Spend Game by Jonathan Gash Read Free Book Online Page A

God built trees.
    I waved to a few other dealers, beaming like an ape. There’s nothing so unprofitable as gloom in our game. Margaret was there, inevitably at the porcelains. She was wearing a new green dress, simple and fetching. That’s why I like older women. They never make mistakes the way younger ones do. She beckoned me across. I pushed into the smoke, elbowing the noisy crowd and giving out big hellos everywhere.
    ‘Brought your chequebook, Lovejoy?’ Sven cracked.
    ‘Mine’s empty. I fetched yours instead, Sven.’
    A laugh all round. Margaret pointed with her eyes. One porcelain leapt into clear view and suddenly I could hardly breathe. Bustelli’s porcelains are always on too shallow a base which is uninterestingly level. His cavaliers and ladies, though, are superb. He modelled them mostly from the Italian stage, gestures and all. After he died in 1763 – he barely reached middle age – the Nymphenburg factory in Bavaria was never the same. The most valuable of his porcelains is the Coffee-Drinkers, a Turkish chap swigging with his bird, all rococo. And this was such a piece, genuine, by the master. I could feel the blood drain from my face.
    ‘No,’ I said, pretending away. It took all my strength. ‘Did you think it was Bustelli?’ I chuckled a shrill badly acted chuckle at her folly.
    ‘Well . . .’ Margaret hesitated, knowing me.
    The thirty or so stalls were set out around the rectangular dance hall, mostly draped trestle tables pushed as far back as they would go. It costs a few quidto rent one for the day. An antiques fair usually brings more dealers than collectors. Today we were here in force. This particular stall was a real miscellany of stuff; Victorian fob-watches, spoons, playing-cards, old embroidery samplers and pottery. And in the middle this luscious piece of Bustelli. You never see his Coffee-Drinkers without their background of delicate scroll-work, invariably beautifully done. It was Nodge’s stall, the ‘thin’ dealer I mentioned.
    ‘Thought you had me there, Nodge?’ I said affably, putting it down. I didn’t even shake. He looked at me.
    ‘It’s Bustelli,’ he said doggedly.
    ‘Not even Nymphenburg, lad.’
    ‘Get knotted, Lovejoy.’
    ‘Charming.’ I made to turn away, desperately thinking of something to say to keep the chat going, paused. ‘Oh. That other copy – parcel – gilt thing. You get rid of it?’
    ‘Which?’ He looked suddenly shifty.
    ‘You showed me it. Medham. The auction.’ I grinned, my antennae still fixed on the Bustelli porcelain.
    ‘Did I?’ He glanced uneasily about the room.
    ‘Not like you to forget, Nodge,’ I joked. In fact it’s not like any dealer to forget. I gave Margaret that look which meant we’d split the price and profit and she picked the Bustelli up casually.
    ‘Oh, er, yes. I sold it,’ Nodge said.
    ‘What’s the asking price?’ Margaret began the deal.
    ‘Take my tip, love,’ I told her, moving off. ‘Save your gelt. I could make you six copies by tea-time.’
    ‘But I like it,’ Margaret said, on cue.
    ‘Women,’ I gave back, shaking my head, andnodded a farewell to Nodge. ‘Good luck with your crockery, Nodge.’ He said nothing, just watched me go.
    I drifted about, wondering. During the next few minutes I occasionally glanced casually back at Nodge, to catch his eyes just averting by a millisec. He was definitely uneasy at seeing me. And reminding him of the Medham auction had made him worse. I was suddenly irritable. No antiques dealer ever forgets a deal, for heaven’s sake. Not ever. And here was Nodge trying to avoid any mention of that Medham auction. Why?’
    ‘Lovejoy.’ Helen appeared at my elbow. ‘Coins, now?’
    ‘Er, no.’
    ‘They’re going up. So they say.’ Her joke.
    ‘I wish they’d take me along with them.’ I’d been staring at a tray of coins belonging to Chris, a hopeful Saxmundham dealer.
    ‘I’ve hammered silvers, Lovejoy,’ he said.
    ‘You’re too dear,