The Gondola Scam Read Online Free Page B

alarmed.
    'Nar. Gave him your IOU."
    I sighed in relief. Great. One more debtor. Tinker absently took a
chunk of bread in his filthy mittens and dipped in. Like I said, the easiest
touch in East Anglia. Still, no good postponing the bad news.
    "Crampie and Mr. Malleson got done. Tinker."
    "Yeah. Rotten, eh?" I wasn't surprised that he knew.
"That's what I come about, Lovejoy. Patrick see'd last night's
rumble."
    I knew better than doubt his mental radar. "Patrick? Actually
witnessed it? Anybody else?"
    "No. But some of the wallies was askin' at the hospital, like
you."
    "Who?"
    "Patrick. Helen. Margaret Dainty. Linda who was in the ring.
That Manchester bloke who comes after antique lacework and Queen Anne clothes.
Big Frank from Suffolk."
    He knew this was disturbing. Even if my old Ruby can hardly raise
a gallop, I had happened along pretty smartish, and yet Crampie and Mr.
Malleson had died.
    "Margaret's out," 1 said.
    She's the only one of us who's respectable. Tell you about her if
I get a minute. Helen's beautiful but hardly a gang leader. Linda was my old
flame from the ring. The Manchester bloke was a regular and had his own turf.
Big Frank was only interested in marriage, divorce, and antique silver—in
reverse order. No suspects among that lot, but a witness is a witness. Jacko's
wagon would be starting for town in half an hour.
    "Tell Jacko to wait. Tinker. I'll catch you up."
    'The Three Cups opens in an hour, Lovejoy." He ambled off—his
idea of speed—cackling with enthusiasm.
     
    We trundled into town just as the pubs opened, with me still
thinking. Something's not quite right, my imbecilic mind guessed. If they gave
a Nobel Prize for indecision, I'd win it hands down.
    I gave Jacko another scribbled IOU and told him the fare was
scandalous.
    "That why you never pay me, Lovejoy?" he bawled after,
but I pretended not to hear. I'm sick of scroungers.
    We stopped at the comer of Lion Walk, the Three Cups obviously
pulling at Tinker's heartstrings. "Okay," I surrendered, giving him
his note. "Where's Patrick?"
    He thought hard. No mean feat this, when sober. His rheumy old
eyes creaked open after a minute. "Patrick's with Elsie. They're in the
Arcade."
    My heart sank. "Don't you mean Patrick and Lily? I
thought—"
    "Nar, Lovejoy. He gave Lily the push last night over him
seeing that sailor."
    "Ah," I said as if I understood.
    He shot into the boozer with my last groat. I plodded down the
town's expensive new shopping precinct—think of redbrick cubes filled with
litter—into the Arcade. This is a glass-covered alley. To either side is a
series of tiny antique shops, only alcoves really, with antique dealers moaning
how grim life is and how broke they are. Tinker was right. Someone emitted a
screech.
    "Ooooh."
    I followed the shrill groans—the only known groans higher than top
G. Today Patrick was in magenta, with purple wedge heels and an ultramarine
sequined cap. As if that wasn't enough, he was being restored by Elsie, who was
frantically patting some pungent toilet water across his cheeks. Margaret
Dainty was looking harassed because Patrick had carefully selected her little
shop to swoon in, slumping elegantly across a 1765 Chippendale Gothic chair in
mahogany. I didn't even know she had one of these rarities.
    Awed shoppers were milling about. Understandable, really, because
Patrick standing still's a ghastly enough spectacle. Doing Hamlet's death scene
he's beyond belief.
    I decided not to ask Elsie about Lily. I’m no fool.
    "Ooooh!' Patrick moaned, false eyelashes fluttering.
    I crouched down, avoiding Elsie's cascade of eau de cologne.
"One thing worries me, Pat. Why is it you always get bad news before
anybody else?"
    His stare gimleted me in sudden recovery. "Patrick!" he
screamed, giving me a mouthful of invective. "Pat's so . . »
uncouth." He instantly reverted to a swoon. "Oooohh!"
    Elsie wailed, "Please don't upset him, Lovejoy!"
    "Mr. Malleson and Crampie," I prompted the reclining