Conman by Richard Asplin Read Free Book Online Page B

got it as a free gift with his new shoes. I didn’t know.
    The three of us stood there for an awkward moment.
    “I goh go,” Cheng said finally, slipping off his spectacles and heading back out of the shop. “I come bah on Sundah wih the fye hundreh. You be heeh, yeh … ?”
    “ Wait .”
    Cheng left, leaving the shop in an eerie silence.
    “Ahh, but if you love him, set him free, Mr Martin,” the man said, unbuttoning his coat and revealing a leather belt struggling with a pot belly. He whipped his scarf over his head. “Gahh, this wool gets in my throatlet. Would a glass of water be treading on the toes of your hospitality slippers?” The man placed his scarf on the desk and swept off his hat. A dark, oily fringe fell back over his face, which he tidied away expertly. He was younger than I’d first thought. Mid forties? His eyes, droopy and kind, had a wet twinkle to them. He was ruddy cheeked and chubby but something about him sparkled lightly like a panto finale.
    With a hmnn on my lips and a what-the-hell ? on my mind, I went and splashed water into the least grimy mug I could find.
    “Ahhh, god bless you and your kin,” he smiled and took a tiny sip, smacking his lips. “London tap. Sewage and mud. Still, nothing quite like it for infecting the blood. Now then, to beeswax,” and he produced a pipe from inside his coat, a pouch of tobacco from his corduroy trousers and fixed me with those twinkly eyes of his. “Mr Martin. How are you fixed for tomorrow?” He was fillinghis pipe expertly with small delicate movements, a smile lurking somewhere beneath his expression.
    “I’ll be wading about in the basement all day I expect.”
    “Mnyess,” the man said, wrinkling his nose a little. “I noticed that yesterday. A mite pongy .”
    “Is this about yesterday? The photographs you sold me? Because –”
    “Fiffle. Fret ye not, young man,” he smiled, a warm, crooked smile, showing half a mouth of neat teeth. He had the disconcerting way about him of an unsigned Valentine’s card. “Would thou be willing to usher the baying hordes from your emporium for a hundred and twenty minutes? Say betwixt one and three? What do you say?”
    Popping his unlit pipe into his mouth, he undid his overcoat and reached inside. I caught a glimpse of tweed, club tie and fine check as he produced a packet of Dunhill cigarettes, a silver Zippo, a box of matches and finally with a small “a-ha”, the object of his search – a black Moleskin notebook. He slid a silver pencil from its elastic binding and held it poised over the page.
    “I would very much like to stand you lunch,” his pipe bobbed. “Shall we say Claridge’s? They do the most scrumptiful chocolate cheesecake. Say you’ll pull on your Friday shoes and join me?”
    “Uhmm, can I ask, y’know … can I ask why?”
    “A proposition, Mr Martin. Or dare I presume to be at the Neil stage?”
    I gave a stilted nod.
    “Splendiful. If it fails to interest, then we depart with tummies full of cheesecake and the warm glow of port and camaraderie. What do you say? Hmm? What do you say?”
    “Business? You’re what, a dealer?”
    “Everybody is a dealer in something, Neil. Anyhap, I’m pencilling in one o’clock?” This done, he lit his pipe with matches and a soft sucking sound, sweet smoke beginning to plume into the shop and then extended a powder-dry hand. I shook it because it would have been odd not to.
    “Until tomorrow then. Affretando ,” and with a bob of his pipe and a twinkle of the eye, he gathered his things, turned briskly and walked towards the door. As he did so, it gave a jangle andLaura wandered in, cigarette in her lips, a cardboard tray of coffees in her hand and a bulge of a greasy paper bag in her apron pocket. “So sorry about your toe,” the man said as he passed her. “Not too throbblesome I hope?”
    Laura’s mouth fell open, cigarette wobbling on her lip like the bus at the end of The Italian Job. The man reached the open