetuity. Think they'll like the engine? It's a model of an old Britannia.'

'Beautiful.'

'The wife approves,' he added, sighing. 'Pity she's not a birder. Did I ever tell you she wouldn't sell her car so I could go and see a black-browed albatross?'

'Well, nobody's perfect. Tara, Lanny.'

I left then, only realizing I still carried his glass when I reached the taxi rank. I swigged it dry, looked at it in the taxi's headlights. Modern. So I lobbed it into a nearby dustbin and went home. Fewer suspects now, thank God. I was down to a few thousand, if Lanny could be trusted.