CHAPTER
SEVEN: TRICKERY
Hunter
drove straight from Financeday to the Cosgraves’ house in Kensington, but
Arabella had already left, and her Filipina maid directed him into a small dark
basement room stacked high with prosperously filled wineracks. He tucked
Cradock's case into the darkest, dustiest corner, and covered it with an old
sack. Now he could breathe again. He drove off again, on his way to the Portobello Road to do his good deed for the
day.
Elaine's stall stood just inside the entrance to a vast cavern hacked from a former warehouse. The cavern was broken up by rows and rows of tables, each manned by a dealer or pair of dealers, spouses or friends, all protectively standing guard over small personal hoards, sometimes of treasure, but more often of junk. Some were sociable souls, and even jovial, chatting together in little knots and clusters, some were morose, locked in introspection or books, or their morning papers. Some were all eyes, swivel eyes scanning for potential customers. All were pricey, and many were extortionately expensive.
Elaine was already busy as Hunter arrived, working hard to persuade a couple of American women to buy a pink opalescent glass jug. Both women were fat and frumpish, sloppy in shapeless pale blue shell suits enveloping massive rumps and hams. But they plainly possessed sharp minds, and obviously wanted the jug for a good deal less than Elaine was asking, for one dithered, and kept repeating that she would like so much to buy it, but Britain had grown so expensive, what with the dollar so low, whilst the other kept gently urging her to move on.
Hunter smiled to himself. The two women were working a classic soft-buyer, hard-buyer play. He had seen it before, whilst helping Elaine on her stall, and she should have been holding her ground. But sadly her hangover seemed to have blown her judgement and they were moving her deftly lower and lower, though Hunter reckoned the jug a decent piece, worth a decent amount of cash. However he said nothing, but stood back, as though he were just another browsing customer, and watched with faint amusement, for it was not his party. The two women were taking Elaine very professionally to the cleaners, and it was not for him to interfere.
Finally, with much show of keenness on the part of one American, and much reluctance on the part of the other, Elaine and her two customers haggled their way to a mutually agreed sixty pounds. The keen American opened a capacious bag, fished out two fifty pound notes, and made much of not knowing what they were whilst Elaine wrapped the jug carefully. Then she changed her mind, diving her hand back into her bag, to pull it out clutching a fifty and a tenner.
Elaine took the two notes and tucked them into her purse, and it was clear that the two Americans both watched her very closely, and took a great deal of interest in British banknotes, for one spied a twenty pound note in the purse and wanted to compare it with a tenner and a fifty, and Hunter saw that Elaine had a fair bit of cash in all denominations, all ranged neatly together.
Then the two women began to chat, for they had now done their business, and it was a time to be sociable. They both cooed over the beauty and history of London, and the charm and courtesy of the British, and buttered Elaine up with a good deal of other flattery besides, making free with invitations to their homes somewhere in New England.
But all good things come to an end. The women showered Hunter with apologies for standing in his way, obviously still thinking him a browsing customer, and prepared to move on.
Hunter kept his eyes averted, and waited. He had a sixth sense that something unpleasant might be coming, because he had seen something rather like this before. But one must always think the best of visitors, until one discovers the worst, and he positioned himself for a commanding view.
The two Americans bid Elaine farewell in a shower of bonhomie, and then the crunch came. The dithering American tucked her neatly wrapped jug into her bag, and held out her hand.
Elaine looked at her in bewilderment.
‘I gave you two fifty pound notes, honey.’ The American's voice was sweetness itself, but it held an underlying hardness that was not really very sweet at all.
‘That's right, she gave you two fifties, you had to tell her what they were.’ The second American woman's voice chimed in. She spoke sharply, and she was making the sound of a vulture honing its beak at a kill.
Elaine was flustered. ‘You gave me a fifty and a ten.’ She pulled out her purse, and fumbled with it, and the two Americans were now fidgeting threateningly, for it was plain that she could not possibly tell - she had a tidy mind, and had ranged all her denominations by order of value, with a cluster of fives in front, several tens and twenties behind them, and two or three fifties at the back.
The two Americans closed in on her, making her step back.
Hunter felt it was time for him to be a knight in armour. He stepped up behind the women, blocking them in. ‘I think you’re both trying to be rather naughty.’ He smiled at them sweetly.
The Americans looked at him, and both were suddenly wary. ‘Excuse me?’ The vulture voice was hard.
‘Your friend paid over a fifty pound note and a tenner. I was watching.’
The American opened her mouth as though to reply, and then snapped it shut again. She turned to push past him, but he held his ground.
‘I think.’ He paused, and his voice held the softness of a velvet glove on an iron fist. ‘I think you should leave that jug behind, don't you? Think of it as compensation, or a smaller penalty than going to court.’
The Americans' eyes were four small flinty pebbles set into great flat pasty faces. The jug buyer opened her mouth as though to remonstrate, and closed it again. She hesitated, and then snatched out the carefully wrapped jug to drop it on Elaine's table, and was gone, pushing her way out onto the street to hurry away with her companion along a crowded pavement with a speed and agility that quite belied her bulk, until they were both lost in the distance.
Elaine stared at the small package, dumbfounded. Her fingers took it up carefully, probing delicately at its wrapping, as though she feared rescue might have merely brought destruction, and uncovered it slowly. But the pink opalescence was still perfect, and pristine, and she turned it over and over as though in a dream.
After a moment she looked up at Hunter. Her eyes were still shadowed by hangover pains, but now they sparkled faintly as well. ‘I suppose that's a third bottle?’
‘I've just made you sixty quid.’
She inspected her purse ruefully. ‘I don't suppose I'll be out of pocket.’ She tucked the purse away carefully. ‘Did I make a real fool of myself?’
‘Spectacularly.’ Hunter saw no reason to fluff. Hard lessons were invariably painful, and Elaine must be sharpened up to help her find a new home.
‘I suppose now you'll want your custard tarts?’
He grinned. ‘Have a look at an estate agent or two on the way.’
‘Bastard.’ A moment later she was gone.
Hunter spent the next hour lazily wheeling and dealing, but mainly being lazy. Plenty of people, but not many customers. Lots and lots of tourists. He managed to sell a silver-plated cake dish to an Italian couple for eight, and a pretty tea plate painted with rainbow-hued crested birds and marked underneath with a gold anchor, possibly early Chelsea, but very probably a reproduction, to a stout German for a tenner. Both both deals were small money. He also chatted a fair bit, hoping to promote sales, and smiled even more, but sadly the passing tourists were all careful, prudent people, and kept their purses tight shut.
Then a middle aged Japanese stopped to caress a set of five early nineteenth century fretted ribbon plates, and began discussing them excitedly with his wife. The plates carried peacocks and posies of flowers, with ochre pattern numbers underneath. Possibly early Minton. Elaine had certainly priced them that way, more in hope than knowledge, at a positively greedy £180.
The Japanese and his wife both stared at the price sticker, and shared another animated burst, and then shook their heads a little sorrowfully before smiling at Hunter toothily. They were plainly tempted, but jibbing at the price.
Hunter looked bored. He had no intention of signalling weakness by making a first move.
The Japanese husband fumbled in an airline bag for a calculator, tapped at it, and held it out to Hunter with the word 'discount' lit up on a miniature single-line screen.
Hunter looked judicious, and nodded slowly, took a scrap of paper and wrote '5%', watching the Japanese carefully. Selling can sometimes have more to do with sating desire than settling value, and oriental inscrutability might well prove a myth once desire encountered seduction.
The Japanese shook his head sharply, muttering to himself, and fished a small notebook from an inner pocket to scribble a figure. The figure was 120, and Hunter laughed politely at such foolishness, waving a charming denial. The Japanese scribbled again, and this time the number was 150, and he made signs indicating that it was a limit.
Hunter smiled again, because he was never a grasping man, crossed out his '5%', jotting '10%' in its place. It was a neat trap, because now the price was down to £162, and he knows exactly what would come next. And so it does, for the Japanese scribbled 160, and they smiled at each other. They had played a game, and both had come out winners: the Japanese had secured himself a nice little souvenir to impress his neighbours back home, and Hunter had taken a fat wad of cash, in a world where nothing was dearer to an antique dealer's heart.
He packed the plates carefully, counted money, and smiled cordially, and both the Japanese backed away bowing politely, and it was a supremely happy moment. Satisfaction made him smile at more tourists. But he could feel his stomach tightening, and the thought of a veal roll, followed by a custard tart, made his mouth water.
Elaine returned just as his hunger pangs were turning insistent, bearing a shopping bag fat with a large Lisboa cake box. She placed the bag carefully on the corner of her stall, and Hunter lifted the lid, saw a crisp veal roll and four neatly packed tarts beaming up at him, and pounced on the roll. Then he paused. Elaine had a man with her, a squat, thickset stranger with small piggy eyes, cropped silver hair and a beard. He was smartly turned out in a white silk jersey poloneck and navyblue slacks, but he also had something of the look of a villain.
‘This is Jim Nash. He owns this place.’ Elaine smiled uncertainly. ‘He said he wanted to meet you.’
Hunter looked at the man out of the corner of his eye, and wondered whether he had talked Elaine into holding a market in his flat.
She poured coffee into three plastic cups, and waited expectantly, as though Portuguese custard tarts would make them all the very best of friends.
Hunter stayed cool. Elaine's body language signalled that she had something on her mind, and Nash seemed to be waiting as well, but these were no reasons for cooing.
Her smile ebbed a little. She pushed the box of cakes towards him, in a movement plainly designed to build bridges, and smiled coaxingly. ‘Now have a custard tart.’
Hunter took one, and bit into sweet custard filling.
Nash smiled. It was a shark grin, baring predatory teeth. ‘You did a good job, son, with the two Yanks, she gave me a blow by blow.’ His voice had the scratch and roughness of cast concrete. ‘Got to be tough with those shysters.’ He took a custard tart and bit into it, teeth shutting fast, like a trap.
Hunter was silent.
Nash munched on his tart, and licked a couple of stray crumbs from the tips of his fingers. He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah, nice style.’ His eyes glittered. ‘Liked your stuff about Wonders in Financeday as well. Nice piece. Top man.’
Hunter nodded a polite acknowledgement.
‘Handy guy to know.’
Hunter felt a touch of impatience start to swell within him. Nash obviously wanted something from him, but was taking a long time to come to the point.
Sharp eyes flicked over him, and it was an inspection and an assessment. ‘Got friends would like to meet you.’ Nash waited for a moment, and then seemed to realise that rather more was expected of him. ‘Come to my club tonight, I’ll fix for them to be there.’
This was an invitation, but also a little off-hand. Hunter felt he deserved something a little better, and continued to keep his counsel.
Sharp eyes assessed him again, and Nash tugged a fat wallet from his hip pocket. He took out a card, to scribble on it, and hold it out.
‘Come and meet them, and you’ll find you’ve done yourself a good turn.’ He bared sharp teeth in what was obviously meant to be an inviting smile. ‘Show this to the guy at the door, and bring the girl, you'll have fun, and my friends will look after you.’
Hunter smiled slightly. ‘People promise to look after you, and it’s not always nice.’
‘No, no, squire.’ Nash looked alarmed. ‘We’re on the same side. They want to make you a proposition. There might be some good readies for you in it.’ He rested his hand on Hunter’s arm, and a moment later he was gone.
Elaine had tipped the Lisboa cake box on its side, leaving the last custard tart for Hunter, and was now busy mopping up stray cakecrumbs, dabbing at her fingertips from time to time with a small pink tongue.
Hunter chewed the last tart thoughtfully. ‘Tough guy.’ He paused for a moment to clear a final fragment of pastry from his teeth. ‘Were you doing business with him last night?’
She flinched. ‘I promised you he wouldn't come up again.’
‘What does he want?’
‘I don't know.’ Elaine's reply was quick, perhaps a little too quick. ‘He knew you worked for Financeday, and asked for an introduction.’
‘He talked about a deal...’ Hunter let his voice trail away.
‘He just told me what he told you - something about some friends of his wanting to meet you.’
It was a stonewall answer, but Hunter knew that now he must oust her.
Elaine began tidying her table, and he prepared to leave. Nash’s invitation seemed to have pretty much dispelled her hangover. Then her arranging turned into a kind of anxious ferretting, and another moment later she was moving things around with growing alarm. Some silver and a valuable set of ribbon plates had vanished, and she was certain she started the day with them on her stall. She looked up.
‘I've lost some of my good china - I could have sworn I had it earlier on.’ Her voice sharpened suspiciously. ‘You didn't leave the stall unguarded while I was away, did you? Go walkabout, or to the loo or something?’
Hunter stared at her. Ingratitude is always nasty and cheap and mean, and her words signed her own dismissal. He put his hand in his pocket, and tugged out the banknotes he had taken, dropping them in front of her. ‘I want you out by tonight.’
‘You sold them?’ Elaine paled a little. ‘Oh, my God, I’m sorry.’ She took the money, silently dividing it two equal heaps, and held one out to him.
Hunter shook his head. This time she had dug herself a grave. He turned away contemptuously - she would need the money for rent.
But whilst Elaine was feeling guilty, Nash was in a mews at the back of his warehouse, talking on a mobile phone.
‘I just got a line out to the man, just now, asked him to come down tonight.’
He listened to the phone, nodding several times. ‘Yeah, sharp, but fancies himself.’
He listened again, and shook his head. ‘Nah, not as sharp as all that. He's shacked up with one of my stallholders, and she ain't no mastermind.’
He listened, and chuckled. ‘We'll set him up, and pad his pockets - we'll have him eating out of our hands.’
The phone talked to him again, and he chewed his lip for a moment, before shaking his head a second time. ‘Nah, no problem at all. He's a journalist, ain't he? They're all on the make.’ His voice was knowing in its assurance. ‘We'll stuff him, and use him, and we won't have any problems at all.’