The Old Contemptibles [antikvár]

Prologue It was a rainy day in Camden Passage, umbrellas tenting the smaller antiques dealers who had set up their folding tables in the square, opened their trunks and cases and arranged bits and bobs of what was real or what was fake. Jury and the beautiful second-floor tenant who lived in his terraced Islington house were searching for a gift for their mutual friend who occupied the basement flat. "How much for these ones?" asked Carole-anne, holding out a pair of turquoise combs stuck about with bits of blue glass and scalloped on the edges. The flogger in the fake lizard jacket had a smile to match. "Two quid to you, love." It was worth two quid, thought Jury, just for a deco at Carole-anne Palutski, standing there with her red-gold hair under a pink umbrella. "Fifty p's more like it," she said, holding out the coin. "Them's real sapphire stones," said the dealer, reknotting his purple polka-dot tie, shoving it up to his prominent Adam's apple. Then, with a leer, "Just like your eyes, gorgeous." "My eyes ain't glass," she said, still holding out her final offer. Jury drew back the hand that held the money and removed the bright combs from the other. He himself was inspecting a pair of jet combs that would look handsome in Mrs. Wasser-mann's hair, once it was returned to its original style. "Well, Super, but it's just to cheer Mrs. W. up a bit. Awfiil down in the mouth she is about her hair. Always fiddling pins into it," "Her down-in-the-mouthness, love, is because she's been 1