Moonspender (11 page)

"Two lumps, please."

"Sorry." He meant for sounding off. He passed me a cup
of foul brew nearly as bad as mine. "They make fortunes while our
country's treasures are plundered wholesale."

"I've heard," I said wryly.

"Present company excepted." He gave a red-faced grin.
"I get so angry. They're carrion."

"Who?" His eyes widened as I said, "Ben, you're an
old soldier at this archeology game. I don't believe that you see a bloke
misbehave on a ninth-rate telly show and suddenly decide to recruit him in your
private war with a load of moonspenders."

"No. It's worse than that. We've had word of a big
find." He became morose, pained. "One of our people intercepted a
drawing of a bronze animal." He had it ready to hand, sly old dog—or maybe
he simply wept over it all day long.

An outline drawing, not bad at that. A leopard or panther,
something ferocious and leaping in feline grace, lovely. My throat had dried.
Jesus, but if it was copied from a real bronze it . . . "Intercepted
how?"

"You won't believe it, Lovejoy. A relative in Australia
answered a newspaper advert for an ancient Roman bronze. The wording's on the
reverse."

Cut-out letters and words from newspapers, stuck to the
card. 
Roman bronze found Suffolk East Anglia this year price negotiable
watch box column for contact.

"The old game, eh?" Anybody who answers the 
Advertiser's
 box
number is a potential customer. The 
Advertiser
 
susses
them out, ensures they don't include a troublesome
percentage of Fraud Squaddies, then
readvertises
a
price for "the advertised object." The undaunted buyers who write are
then contacted by phone, the precious object is swapped under a pub table
somewhere and lost to the so-called clean so-called aboveboard world forever.
Believe me it's a hairy, scary voyage. Blood flows merrily in its churning
wake. George
Prentiss'll
tell you.

"Don't tell me," I said. "You alerted Space
Control, who did sod all." "The Aussie police kept watch on the
paper, but no further advert appeared." His eyes reproached me soulfully.
"They really did try, Lovejoy." "Or worse."

"Worse? What could be worse?"

He hadn't linked George's death with the problem, but I had.
"Tipping them off's worse, Ben."

We agreed to meet the following day, when he'd bring all details
of his area's recent alleged finds. His town librarian was anxious to help, an
all-time first. Ben wouldn't let me keep the drawing, selfish swine, but gave
me my bus fare out of a tobacco tin. Then he walked me to the bus stop,
carrying Toffee's basket and bragging gently about the ancient town. He waved
me off, balding head's wisps of hair blowing with the bus's wafting. As I made
the rear seat, I mouthed a "Be careful" at him, feeling a sudden
pang. As the bus cornered, for no reason I suddenly thought of his shopping bag
of vegetables, cheaper at Ramparts crossroads. Rotten epitaph.

The bus was jam-packed by Dedham. I left Toffee on deposit with
the church curate there and walked down past the old flour mill to Sebastopol
Cottages. My appearance wasn't too convincing for my scintillating con act. My
shoes are always battered, and my shirts fray at the cuffs the minute I take
them from the cellophane and pull all those pins out that threaten to stab you
to death. On my plus side is the fact that appearances often deceive. Women
know that more than anybody. Fortunately, they don't know that words always
deceive. Let's hope they never learn.

So like a fool I was brimming with confidence when I reached No. 2
and knocked, transmuting myself into a buyer from America. I'm hopeless at
accents, but would Sebastopol Cottages know that? The door opened. Casually I
turned, smiling.

And froze.

"Lovejoy!" cried Rowena. "I was just trying to ring
you!"

She hurried about, brewing up and shoveling biscuits. The house
was
snowflaked
in lists, lists, lists. Trapped, I
moved among them mesmerized, praying a bitter prayer.

"Did you contact the video man, Lovejoy? And the
photographer? The florist? The vicar. . . ?"

"There's so little time, Rowena," I intoned, settling
with what I hoped was an air of gravity. "Have you thought of the
printers?" I racked my brains, but had the sense to start clearing the
biscuits. A calorie in time saves nine. "Order of service I need to know
too," I added reproachfully.

"Of course!" she squeaked, thrilled to be reprimanded in
a good cause. "How sensible!"

Sweating relief, I listed possible wedding-day pitfalls. She cried
agreement with every word.

"You see, Lovejoy," she revealed, innocently kneading my
arm and sitting uncomfortably close. "Since Ernest, I've come to really
rely on Francis." She rotated her luscious blue eyes, edged in closer for
the punch line. "You don't think it unfair?"

"No." Inexplicably I needed more breath than usual. Odd,
because no's such a short word. And who the hell were all these people, Ernest,
Francis? Tinker, I'd throttle him. The stupid nerk should have realized. You
don't get many
Rowenas
to the square yard in East
Anglia.

"So Francis will have to pay for the wedding. You understand,
Lovejoy?" Knead, knead.

"Naturally," I mumble-croaked. She wore a blue twin set,
phony black pearls that swung rapturously in the best place on earth, and
leaned across me to pour. Even in agony my survival instinct was on course.
"Is there nothing you could, er, sell?"

Her hair brushed me as she stood and canted over, pearls on my
face. God, I was distressed. Her slim waist, her curved flank, generated a
terrible problem—to inhale biscuit crumbs and choke to death? Or exhale and
reveal my lust in an unpreventable moan? Then she reached something down,
between sexy butter-oozing muffins and the rampant teapot, and my moan came out
anyway. It was a genuine Gardner piece, the sort I'd dreamed of for years.
Gardner, the Michelangelo of porcelain, who in the eighteenth century went to
create works of genius in Mother Russia's icy bosom. This gem was a tiny
milkmaid, exquisite. My chest chimed in purest recognition as I sat. Mistily I
turned. Rowena, I thought, gazing at the delicious innocent, may your vibes
increase. The room was bright, like a lily in bloom. The vision raised her
head, and with a look made of all sweet accord, breathed, "Of 
course
,
Lovejoy! 
You 're
 interested in antiques, aren't you? Could you
sell it? I found it in the attic. An American gentleman advertised—"

"Well," I said ruefully, "it's not valuable, love,
but ..." I glanced into her
lakewide
cerulean
blues, then managed, all noble, "Right. I’ll try. For you, Rowena."
If that porcelain goddess hadn't been in my hands I'd have clutched the
luscious Rowena. Touch and go.

"How sweet!" she cried, giving me a kiss. I helped her.

Meanwhile two more brain cells decided to make a go of reason and
rhythmed
: Francis equals ?Big Frank. "Does . . .
Francis know of this, love?"

"No. He's too busy for silly old pots."

Pots?
 
my mind screeched, but I didn't give her a thick ear. I can be
very patient. "Then it'll be our little secret, eh?"

"And I can buy Francis a present!" She was excited, not
alone as it happens.

Smiling, I said, "What a good idea!" We settled the
agreement, taking our time over tea and crumpets.

Much later, I collected Toffee and went home, the exquisite
Gardner porcelain sharing Toffee's
trug
. It was
exactly right for Suzanne York's new restaurant. It would shame that costly
modem palace, but that was her lookout. Meanwhile, a fortnight's bed rest, in traction,
was called for. I was worn out.

Dusk was fast falling when I staggered into my tangled garden. But
Mrs. Ryan clop-clopped in, just after I'd fed Toffee, to persuade me into her
manager's job. Weakened by the day's exertions, I gave her my most sincere
promise to fill in her form instantly. In bed, she told me she hoped I'd be as
vigorous on the job as off it. I swore to try. Anyhow, I thought, dozing
between her lovely breasts, I wasn't doing much these days.

What with Mrs. Ryan riding bareback, so to speak, I had no chance
of a lift, so after she'd gone—very cloak and dagger, peering out for hidden
watchers—I roused Jacko from the Treble Tile taproom and got him to drive me in
his lorry to Dogpits. He demanded immediate payment. Some people. Serve him
right if I never redeem my sheaf of IOUs.

Everything seen from the kitchen door looked horribly raw, so I
stood there like a lemon, looking away, until a scullion fetched Suzanne. She
seemed relieved I'd finally shown up.

"In the nick of time, Lovejoy!" she exclaimed on a waft
of perfume. "We've billed your antique as a Great Mystery Prize."
Very wise. She couldn't understand my reluctance to pass through those kitchen
caverns of gore, but finally admitted me round the side. "You must write
out an explanatory card, giving its value."

"I'm sorry," I said, going all soulful. "But my
dinner's, er, basting in my microwave. I have to get back—"

Briskly she took charge. "That's easy, Lovejoy. Dine
here."

"Oh, all right then," I conceded. I'm always doing these
favors. "I hope your niece Mrs. Prentiss likes it," I said, another
flyer.

"The point is that I do, Lovejoy."

About an hour later, my insides sloshing with wine and something
called
rossini
something, I peeped through the
curtains into the crowded candlelit restaurant. Business seemed great. Waiters
sprinted. Music played. That lunatic major was wining and dining Candice, aka
Mrs. Prentiss, the pretty woman who'd egged him on to exterminate me. Her eyes
were brimful of excitement while he yakked and pigged himself in the trough.
Not much mourning for poor George there.

As I watched, Suzanne made the announcement to a drumroll, reading
from my card. She was in a side-split gold lame evening dress, lovely and
graceful. My exquisite porcelain was rotating on a stand. I was really proud.
It looked delectable, a princess among subjects. I honestly had a lump in my
throat. The orchestra punctuated her announcement tam-la-ta-
taraam
-
taaah
!

"And the lucky table," she was saying, "will win
this beautiful antique treasure, worth ..." She staggered a bit as she
read my numbers, but recovered and gamely finished, a whiter shade of pale.
Tata-
taaam
-
tah
! Applause!

Thoughtfully I let the curtain sink into place and let myself out
among the zillion parked cars. Suzanne York was clearly a businesswoman, to
think so fast on her feet. I admired her for that. Which reminded me I hadn't
agreed my price for the porcelain gem. Still, a lovely woman from a rich county
family wouldn't welsh, right? 
Right?

When I reached the end of the drive Jacko was gone. See what I
mean about selfishness? I started out on the Long Trek. A night walk's
restful—if the police don't pull you in after a hundred yards.

9

"No rest for the wicked, Lovejoy," Ledger said, putting
a small tablet into his police coffee and pulling a face to show me he hated
sweeteners (only the chemical kind, note). "You're not pulling your whack,
lad."

"Me?" I was annoyed. "I've done everything
everybody's told me."

"Wrong, Lovejoy." He tasted his coffee, sighed at the
world's slings and arrows. A familiar racking cough rose in the next room.
Tinker. They'd pulled him in as well. What for? Ledger smiled a wintry
non-smile at my recognition. "I had hoped you'd cooperate fully with the
county constabulary. Yet not one scrap of info."

"I'm no . . . 
grass
." I'd heard it often in
gangster series, and now I'd said it under real authentic circumstances. I felt
so proud.

"Lovejoy, you're not trying."

"I am, Ledger. Honest."

His voice raised angrily. "Did you tell me about going over
to Bury and killing that poor bugger Ben Cox today, you rotten murderer?"
He sipped,
grued
his face. "Phyllis. Who makes
this bloody coffee?"

"Eh?" I said. "Ledger. What about Cox?"

The policewoman pinked prettily. "Me, sir."

I thought, I'm going off my frigging nut. "Ledger," I
said, third go.

"I hope to God your promotion doesn't depend on it,
Phyllis," Ledger said heavily to her. "You see, Lovejoy," he
went on, pointing a stubby digit, "I asked you very politely: Simply give
us a bell if any
seam's
on. And what happens? You
bash poor Cox's head in without a word."

"No, Ledger," I croaked. "Just a minute."

"Can't we afford that Yankee stuff?" Ledger demanded
irritably of Phyllis. "Granules."

"Afraid not, sir. Too expensive."

"When, Ledger?" Me, interrupting these affairs of state.