The Numismatist

I was finished with this town. Things had gone well and I had made a nice bit of cash, but it was time to move on.

As I glanced around the café, I spotted him, and weighed him up, feeling confident; I headed over to his table.

“Heirlooms?”

“What?”

“Investments,” I insisted as I sat down next to him and slipped the catalogue across the scratched Formica.

His fingers automatically clutched at the paper and I flicked it open, gesturing at the page to draw his eyes to it.

“Coins, Sir. Finest quality collector’s items. Not just beautiful items, but an excellent investment, even an heirloom to leave to the family. A fine start to an excellent coin collection for a favourite grandchild perhaps.”

Normally I wouldn’t do this in public, but I was ready to leave town and he looked like an easy mark. I’d soon be able to tell if he would go for it or not, so I pressed on with my spiel.

“Numismatology?”

“What?”

“Coin collecting. Stamps are all very well, but only coins have an intrinsic, as well as an investment, value. Take a look at these,” I said as I directed his eyes to some particularly shiny examples.

The catalogue certainly looked impressive; I’d paid a lot of money to make sure of that. The coins didn’t really exist. Well they did, in that they were real coins, but to receive coins that would never be sent, in return for a hefty deposit, I left them a glossy catalogue and some ‘free gifts’ – some cheap, foreign coins. The real coins would be sent along later for approval. If they decided to keep them, they’d send on the balance. Except there were no real coins, I took the deposit and ran.

This had been a good town. There were always a lot of elderly people in these seaside towns and they always had cashed stuffed away somewhere. I’d done some good trade here and this guy was going to be a little extra on my way out. If truth be told, he was beginning to annoy me. He was getting jammy fingerprints all over my catalogue and he had this odd manner of sucking his teeth and gums whilst I was talking to him. I was going to take him for as much as I could.

“These silver dollars here,” I gestured, “Have almost doubled in value in the last year alone. And these Krugerands have tripled over five years. So you can see the excellent investment opportunities we have here.”

He gummed and sucked his way through my catalogue and his scone, his sticky fingers trailing jam across everything in his sigh. God, he was irritating.

“I have to say, young man, that uh that these coins do look lovely. But I do need to be getting home now.”

Oh no, no no. I couldn’t have that. This annoying idiot was going to give me some money for putting up with his jammy fingers and tooth sucking. He started fumbling through his pockets as he stood up. I stood up with him as his scrabbling, sticky fingers ran in and out of his clothing.

“Oh. Young man, can you have a look under the table? Is there a coin purse down there?”

I looked down as he ran through all his pockets yet again. Here was an opportunity, I stood up.

“I can’t see anything down there, sir. Are you sure you haven’t perhaps left it at home?”

“Oh, uh, well I must have done. I must have, uh, done something like that. Oh dear.”

“Well, I tell you what. Why don’t I pay for your tea now and we can go back to your house to see if you’ve left it there?”

“Uh, well, that’s jolly kind of you, young man. I’d very much appreciate that.”

Bingo. I had him. By the time we got back to his place, not only would I get my couple of quid back, but I’d almost certainly get a large deposit for some non-existent coins too. He’d be begging me to take his cash.

I paid the bill and we headed up the road. As we walked, I asked about his family. He had a son in Australia and a grandson he didn’t see enough of. Perfect; no-one to interfere in our ‘sale’ this afternoon and a kiddywink in need of an investment for the future.

As we walked into the cul-de-sac, the doddering old fool looked around as though he couldn’t remember where he lived. Christ, he was a mess. He’d forget his own name next. Which was a point, I hadn’t actually asked him his name.

“Pardon me, Sir. But what did you say your name was?”

“What?”

“Your name, Sir. What is it?”

“Eh?”

“What’s your name?”

“Oh, uh. My name? Well it’s, uh, Johnston.” He said, tapping at a nameplate on a gatepost as he turned up a garden path. When we got to the front door, he started searching through his pockets again. Good grief. He patted and rifled through his clothing for a couple of minutes before looking up sheepishly.

“I, uh, I seem to have forgotten my keys too. I must have left them inside my coin purse. What am I going to do?”

Oh for goodness sake. We looked around the front of the house for an open window, but to no avail. I looked around the back briefly and headed back to him.

“Mr Johnston, I’m afraid that I can’t see an open window, but I think I could break a glass panel in your back door, and get that open. It’d be a lot cheaper than fetching a locksmith.

I was getting a little desperate. I was tired of this old fool and his doddery antics but I was going to get my hands on his cash before leaving town. That’d teach him.

“Oh dear. Oh dear. I, uh, well I suppose that might be best. That is, if you don’t mind.”

I almost ran round to the back of the house. After picking up a large stone and smashing out a glass pane, I reached through and popped the door latch. Within a minute I was at the front door, letting Mr Johnston in.

“Oh goodness me. Thank you. Thank you so much. I’d forget my uh, my head if, uh, well…”

“Never mind, Mr Johnston, let’s get you inside and settled down.”

He walked into the house and headed for the kitchen. I pulled out another copy of the catalogue and an application form as he scrabbled about on a shelf, looking through containers. By the time he turned round, I’d already filled his name and address on the form. As he sat down, I handed him the pen and pushed the catalogue closer to him.

“Was it these coins you were interested in, Mr Johnston?”

“Oh, they are nice. But first let me just get you your money back for the tea.”

He reached into a biscuit tin he’d sat down with and started pulling out wads of cash. Jackpot! He might be a stumbling, forgetful old sod, but he was loaded. I couldn’t count how much he pulled out of that tin, but there was easily two, three thousand, more even.

“Mr Johnston, I’m quite sure we can forget about the cost of tea in light of you making an order.”

I almost had to fight to keep the tremor out of my voice. I leaned ni closer to him and pointed to the form.

“If you can just tick the coins you’re interested in on the form, I’ll take a small deposit from you today and we’lll get the coins sent out to you. If you decide to keep them, we’ll simply invoice you for the balance.”

I directed his hand with the pen over to the form. I had practically dragged the pen over the page for him. With my other hand, I flicked through the catalogue.

“You liked the krugerrands, didn’t you?” And these Chinese Yuan are very interesting. There’s a lot of interest in Chinese Ren Min Bi these days, so these Yuan are sure to appreciate.”

As I talked, I flicked pages and tapped at the wrist of his hands that was holding the pen. These were practised moves that I’d done a hundred times before. I had to make a conscious effort not to be too eager, to slow down a bit, whilst keeping his attention off balance long enough to get as many ticks on the form as possible.

“I think,” Said Mr Johnston finally, “That we had better finish up. I have my nephew coming over this evening and I’d better get ready for his visit.”

Damn. I sure as hell didn’t want to bump into some relative. They’d be sure to take an interest in what he was signing and I didn’t want that. Why hadn’t he mentioned this nephew earlier when I was asking about his family? Damn, damn, damn.

I practically snatched the form back from him and ran through the ticks we’d made, totting up what would form the ahem, deposit.

“Well Mr Johnston, that requires a deposit of £550. I think we can call that £500 for cash.”

I bent down to my bag, slipping the order form from sight and whisking his ‘free gift’ onto the table.

“And as you’re such a nice gentleman, I’d like you to have these handsome coins from around the world as a token of our appreciation.”

I pushed the coins across the plastic table top and gestured towards the biscuit tin. Johnston fumbled out more notes, counting off five hundred and stuffing the rest into his pockets. I didn’t want to seem too eager to get out of there, but I really did have to be off before some nosey relative showed up and started asking questions.

I made with the pleasantries and started towards the front door, assuring dear old Mr Johnston that I would show myself out. In short order, I was out the door and down the garden path when…

“Excuse me, sir, but can I ask what you’re doing?” Asked a uniformed voice.

“Uh, um.” It was my turn to stammer. “I was just visiting the gentleman who lies here: Mr Johnston.”

“But,” Went on the voice of the police constable, “This is Mr Johnston here” He said, indicating to an elderly gentleman beside him.

“I’ve never seen you before” Said the new Johnston.

“We had reports of a break in. Neighbours … reported seeing a man of your description break the back door glass and let himself in.”

“Well, uh, yes I did, officer. The thing is, Mr Johnston… not that Mr Johnston, but a different Mr Johnston, was locked out and, uh, I helped him out by breaking the back door. He asked me to.

I was getting frantic and a begging, pleading tone was coming into my voice. Who was this other Johnston? What was going on here?

“I think we’d all better step inside to sort this out. After you, Mr Johnston.”

The other Johnston pushed past me as a heavy police hand clamped itself onto my shoulder. Johnston inserted a key into the front door. We all trooped in and Johnston disappeared into the kitchen.

“What’s in the bag sir?” Asked the policeman as he pulled it open and ran his eye over a few thousand pounds in cash – the proceeds of all my coin cons in this town.

“Wait, I can explain. That’s my money and Johnston’s money… well some of it. You see…”

“It’s gone!” Exclaimed the new Johnston. “It’s all gone. My Money has gone.”

We all moved through into the kitchen, where all I could see was the broken glass of the back door, a now empty biscuit tin and a neat pile of worthless coins.

The main photo above, “die gelt” is copyright (c) 2012 John Lodder and made available under a Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.0 license