Paid and Loving Eyes

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

« ^ »

That evening I had supper with Guy and Veronique. I’d been dreading it. We had incomprehensible but superb grub, a wine that didn’t give you heartburn, and talk that did. Guy was at his most manic, once having to be fetched down from standing on his chair to give the restaurant a song. Veronique was practised in handling him. Twice during the meal he had to dash out to stoke up on some gunja or other. In the latter of his absences Veronique unbent, spoke freer than she ever had.

“You can see how Guy has outlived his usefulness, Lovejoy. Do you blame me?”

My throat cleared for action. I wish I could think fast near women. “Well, no.” He was getting on my nerves too, though you never know what goes on between a bird and her bloke.

“You and I will make a killing, Lovejoy,” she urged softly. “Me: languages, knowing the dealers, the art thefts, the Continent’s customs everywhere. You, a divvy.”

“I’ve not a bean, love.” The waiters fetched some pudding thing that started to dissolve before my eyes. I started on it frantically before its calories vanished altogether. She offered me hers, but only after she’d had the icing surround, selfish bitch. That’s no way to start a love partnership.

“I have beans,” she said, smiling. “Plus, we’ll have a small fortune after the share-out.”

That old thing, I thought sardonically, but tried to look gullible. “To do what?”

“Your job tomorrow’s to go with Monique Delebarre, Lovejoy. To the Repository. It’ll be simple for you. You’ll be told to separately consign the antiques and fakes.”

Now that she’d actually said the word, my heart swelled. Only temporary, but my most reliable symptom of impending terror. It’s not uncommon with me, I find. And it always seems to happen when some woman starts projecting her expectations. I wish I wasn’t a prat, and had resolve, will-power, determination, things to help life on its merry way.

“Maybe in the next reincarnation,” I said, of her offer.

“No, Lovejoy. This.” She held my gaze quite levelly even though I could hear Guy on his way back, working the tables like a demented politician. “You have no choice. I’ve already arranged it with the principal backers.”

A slave? Well, I’d had my careers. “If I say no?”

“You can’t, Lovejoy. And won’t want to.” She made some signal to Guy, quite openly. He saw it, promptly seated himself at a small party and instantly had them in fits, ordering wines and clapping his hands at the waiters. “It’s antiques that I’m offering.” She smiled at her plate, up at me. “And the bliss you need. I’m the one for you, Lovejoy.”

“Antiques?” More grub, this time small dainty sweetmeats laid out round the rim of an oval dish thing.

“Why do you think the syndicate chose furniture, Lovejoy?” I listened with a carefully arranged expression of unenlightenment. “Think what’s happened to paintings, art, and you’ll be able to work it out for yourself.”

Bloody cheek, I thought. I drew breath to tell her so. “Can I have yours?”

She pushed her grub across without breaking step. “Art theft is done to order. Thieves pierce any gallery, museum—and simply select items like catalogue shopping. Think of the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum in Boston—Rembrandt’s Storm on the Sea of Galilee, how many millions of dollars? And Vermeer’s The Concert. They didn’t steal cheapos.”

True, what she was saying. Even when museums are supposed to be burglar-proof they still get done. And it’s all preselection nowadays, like the ramraiders me and Gobbie’d seen. The robbers know what they’ve come for.

“We’d be the best pair on the circuit, Lovejoy. You to browse, pinpoint the genuine masterpieces in the galleries, me to organize the thefts. It’s my special gift.” Her eyes went dreamy, a lovely sight. Repletion was in the air between us, and so far today we’d not touched each other.

“Did you design this scam?” The words were out before I could think.

“This?” She almost laughed, but derision was dominant. “This, Lovejoy? Do you know how long it has taken? Two years! Setting up factories in Marseilles, Birmingham and Bradford, Berlin, Amsterdam, Istanbul, Naples. Ptah!” She almost spat. “That’s your precious this, Lovejoy!”

Anywhere with a load of cheap immigrant labour. They’d be terrified out of their wits they’d be hoofed back to their home countries. People galore to work their lives away finishing off fakes with the same terrible effort our craftsmen had used two and three hundred years ago.

“But if it works, love…” I needled, for more. I could have killed her. I wish I’d not thought that now. Honest.

“An ox works, Lovejoy,” she said with that quiet intensity. “A new Jaguar works swifter. I was against this scam from the start. I told them we must rob, instead of creating fakes.”

“Robbery’s good,” I conceded, to goad her angry reminiscences further still. “In East Anglia we finish a deal within forty-eight hours of doing a lift. I did one once—I mean, I knew somebody who did it—where we shipped the Constable painting in two hours flat, money in hand.” Money for Big John Sheehan, not for me, I was too aggrieved to say.

“Of course it’s good! It’s beautiful!” She almost climbed over the table in her vehemence. She poured me more wine. I drank it for the sake of appearances. “And churches, galleries, museums—how often do they take stock, do inventories of what they have? Once every thirty years! That’s survey-proved! Have you ever seen a private gallery with security worth a damn?”

More truths ripped from her tongue. I know because I was watching it closely. Banks go berserk if a penny is missing. Officers are cashiered for losing a regimental penny. The Exchequer burns the midnight oil over farthings. The Stock Exchange works dividends out to nine decimal places. But she was right. Paris’s Notre Dame cathedral once learnt of a priceless sketch missing from its archives only when somebody overheard an American tourist saying he’d seen it in Washington.

“And thieves everywhere are incompetent!” She coursed on while I asked her for some more of that vanishing pudding. Well, you can cook too light, I find. “Look at your London mob, over that Brueghel. Can you imagine?”

Well, yes. The lads had tried selling their stolen Christ and the Woman taken in Adultery to the Courtauld. The trouble was, it actually belonged to the Courtauld Institute in the first place. But the cracks they came out with in court gave everybody a laugh, some less bitter than others. The ramraider had abused me and Gobbie: “I heard of you bastards. Nobody’s softer-hearted than a crook, and that’s a fact. A scam that depended on working immigrants till they drop endears itself to nobody. Except possibly the Moniques and Colonel Marimees of this world. And, dare I say, to the Cissies. And Guys? Veroniques? Almiras? Subject peoples have always been used thus, time immemorial.

It explained why Jan Fotheringay got done. And maybe Baff. And, possibly, the great Leon too. Unwilling to go along with the business once they learned of the cruelty involved? Jan, in on it until he sickened of the whole thing—probably never having known enough of the horrendous manufacturing processes. Baff coming across it by accident when doing one of his breakdowners on Philippe Troude’s country residence. His mica Appearances spy-master’s kit was proof of that. It all fitted. And Leon because he’d sickened of it, seeing the holocaust by attrition first hand…

“… fuck, Lovejoy.”

Brought me back. “Eh?”

“I was saying”, she repeated calmly, signalling to Guy, who started a deliriously jokesy farewell from his newfound life-longers, “that we must celebrate our partnership in the oldest way. In fact I insist, Lovejoy.” Her mouth shaped itself on her lipstick. I stared transfixed as she screwed the red lipstick from its sheath, my throat sphinctering on a spoonful. I hate symbolism. It’s never the real thing.

“What about Guy?” I croaked eventually.

“Yesterday’s news, Lovejoy.” She continued sweetly as Guy arrived breathlessly, “Guy. I was just telling Lovejoy…” She smiled knowingly into me while I frantically tried to shut her up. “… how here in Zurich our newspapers help antiques robbers. No sooner does a theft hit the headlines than adverts appear saying things like Desperately Seeking Gainsborough, or Come Home Spitweg All is Forgiven. It’s the Swiss way of making a blunt offer for the stolen masterwork. In Munich too, of course.”

Looking sideways at Guy, I tried to laugh convincingly for his sake. But it’s still pathetic to visit an ancient church expecting to see the Virgin of the Snows, and instead see a blank frame. The saddest photograph ever published is Time’s, of an Italian pastor with his candle next to a framed photo of that missing masterpiece. She was right. We’d make a formidable partnership, a killing as they say.

We cemented our relationship that night. I allowed a decent interval, four seconds, before deciding to admit her when she tried the door. This is where I should report that I resisted her advances, stood firm against her seductive wiles, but can’t. Shame and guilt were trumped in a trice. I relished every moment, and she seemed delighted at my willingness. Passion’s nothing going for it except its total ecstasy, paradisical joy unbounded. I have a hundred logics that end up with me forgiven for each sexual transgression; they all depend on it being the woman’s fault. Next morning, Veronique was purring, her wig on the pillow beside her. She was a redhead, I saw with shock. Her eyes were dark brown.

“Hello, stranger,” were her first words. “Going to give me breakfast?”

Guy and Veronique, blond and blue-eyed as ever, delivered me—I almost said delivered me up—to Monique’s huge saloon motor at nine-thirty precisely. Veronique seemed chilled, though it was quite mild. She huddled in a swagger jacket, breathing through her teeth the way women do when telling the weather off. Skilled with cosmetics, she’d disguised her neck bruises, thank God. She had kitted me out at an expensive outfitters along Pelikanstrasse. I felt done up like a tuppeny rabbit.

“You know the drill, Lovejoy,” Veronique told me as the limo drew in. “Say nothing. Agree with Monique whatever she says. Pick out the genuine antiques. A list will be given you at the Repository. Allocate our fakes to storage, and our genuine antiques for forward shipment. That’s all you do. Any questions?”

“Then what?”

Veronique smiled. She was worn out, quite on edge. I felt my spirits lifting by the minute now it was starting.

“Then you report to me.” Guy looked worse than the pair of us put together, and he’d had a good night’s sleep. I wondered what he looked like without his wig, his coloured contacts, his meticulous make-up. He was beyond hearing, all senses stultified. “I’ve planned for us, Lovejoy.”

“Right. How long’ll I be?”

“Until Monique says, Lovejoy. We’ll be here. Guy.” His name was like an order. Obediently he tried to pay attention, but it was a sorry show. You see, Lovejoy? Veronique’s eyes asked me.

The driver was one of the hulks who’d guarded Marimee’s briefing. He said nothing, flattened me against the upholstery by the force of his acceleration. I felt lonely, odd to relate, legitimately free of my watchdogs for the first time.

“Far to go, have we?” I tried, but got nothing from Suit. His neck was roll upon roll of fat. Underneath would be solid gristle. I’d never tangle with such as he. I sighed, settled back for the ride. Another giver of orders, for immediate compliance.

It was not all that long. Countryside abounds in Switzerland. Mind you, after Lysette’s tour of Zurich’s grotty grottoes I found that I wasn’t as animose to the boring hills as usual. The Alps can be seen from the city, and I was pleased to get glimpses as we drove. Sherlock Holmes, though, said there’s more sin in pretty countryside than in any sordid town.

A small village or two out, the motor pulled in and I was transferred to an even huger motor. It contained Monique.

“Morning,” I said. The Suit shoved me. I almost fell in. No reply. I sat as far away from her as possible. Never disturb a wasps’ nest. A glamorous nest, though. Bonny hair, with a small hat bordering on insolence. You know that sort of encased, sheathed look some women achieve in a smart suit? Well, Monique achieved exactly that. The despond I’d felt when seeing her the first time, at Mentle Marina, returned in waves. Seeing a brilliant woman you know you’ll never have always gets me down.

“Lovejoy,” she said, speaking slowly as if to an idiot. I was surprised. My name had never sounded nice before. Now I quite liked it. “You have one task this morning.”

“To agree.”

“To obey.” A pause for it to sink in. We were driving along a narrow road. I could glimpse a lake, very beautiful. “The Repository. You know it?”

“Of it, yes.” Taking the silence as invitation to continue, I went diffidently on. “The world’s great auction houses need a place where antiques can be safely stored. It charges buyers, vendors, antique dealers, so much a month.”

“Yes.”

More silence, so okay. “It’s security city, really. Vast. You buy an antique anywhere in the world, ship it to the Repository, and simply leave it there. Then sell it, raise loans on it, barter it, all without it moving it an inch. The bills of sale are currency among legits and crooks alike, like dollars.” I began to wax eloquent. “They say that the world’s drug money is laundered via antiques in the Repository while the antiques simply remain there under lock and key. Great scheme. And legal! I’ve seen a possession note change hands for almost half a million pounds, for a George III bureau owned by a SARL—that’s a Société à Responsibilité Limitée…”

Her eyes held me. I managed silence at last. I’m like this, stupidly unable to stop gabbing, a puppy trying to impress its luscious mistress. Pathetic. Plus I was scared.

She looked out of the window. “Who is the woman. Lovejoy?”

“Woman?” She knew Veronique, because Veronique was her employee. Therefore… “She’s a bird — er, a girl I met.” I didn’t say where. Lysette, she meant Lysette. And Gobbie?

“Where?” She was indifferent. The motor slowed on a steep incline, turned at the top. Lake, trees, distant snow.

“Actually in Paris. She’s moving to Switzerland, with, er, her grandad. She’s here in Zurich now.” I felt stripped, started a cringe of evasion. “Look, Monique. You don’t know what it’s like. I’m living like a monk. She’s the only chance—”

“Veronique.” Flat, bored. “You’ve had Veronique.”

“Yes, well.” I tried hard for moral rectitude. “I don’t want to say things about her when she’s not here, but I think sometimes… I think her bloke Guy’s on drugs. It puts me off. Maybe she shares the habit. You understand?”

“Brother.”

“Eh?” That made me draw breath. Then exhale. Then inhale. Then exhale. “Eh?”

“Her duty was to maintain you.” Was it still mere flat indifference, or was malevolence creeping in?

“Oh, she did! She did!” I chuckled, only it came out octaves wrong. “Honestly, we’ve had a whale of a time…”

“Stop it, Lovejoy.” I stopped it, listened soberly. “Today, we are dealers sending in a mass of antiques. They are of course the fakes, reproductions, simulants of the type you approved in Paris. The best of our manufacture. You will mark them for storage. Any that are authentic, genuine antiques, you will mark as requiring shipment. Understand?”

“Forgeries into store, trues for shipment. A bar?” Her eyebrows rose a fraction. I explained, “Do I cut off the process at a certain number?”

“Gambling term.” Her mind, classifying away. She must find scruffs like me fascinating specimens. No wonder she was bored by everything. I was narked. I’m no arthropod. Time to tell her.

“Because”, I found myself giving out nastily, “we don’t want them stealing the wrong lot, do we?”

“Stealing?”

“Your loony colonel’s going to pinch the lot, Monique—the forgeries, that is. Plain as the nose—er, as a pikestaff. A kid could see that. Dollop a cran full of fakes. Make sure the Repository catalogues them as genuines. then get a mad mob to storm the building, pinch the fakes, and claim on the insurance.” It’s called a spang in our talk, but telling her so would only set her etymology off again. “The insurers’ll naturally investigate the ones left untouched. Which will of course be the authentic genuine lot I earmark, right?”

She was smiling! Summer radiance covered the motor’s interior. I swear she actually emitted light from her eyes like mediaeval saints did. It was really quite dazzling, for somebody evil.

“I’d hoped for something really original,” I went on, though now less shakily. “The only original thing is the way you’ve manufactured the fakes. Immigrants, virtual slaves.”

“I did wonder,” she said. It was all so academic. “You are sympathetic, Lovejoy. You see nothing of what is at stake.”

“I do not care for what is at stake.” I spoke it from an elocution class I’d never attended. I’d got calmer the more amused she’d become. “Your syndicate are mad. You imagine the issue. It is simply not there.”

“We are here, Lovejoy.” The car was pulling in. “Your name is Henry Getty. No relation.”

Getty? “And yours?”

She nearly smiled. “Mrs. Monique Getty. We are married six years, are American, and own the collection we are now depositing.”

Three people advanced to meet us, stylish but sober. The Repository serfs, bright with beams of monetary affection.

“Wait for the chauffeur, Lovejoy.”

Mistake. I’d started to get out unassisted. “Henry, dwoorlink,” I shot back, stung. “My name’s for my friends.”

Best I could manage, as the door opened and we went forward into the great unknown.