The New Collected Short Stories (44 page)

Max had one undisputed gift, his ability to wield a willow. Educated at one of England’s minor public schools, his talent as a stylish left-handed batsman allowed him to mix with the very people that he would later rob. After all, a chap who can score an effortless half century is obviously somebody one can trust.

Away fixtures suited Max best, as they allowed him the opportunity to meet eleven potential new victims. Kennington Village XI was no exception. By the time his lordship had joined the two teams for tea in the pavilion, Max had wormed out of the local umpire the history of the Kennington Set, including the provision in the will that whichever son came up with the missing red king would automatically inherit the complete set.

Max boldly asked his lordship, while devouring a portion of Victoria sponge, if he might be allowed to view the Kennington Set, as he was fascinated by the game of chess. Lord Kennington was only too happy to invite a man with such an effortless cover drive into his drawing room. The moment Max spotted the empty square, a plan began to form in his mind. A few well-planted questions were indiscreetly answered by his host. Max avoided making any reference to his lordship’s brother, or the clause in the will. He then spent the rest of the afternoon at square leg, refining his plan. He dropped two catches.

When the match was over, Max declined an invitation to join the rest of the team at the village pub, explaining that he had urgent business in London.

Moments after arriving back at his flat in Hammersmith, Max phoned an old lag he’d shared a pad with when he’d been locked up in a previous establishment. The former inmate assured Max that he could deliver, but it would take him about a month and ‘would cost ’im’.

Max chose a Sunday afternoon to return to Kennington Hall and continue his research. He left his ancient MG – soon to become a collector’s item, he tried to convince himself – in the visitors’ carpark. He followed signs to the front door, where he handed over five pounds in exchange for an entrance ticket. Maintenance and running costs had once again made it necessary for the Hall to be opened to the public at weekends.

Max walked purposefully down a long corridor adorned with ancestral portraits painted by such luminaries as Romney, Gainsborough, Lely and Stubbs. Each would have fetched a fortune on the open market, but Max’s eyes were set on a far smaller object, currently residing in the Long Gallery.

When Max entered the room that displayed the Kennington Set, he found the masterpiece surrounded by an attentive group of visitors who were being addressed by a tour guide. Max stood at the back of the crowd and listened to a tale he knew only too well. He waited patiently for the group to move on to the dining room and admire the family silver.

‘Several pieces were captured at the time of the Armada,’ the tour guide intoned as the group followed him into an adjoining room.

Max looked back down the corridor to check that the next group was not about to descend upon him. He placed a hand in his pocket and withdrew the red king. Other than the colour, the intricately carved piece was identical in every detail to the white king standing on the opposite side of the board. Max knew the counterfeit would not pass a carbon-dating test, but he was satisfied that he was in possession of a perfect copy. He left Kennington Hall a few minutes later, and drove back to London.

Max’s next problem was to decide which city would have the most relaxed security to carry out his coup: London, Washington or Peking. The People’s Palace in Peking won by a short head. However, when it came to considering the cost of the whole exercise, the British Museum was the only horse left in the race. But what finally tipped the balance for Max was the thought of spending the next five years locked up in a Chinese jail, an American penitentiary, or residing at an open prison in the east of England. England won in a canter.

The following morning Max visited the British Museum for the first time in his life. The lady seated behind the information desk directed him to the back of the ground floor, where the Chinese collection is housed.

Max discovered that hundreds of Chinese artefacts occupied the fifteen rooms, and it took him the best part of an hour to locate the chess set. He had considered seeking guidance from one of the uniformed guards, but as he had no desire to draw attention to himself, and also doubted that they would be able to answer his question, he thought better of it.

Max had to hang around for some time before he was left alone in the room. He could not afford a member of the public or, worse, a guard, to witness his little subterfuge. Max noted that the security guard covered four rooms every thirty minutes. He would therefore have to wait until the guard had departed for the Islam room, while at the same time being sure that no other visitors were in sight, before he could make his move.

It was another hour before Max felt confident enough to take the bastard out of his pocket and compare the piece with the legitimate king, standing proudly on its red square in the display cabinet. The two kings stared at each other, identical twins, except that one was an impostor. Max glanced around – the room was still empty. After all, it was eleven o’clock on a Tuesday morning, half term, and the sun was shining.

Max waited until the guard had moved on to Islamic artefacts before he carried out his well-rehearsed move. With the help of a Swiss Army knife, he carefully prised open the lid of the display cabinet that covered the Chinese masterpiece. A raucous alarm immediately sounded, but long before the first guard appeared, Max had switched the two kings, replaced the cover of the case, opened a window and strolled casually into the next room. He was studying the costume of a samurai when two guards rushed into the adjoining room. One cursed when he spotted the open window, while the other checked to see if anything was missing.

‘Now, you’ll want to know,’ suggested Max, clearly enjoying himself, ‘how I trapped both brothers into a fool’s mate.’ I nodded, but he didn’t speak again until he’d rolled another cigarette. ‘To start with,’ continued Max, ‘never rush a transaction when you’re in possession of something
two
buyers want, and in this case,
desperately
want. My next visit –’ he paused to light his cigarette – ‘was to a shop in the Charing Cross Road. This had not required a great deal of research, because they advertised themselves in the
Yellow Pages
under Chess, as Marlowe’s,
the people who serve the masters and advise the beginners.’

Max stepped into the musty old shop, to be greeted by an elderly gentleman who resembled one of life’s pawns: someone who took the occasional move forward, but still looked as if he must eventually be taken – certainly not the type who reached the other side of the board to become a king. Max asked the old man about a chess set that he had spotted in the window. There then followed a series of well-rehearsed questions, which casually led to the value of a red king in the Kennington Set.

‘Were such a piece ever to come onto the market,’ the elderly assistant mused, ‘the price could be in excess of fifty thousand pounds, as everyone knows there are two certain bidders.’

It was this piece of information that caused Max to make a few adjustments to his plan. His next problem was that he knew his bank account wouldn’t stretch to a visit to New York. He ended up having to ‘acquire’ several small objects from large houses, which could be disposed of quickly, so he could visit the States with enough capital to put his plan into effect. Luckily it was in the middle of the cricket season.

When Max landed at JFK, he didn’t bother to visit Sotheby’s or Christie’s, but instead instructed the yellow cab to drive him to Phillips Auctioneers on East 79th Street. He was relieved to find that, when he produced the delicate carving stolen from the British Museum, the young assistant didn’t show a great deal of interest in the piece.

‘Are you aware of its provenance?’ asked the assistant.

‘No,’ replied Max, ‘it’s been in my family for years.’

Six weeks later a sales catalogue was published. Max was delighted to find that Lot 23 was listed as being of no known provenance, with a high value of $300. As it was not one of the items graced with a photograph, Max felt confident that few, if any, would take much interest in the red king, and it would therefore be unlikely to come to the attention of either Edward or James Kennington. That is, until he made them aware of it.

A week before the sale was due to take place, Max rang Phillips in New York. He had only one question for the young assistant, who replied that although the catalogue had been available for over a month, no one had shown any particular interest in his red king. Max feigned disappointment.

The next call Max made was to Kennington Hall. He tempted his lordship with several ifs, buts and even a maybe, which elicited an invitation to join Lord Kennington for lunch at White’s.

Lord Kennington explained to his guest over a bowl of brown Windsor soup that Max could not produce any papers over lunch as it was against the club rules. Max nodded, placed the Phillips catalogue under his chair, and began an elaborate tale of how by sheer accident, while viewing the figure of a mandarin on behalf of a client, he had come across the red king.

‘I would have missed it myself,’ said Max, ‘if you hadn’t acquainted me with its history.’

Lord Kennington did not bother with pudding (bread and butter), cheese (Cheddar) or biscuits (water), but suggested they took coffee in the library, where you are allowed to discuss business.

Max opened the Phillips catalogue to reveal Lot 23, along with several loose photographs he had not shown the auctioneer. When Lord Kennington saw the estimate of three hundred dollars, his next question was, ‘Do you think Phillips might have told my brother about the sale?’

‘There is no reason to believe so,’ replied Max. ‘I’ve been assured by one of the assistants working on the sale that the public have shown little interest in lot twenty-three.’

‘But how can you be so sure of its provenance?’

‘That’s what I do for a living,’ said Max with confidence. ‘But you can always have the piece carbon-dated, and if I’m proved wrong, you won’t have to pay for it.’

‘Can’t ask for more than that,’ said Lord Kennington, ‘so I suppose I’ll have to fly to America and bid for the piece myself,’ he added, thumping the arm of the leather chair. A cloud of elderly dust rose into the air.

‘I wonder if that would be wise, my lord,’ said Max, ‘after all—’

‘And why not?’ demanded Kennington.

‘It’s just that, if you were to fly to the States without explanation, it might arouse unnecessary curiosity among certain members of your family,’ Max paused, ‘and if you were then spotted in an auction house . . .’

‘I take your point,’ said Kennington, and looking across at Max added, ‘so what do you advise, old boy?’

‘I would be only too happy to represent your lordship’s interests,’ said Max.

‘And what would you charge for such a service?’ Lord Kennington enquired.

‘One thousand pounds plus expenses,’ said Max, ‘against two and a half per cent of the hammer price, which I can assure you is standard practice.’

Lord Kennington removed his chequebook from an inside pocket and wrote out the figure £1,000. ‘How much do you estimate the piece might fetch?’ he asked casually.

Max was pleased that Lord Kennington had raised the subject of price, as it would have been his next question. ‘That will depend on whether anyone else is privy to our little secret,’ said Max. ‘However, I would suggest that you place an upper limit of fifty thousand dollars on the piece.’

‘Fifty thousand?’ spluttered Kennington in disbelief.

‘Hardly excessive,’ suggested Max, ‘remembering that a complete set could fetch more than a million –’ he paused – ‘or nothing, were your brother to acquire the red king.’

‘I take your point,’ repeated Kennington. ‘But you still might be able to pick it up for a few hundred dollars.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Max.

Max Glover left White’s Club a few minutes after three, explaining to his host that he had another appointment that afternoon, which indeed he did.

Max checked his watch and decided he still had enough time to stroll through Green Park and not be late for his next meeting.

Max arrived in Sloane Square a few minutes before four, and took a seat on a bench opposite the statue of Sir Francis Drake. He began to rehearse his new script. When he heard the clock on a nearby tower chime four times, he leapt up and walked briskly across to Cadogan Square. He stopped at No 16, climbed the steps, and rang the doorbell.

James Kennington opened the door and greeted his guest with a smile.

‘I rang earlier this morning,’ explained Max. ‘My name’s Glover.’

James Kennington ushered him through to the drawing room and offered Max a seat by an unlit fire. The younger brother took the seat opposite him.

Although the apartment was spacious, even grand, there were one or two clear outlines on the walls to suggest where pictures had once hung. Max suspected that they were not being cleaned or reframed. Gossip columns regularly referred to the Hon. James’s drinking habits and hinted at several unpaid gambling debts.