That afternoon I wheeled Lady Veronica about the ship. I felt a right prat, but kept up the farce, her a cripple and me her serf. She played deck quoits, squealing when she got one of those little rope rings near the dot. She gambled on one-arm bandits in the casino and lost money hand over fist. She played blackjack, at which I learned you hadn’t to touch your cards. I hadn’t known that. For a whole hour she put tokens into slot machines, losing the lot and exclaiming, “Oh, all I needed was a seven for the jackpot!”, the cry of the eternal gambler. She played roulette, sternly telling me, “Gambling’s a mug’s game, Lovejoy.” From a phoney geriatric going to take on Russia?
Her grim nurse Inga was absent, thank God. When Lady Vee wanted to go to the loo I got a passing lady to take her. Then it was back to bingo, six cards every game and marking off the numbers like lightning. She called out audience responses (“Twenty-two, two little ducks!” to which the entire mob shouted, “Quack! Quack!”and so on) while I tried to keep awake. How did they know what to yell?
She didn’t win there, either. Lord Montgomery, victor of El Alamein, used to play bingo on the Queen Elizabeth and was always shouting for the bingo caller to slow down. Lady Vee could have taught him about speed.
As I rolled her to the Conservatory for tea she said, “The ship takes a percentage. I’ve never won yet. Get me tea and three cakes, not those jam things. No egg-and-cress sandwiches, either. Egg binds you.”
And the ship sailed gaily on.
Passengers discussed how far the ship had gone – you gambled on the distance and won yet another jackpot. Somebody said the Melissa had sailed 400 miles since leaving Amsterdam. The thought made me feel lonelier, Amsterdam a hell of a way off. We sat in the open air by the stern bar, where karaoke music played and eager Aussies – always the best – bawled into a microphone.
“Are you lot serious about St Petersburg?” I asked outright. Nobody could overhear in the din.
That extraordinary youthful look returned to her eyes, the coming thrill bringing it on.
“Nothing’s certain, Lovejoy, except death, taxes, and the Hermitage.”
“How?”
“Why, you’ll do it for us, Lovejoy. It’s why we chose you!”
I could have clocked the daft old bat, except she laughed, her complexion younger still. I marvelled. Women’s faces are a miracle. No wonder they spend so much time staring at themselves in mirrors. I always fall head over heels when I paint a woman’s portrait, can’t help it.
“No, love. You’ve got that wrong.” Time I told her the facts of robbery. “There’s only four questions in any burglary – who, when, how, what. Four. You had me abducted from Benjo’s, so I know I’m the who. And the Melissa Today says we’ll spend two days in St Petersburg, so the whole world knows when. That leaves two questions: how and what.”
“What a mistrustful person you are!” She whaled into her tea. I managed to grab a small sandwich, a tooth-filler, before she engulfed the lot. “I tell you it’s all arranged! Think of the jolly celebrations we shall have homeward bound!”
She leant and whispered, “It will be the easiest thing imaginable. Russia is porous. You can bribe anyone to do anything! With your skill, the climbing will be simple!”
Okay, so she wouldn’t say how. I pressed on.
“That leaves what. The loot.” I felt unreal, like talking about some child’s midnight feast in the dorm, such a spiffing jape, Hazel. “What do we steal?”
“You and your silly details!”
And she sent me for some more grub. There’s supposed to be this newly discovered set of slimmer’s hormones, isn’t there, that stops you eating. Drug firms intend to synthesise them, so we can all be skeletal. She can’t have produced any. I’d never seen an old bird scoff so much, yet she stayed miniature. She noshed like a stoker frantically raising steam.
We went to the art auction in the Harlequin, a lounge with the inevitable bar and stewardesses trolling for drinks orders. And in there I finally started thinking. One sudden question arose: how come she knew I could climb when doing a robbery? I remembered the crone looking out into the night carrying a Norfolk lantern, me clinging to the wall of a certain mansion house.
In the lounge thirty works of art lay about, two svelte girls wafting among us saying how marvellous the items were. The stuff was dross. Even the frames were gunge. The main lass, a Russian maiden called Irina, assured us she’d worked for impressive European auctioneers. She pointed out a Rembrandt etching, a Picasso engraving, Impressionist works, and prints by everybody. She used the term serigraph every second. Even as a con it was ridiculous. I didn’t guffaw, just manoeuvred Lady Vee into position so she could see.
Somebody waved, Victor Lustig, placing himself across from us. Soon after, Ivy entered but didn’t even glance Victor Lustig’s way, simply sat consulting her catalogue.
Irina (“Everybody say hello to Irina!”) began the auction, describing each offering in saccharine detail. Lauren worked as her assistant, mounting the paintings on stands then replacing them when nobody bid. Irina was embarrassing. She actually muttered in some foreign tongue when the third item died unsold. Victor Lustig at that moment hid a smile. So he knew Russian.
I leant back, relieved I’d found at least one piece of the jigsaw. I’d been floundering, running scared until now, because some pieces were starting to fit. I watched Victor Lustig.
* * *
Every crook or copper who scribes his autobiography “reveals secrets” of how they functioned. It’s an old game. They pretend they’re saying something original. Very few are worth listening to. I always think that unless a crook – forger, thief, conman, trickster, footpad, counterfeiter – has actually pulled off some famous scam, he’s whistling in the wind.
Once upon a time a long time ago, there was a fraudster so famous he was admired the world over. He formulated the infamous and widely published Ten Commandments for Conmen. He was a real bloke, in his day famous as any king.
Victor Lustig sold the Eiffel Tower for scrap. Unbelievably, he duped the gangster Al Capone. He awarded himself the title of Count Victor von Lustig, and swanned about the US in a Rolls driven by a Japanese chauffeur. Arrested forty-eight times, he became a great escaper, using everything from the traditional knotted sheets and drainpipes to threats, bribery and abject confession to get away. Fellow hoods said he was the greatest-ever passer of counterfeit money. A super linguist, our Victor spoke every European language including Russian. He started out by duping rich passengers on cruise liners (a clue here!) and specialised in works of art. He was an expert gambler, cards his speciality. The original Victor Lustig is sadly no more, yet is still famed in legend for his monocled persona and myriad monikers. I couldn’t help thinking that the suave Yank smiling across the auction floor might be proof that heredity actually worked. Grandson, perhaps?
Maybe my expression revealed my thoughts, because he raised his eyebrows in derision when Irina made Lauren walk round showing the small Rembrandt etching. Victor didn’t quite sneer, but came close. Like grandpa, like grandson? I reflected on the man opposite.
These are Lustig’s Ten Commandments for Conmen (he really did call them that). I think they’re a lot better and more explicit than Oscar Wilde’s five rules for confidence tricksters, though Oscar’s aren’t bad. Whichever you prefer, statistics prove that over ninety per cent of us – you and me included – will sooner or later be duped, so they’re worth a minute. Here’s how we’ll lose our shirt:
Listen with patience; no fast talking. Don’t look bored.
Agree with the victim’s politics and religious convictions.
Hint at sex, but be ready to drop it quick.
Never mention illness.
Never ferret personal details – the victim will offer plenty.
Never boast – just exude importance.
Be tidy; be sober.
Count them up, and they make ten. They are the same now as when Count Victor formulated them. He knew what he was talking about. Incidentally, the only significant one Oscar Wilde added was this: smile! Even as I watched, I saw Ivy nod to a stewardess to bring her coffee, and I saw her gaze casually take in the audience and touch on Victor. She did that clever non-smiling smile I’m always on about. He smiled and looked away. Same as me, while Irina tried to talk us all into bidding for a “genuine serigraph” of some crud.
“What are you smiling at?” Lady Vee asked tetchily.
“Nothing,” I told her, narked with myself. See? We can’t do it.
“Yes, Lauren, I think it’s lovely,” she told the girl.
“I’ve seen better oil slicks, love,” I said. Lady Vee tittered and gave Lauren an apology. The lass stalked away in fury.
Delia Oakley came in late with her friend Fern. They sat on lounge seats and sipped tea, making catalogue notes. Unbelievably, they actually bought a watercolour, of four horses approaching along a rainy boulevard, the sort you get by the truck load in Continental flea-markets for half a groat. Delia gave a pleased smile at her success, raising her eyebrows like they do. I wouldn’t be visiting her new antiques business when she finally got it going, that’s for sure. I dozed. Roll on Oslo.
And found myself thinking of strange Middle East tales. In the West we call them suffees, from the word sufi, a wise man. He’s always called Nasruddin, in stories invented to teach students to think. One tale went round in my mind. Every month, Nasruddin crossed a particularly difficult border. Officials stopped him to examine the panniers on his donkeys, and found only three straws in each box. On Nasruddin’s return, the boxes were empty. Next month same thing – three straws per box going in, empty coming back – yet each passing month Nasruddin grew richer. In time he became a wealthy man. The officials took the boxes apart, found nothing. They tested the donkeys’ hooves for gold, found zilch. Years passed. Eventually the officials heard Nasruddin, now aged 100, was dying, and went to ask what on earth he had been smuggling.
Nasruddin, expiring with a smile, whispered, “Donkeys.”
I dreamt of climbing into the Hermitage Museum, after landing from a ship that carried only a load of donkeys. By the time the stupid auction ended, I’d planned my escape by jumping ship in Oslo.
The best ideas come in daydreams.
That evening at dinner, Lauren brought round a Russian ikon. I noshed on, ignoring her prattle (“A genuine Muscovite ikon, completely authentic, fifteenth century…”) She kept pausing, challenging me. I said nothing. It felt dud. No bongs in my chest, so it was fake.
“Well, Lovejoy?” Holly prompted, her gambler’s eyes a-glow. “Aren’t you going to tell us the value?”
I looked up. Quite a drama. The next tables had also fallen quiet, Fern and Delia Oakley trying to look casual with those directional ears women have perfected over aeons. Even the stewards slowed near us.
“No.” A daubed plank has no value.
“He says no,” I heard Ivy say. I was having a hard time with something called pan-fried orange roughy on mushy peas under sauce Robert. I’d not known it was a fish until they brought it.
Lauren exclaimed and flounced off. The table discussed the possible value, while Henry Semper glowered and limped, trying to exude confidence. A few people stopped as they left early for the first floor show, one bluntly asking me outright if the ikon was genuine.
“Never looked at it, wack,” I said, which was true.
As I left, though, I thought what the hell, and pencilled in another zero for Lauren’s stack of cards, and left.
Delia and Fern were in the corridor where Irina and Lauren had arranged easels and stands displaying their so-called antiques. I love a good laugh. They saw me coming.
“You hate ikons, then?” Delia said.
I wouldn’t have bothered to give the wretched fake a look, except I’d taken to Delia. A woman is worth almost everything, even if she’s only using you to learn, so I paused. Secretly, I didn’t want her to start up yet another antiques shop. The reason our creaking old kingdom is creaking is that it’s littered with dud antiques shops, most of them not worth crossing the road to visit.
“He didn’t even look,” Fern said, scathing. “He’s just taken against Henry Semper the world expert. At least Henry knows what he’s talking about.”
That narked me. She was the antiques dealer, and obviously thought highly of the ikon. I was jumping ship Oslo next morning, leaving them all to it, so what the hell. I could see I’d need to find some reason to prove the ikon’s phoniness.
“Please don’t be annoyed, Lovejoy,” Delia apologised. “Fern specialises in – ”
“What did you say it was worth, Fern?” I asked.
“Eleven thousand.” She was defiant. “That’s the rule for a genuine ikon. Three thousand for each century before 1900. Henry said I was close.”
For the first time I looked at the ikon, pathetic on its stand. It showed the Saviour, gaunt with those stencilled eyes. I saw red and went for it.
“They used cypress wood, a good point. Lime’s as good, but cypress darkens with age. Reddish streaks, close grain, resists insects.”
“See? It’s lovely!” Fern said in triumph. Delia looked wary.
“The sheen’s good. Sniff the painting – no scent of oil, so it’s older than three years. The halo’s real gold. The blue is genuine lapis lazuli.” I had to smile and went on as Fern preened, assuming success.
“This was made by a skilled faker. He probably ground his lapis and green malachite on granite with pig iron. Quite correct. Old Russian artists believed the stones they powdered, to mix the paints, were touched by sanctity. They thought the colours remembered the stones from which they came, and could resume the form of the original stones. God did it, so Russians who became blind in old age could touch the surface and still understand the sacred image.”
“What a lovely thought!” Delia cried.
I went on, “The faker correctly used linen stretched on the wood with fish glue, covered in gesso in egg yolk. Then red clay and beeswax mixed with white of egg. It’s a lovely forgery.”
A small crowd had gathered. I went red.
“If everything about it is right, why is it wrong?” Fern almost shouted. She was itching to take a swing at me.
“The idiot’s put gold tears on the ikon’s face. The old genuine ikon painters wouldn’t make that mistake, because all light must emanate from the image itself in dark Russian winters.” I thought a second. “Go to Walsingham. There’s a side chapel in total permanent shadow. The gold alone shows brilliance.”
“You’ve just got it in for Henry Semper!” Fern raged.
“Think what you like, love.”
Time to leave them to their discontent. I pushed away. I wish folk weren’t so against. It’s like they wake up and look about for things to hate. Imagine how an antique must feel, living with a sourpuss like that silly cow.
Is it any wonder that sometimes someone somewhere dreams of living with antiques, the only materials that can give ecstasy? I felt sorry for Delia Oakley. She seemed kind. I wish I had time to dissuade her. Opening an antiques shop is the road to rusty ruin.
A woman I knew once was bonny, married, and a classical linguist, whatever that is. She was bossy as hell, always finished her husband’s sentences so he quickly learned to shut up. She had his answers ready whenever anybody spoke. Megan knew it all, decided their home, decorations, and ballocked poor Wilf without mercy. She drove him mad about the garden – plant this, don’t touch that you fool, an endless tirade of denigration. Megan would ask him for an idea, then pour scorn on it, ridiculing him before anybody. It was embarrassing, and I stopped going. He bought a few handies off me – our name for small antiques you can conceal in a palm. Some folk collect nothing else, and some dealers specialise in them. Wilf paid me the odd groat for antique lessons. I’d take him round auctioneers’ viewing days, boot fairs of a Sunday, street markets if I was going on to Bermondsey. He’d pay travel and nosh. Pretty dull bloke, really, and couldn’t tell a chalice from a chip pan.
One day he won a small football pools thing. Not much. He came in while I was repairing an Art Deco dressing table. It was marked Liberty & Co and was genuine, but who cared? I wouldn’t give Art Deco house room, even if I could afford it, because it’s no excuse saying furniture serves a useful purpose if it’s crud. And it’s more or less modern, named after the 1925 Paris Exposition Internationale des Arts Decoratifs et Industriels Modernes, which set the fashion. I thought he’d come for another brief lesson, and immediately started up, “Wotcher, Wilf. See this rectangular pattern? Spot that, even on a Liberty piece as bright as this, and you can buy yourself a good used car – ”
“No, Lovejoy,” he said. His eyes were glowing. “Megan gave me an ultimatum this morning. Told me outright. I’ve to make something of myself, get membership of the golf club, extend the house, bring in more money with a better job, or she’s going for a divorce.”
“Don’t tell me, Wilf,” I said sadly. “You’ve decided to leave her to it?”
“Yes!”
“And you’re going to become an antiques dealer.” Sadder still.
“Yes! I can’t think why I’ve taken so long to decide!”
“Wilf,” I said with sorrow. “Take up duelling. Be a mercenary. Go after the Great White Shark in your nip. But don’t ever do anything really risky, like becoming an antiques dealer.”
The world’s streets are littered with derelicts and mumpers living rough. They’re all ex-hopefuls who thought that owning “a nice little antiques business” would be bliss. Like dreamers who think the same about “a lovely little country pub”, they’re doomed to fail. I told Wilf. He didn’t hear a single word, just sailed out with the light of eagles in his eyes.
Now he lives rough in Lincoln’s Inn, London, in a cardboard box. The Salvosh feed him most days, the church at St James’s Thursdays and Saturdays. The usual cycle of beginners in the antiques trade. Others get abducted to Russia to rob the frigging Hermitage and never know why.
* * *
Ivy caught me as I went past the theatre and handed me a heavy book in a brown paper bag.
“I thought you would like to look at this, Lovejoy.”
“Eh? Oh, ta.”
“It’s the Hermitage catalogue. Lovely pictures. Seeing you’re so good at antiques.”
“Very kind, Ivy.”
She took a long time speaking her next words. “I’m so glad you’re here, Lovejoy. And on the same table.”
“Oh, right.”
“No need to tell Billy I’ve lent it to you. He gets so …”
I gulped. “Right, love.” Jealous? Of a frigging book? More maniacs. I went quickly on my way.