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.
When Max came to the end of his tale, he was well prepared for the Hon. James’s first question.
‘How much do you imagine the piece will fetch, Mr Glover?’
‘A few hundred dollars,’ Max replied. ‘That’s assuming your brother doesn’t find out about the auction.’ He paused, sipped his tea, and added, ‘In excess of fifty thousand, if he does.’
‘But I don’t have fifty thousand,’ said James, something else Max was well aware of. ‘And if my brother were to find out,’ James continued, ‘there would be nothing I could do about it. The terms of the will couldn’t be clearer – whoever finds the red king inherits the set.’
‘I’d be willing to put up the necessary capital to secure the piece,’ said Max, not missing a beat, ‘if in turn you would then agree to sell me the set.’
‘And how much would you be willing to pay?’ asked James.
‘Half a million,’ said Max.
‘But Sotheby’s have already valued a complete set at over a million,’ protested James.
‘That may well be the case,’ said Max, ‘but half a million is surely better than nothing, which would be the outcome if your brother were to learn of the red king’s existence.’
‘But you said that the red king might sell for a few hundred—’
‘In which case, I would require only a thousand pounds in advance, against two and a half per cent of the hammer price,’ said Max for the second time that afternoon.
‘That’s a risk I am quite willing to take,’ said James with the smile of someone who believes he has gained the upper hand. ‘If the red king should sell for less than fifty thousand,’ he continued, ‘I’d be able to raise the money myself. If it goes for more than fifty thousand, you can purchase the piece and I’ll sell you the set for half a million.’ James sipped his tea, before adding, ‘I can’t lose either way.’
Neither can I, thought Max, as he extracted a contract from an inside pocket. James read the document slowly. He looked up and said, ‘You obviously felt confident that I would fall in with your plan, Mr Glover.’
‘If you hadn’t,’ said Max, ‘my next visit would have been to your brother, which would have left you with nothing. At least now, to quote you, you can’t lose either way.’
‘Presumably I will have to travel to New York,’ said James.
‘Not necessary,’ replied Max. ‘You can bid for the piece by phone, which has the added advantage that no one else will know who’s on the other end of the line.’
‘But how do I go about that?’ asked James.
‘It couldn’t be easier,’ Max assured him. ‘The New York sale begins at two in the afternoon, which will be seven o’clock in the evening in London. The red king is lot twenty-three, so I’ll arrange for Phillips to place a call through to you once they reach lot twenty-one. Just be sure you’re sitting by the phone, with no one else blocking the line.’
‘And you’ll take over, if it goes above fifty thousand?’
‘You have my word,’ said Max, looking him straight in the eye.
Max flew to New York the weekend before the sale was due to take place. He booked himself into a small hotel on the East Side and settled for a room not much larger than our cell, but then he only had enough money left over to cover the endgame.
Max rose early on the Monday morning. He hadn’t been able to sleep because of an orchestra of New York traffic and police sirens. He used the time to go over and over the different permutations that might occur once the sale began. He would be on centre stage for less than two minutes and, if he failed, would be back on the next plane to Heathrow, with nothing to show for his efforts other than an overdrawn bank account.
He grabbed a bagel on the corner of Third and 66th, before walking another few blocks to Phillips. He spent the rest of the morning at a manuscript sale that was being held in the room where the Chinese auction would take place. He sat silently at the back of the room, watching how the Americans conduct an auction, so that he wouldn’t be wrong-footed later that afternoon.
Max didn’t eat any lunch, and not just because his meagre funds were already stretched to their limit. Instead, he used the time to make two overseas calls; the first to Lord Kennington, to confirm that he still had his authority to take the bidding for the red king up to fifty thousand dollars. Max assured him that, the moment the hammer fell, he would call to let him know what sum the piece had sold for. A few minutes later Max made a second call, this time to the Hon. James Kennington at his home in Cadogan Square. James picked up the phone after one ring, clearly relieved to hear Max’s voice on the other end of the line. Max made the Hon. James Kennington exactly the same promise.
Max replaced the phone and made his way across to the bidding counter, where he gave an assistant the details of James Kennington’s telephone number in London and told her of his intention to bid for Lot 23.
‘Leave it to us, sir,’ the assistant replied. ‘I’ll make sure we’re in touch with him well in time.’
Max thanked the assistant, made his way back to the saleroom and took his favoured place on the end of the eighth row, just to the right of the auctioneer. He began to turn the pages of the catalogue, checking on items in which he had no interest. While he sat around, impatiently waiting for the auctioneer to invite bids for lot number one, he tried to work out who were the dealers, who the serious bidders and who the simply curious.
By the time the auctioneer climbed the steps of the rostrum at five minutes to two, the saleroom was full of expectant faces. At two o’clock the auctioneer smiled down at his clientele.
‘Lot number one,’ he declared, ‘a delicately crafted ivory fisherman.’
The piece sold for $850, giving no hint of the drama that was about to follow.
Lot 2 reached $1,000, but it wasn’t until Lot 17, the figure of a mandarin bent over a desk reading a ledger, that the $5,000 mark was achieved.
One or two dealers whose only interest was clearly in later lots began to drift into the room, while a couple of others left, having failed or succeeded in acquiring the items they’d been after. Max could hear his heart pounding, although it would still be some time before the auctioneer reached Lot 23.
He turned his attention to the row of phones on a long table by the side of the room. Only three were manned. When the auctioneer called Lot 21, an assistant started to dial. A few moments later, she cupped a hand over the mouthpiece and began to whisper. When Lot 22 was offered, she spoke briefly to her client again. Max assumed that she must be warning James Kennington that the red king would be the next item to come under the hammer.
‘Lot twenty-three,’ declared the auctioneer glancing down at his notes. ‘An exquisitely carved red king, provenance unknown. Do I have an opening bid of three hundred dollars?’
Max raised his catalogue.
‘Five hundred?’ enquired the auctioneer turning to face the assistant on the phone. She whispered into the mouthpiece and then nodded firmly. The auctioneer turned his attention back to Max, who had raised his catalogue even before a price had been suggested.
‘I have a bid of a thousand dollars,’ said the auctioneer, returning to face the telephone bidder. ‘Two thousand,’ he ventured, surprised to see the assistant nod so quickly.
‘Three thousand?’ he suggested as he looked back at Max. The catalogue shot up again, and several dealers at the back of the room
began chatting among themselves.
‘Four thousand?’ enquired the auctioneer, staring in disbelief at the assistant on the phone. $5,000, $6,000, $7,000, $8,000, $9,000 and $10,000 were overtaken in less than a minute. The auctioneer tried desperately to look as if this was exactly what he had anticipated as the murmurs in the room grew louder and louder. Everyone seemed to have an opinion. One or two dealers abandoned their favoured places and quickly walked to the back of the room, hoping to find an explanation for the bidding frenzy. Some were already beginning to make assumptions, but were in no position to bid under such pressure, especially as the amounts were now going up in leaps of $5,000.
Max raised his catalogue in response to the auctioneer’s enquiry, ‘Forty-five thousand? Are you bidding fifty thousand?’ he enquired of the lady on the telephone. Everyone in the room turned to see how she would respond. For the first time she hesitated. The auctioneer repeated, ‘Fifty thousand.’ She whispered the figure into the phone and, after a long pause, nodded, but not quite so enthusiastically.
When Max was offered the piece for $55,000, he also hesitated, taking his time before he finally raised his catalogue.
‘Sixty thousand?’ suggested the auctioneer to the assistant on the phone. Max waited nervously as she cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and repeated the figure. Beads of sweat began to appear on Max’s forehead, as he wondered if James Kennington had managed to raise more than $50,000, in which case he would just about clear his expenses on the whole exercise. After what seemed like an eternity, but was, in fact, only twenty seconds, the assistant shook her head. She put the phone down.
When the auctioneer smiled in Max’s direction and said, ‘Sold to the gentleman on my left, for fifty-five thousand dollars,’ Max felt sick, triumphant, dazed and relieved all at the same time.
Max remained in his place, as he waited for the furore to die down. After a dozen more lots had been disposed of, he slipped quietly out of the room, unaware of the suspicious stares from dealers, who wondered who he was. He strolled across the thick green carpet and stopped at the purchasing counter.
‘I wish to leave a deposit on lot twenty-three.’
The clerk looked down at her list. ‘A red king,’ she said, and double-checked the price. ‘Fifty-five thousand dollars,’ she added, and looked up at Max for confirmation.
He nodded as the assistant began to fill in the little boxes on the purchasing document. A few moments later she swivelled the form round for Max to sign.
‘That will be five thousand, five hundred dollars deposit,’ she said, ‘and the full amount must be settled within twenty-eight days.’ Max nodded nonchalantly, as if this was a procedure he was well familiar with. He signed the agreement and then wrote out a cheque for $5,500, aware that it would empty his account. He pushed it across the counter. The assistant handed him back the top copy of the agreement and retained the duplicate. When she checked the signature, she hesitated. It might have been a coincidence: after all, Glover was a common enough name. She didn’t want to insult a customer, but she knew she would have to report the anomaly to their compliance department, before they could consider cashing the cheque.
Max left the auction house and headed north to Park Avenue. He strode confidently into Sotheby Parke Bernet and approached the reception desk. He asked if he could have a word with the Head of the Oriental Department. He was kept waiting for only a few minutes.
On this occasion, Max didn’t waste time with any preliminary questions that would have only been a smokescreen to disguise his true intent. After all, as the sales clerk at Phillips had pointed out, he only had twenty-eight days to complete the transaction.
‘Should the Kennington Chess Set come onto the market, what would you expect it to fetch?’ Max asked.
The expert looked incredulous, although he had already been briefed on the sale of the red king at Phillips, and on the price the piece had fetched. ‘Seven hundred and fifty thousand, possibly as much as a million,’ came back the reply.
‘And if I was able to deliver the Kennington Set, and you were in a position to authenticate it, what amount would Sotheby’s be willing to advance against a future sale?’
‘Four hundred thousand, possibly five, if the family were able to confirm that it was the Kennington Set.’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ promised Max, all his immediate and long-term problems solved.
Max checked out of his little hotel on the East Side later that evening, and took a taxi to Kennedy Airport. Once the plane had taken off, he slept soundly for the first time in days.
The 727 touched down at Heathrow just as the sun was rising over the Thames. Having nothing to declare, Max took the Heathrow Express to Paddington, and was back in his flat in time for breakfast. He began to fantasize about what it would be like to dine regularly at his favourite restaurant and always hail a taxi, rather than having to wait for the next bus.
Once he’d finished breakfast, Max put the plates in the sink and settled down in the one comfortable chair. He began to consider his next move, confident that now the red king had found its place on the board, the game must end in checkmate.
At eleven o’clock – a proper hour to phone a peer of the realm – Max put a call through to Kennington Hall. When the butler transferred the call to Lord Kennington, his first words were, ‘Did we get it?’
‘Unfortunately not, my lord,’ replied Max. ‘We were outbid by an unknown party. I carried out your instructions to the letter, and stopped bidding at fifty thousand dollars.’ He paused. ‘The hammer price was fifty-five thousand.’
There was a long silence. ‘Do you think the other bidder could have been my brother?’
‘I’ve no way of knowing,’ replied Max. ‘All I can tell you is that they were bidding by phone, no doubt wishing to ensure their anonymity.’
‘I’ll find out soon enough,’ responded Kennington, before hanging up.
‘You certainly will,’ agreed Max as he began to dial a number in Chelsea.
‘Congratulations,’ said Max the moment he heard the Hon. James’s plummy voice. ‘I’ve purchased the piece, so you’re now in a position to claim your inheritance, under the terms of the will.’
‘Well done, Glover,’ said James Kennington.
‘And the moment you deliver the rest of the set, my lawyers have been instructed to hand over a cheque for four hundred and forty-five thousand dollars,’ said Max.
‘But we agreed on half a million,’ snapped James.
‘Minus the fifty-five thousand I had to pay for the red king.’ Max paused. ‘You’ll find it’s all spelled out in the contract.’
‘But—’ James began to protest.
‘Would you prefer me to call your brother?’ Max asked, as the front door bell rang. ‘Because I’m still in possession of the piece.’ James didn’t immediately reply. ‘Think about it,’ added Max, ‘while I answer the front door.’ Max placed the receiver on the side table, and strolled out into the hall, almost rubbing his hands. He released the chain, undid the Yale lock, and pulled the door open a couple of inches. Two tall men wearing identical trench coats stood in front of him.
‘Max Victor Glover?’ enquired one of them.
‘Who wants to know?’ asked Max.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Armitage of the Fraud Squad, and this is Detective Sergeant Willis.’ They both produced warrant cards, with which Max was only too familiar. ‘May we come in, sir?’
Once the police had taken down Max’s statement, which consisted of little more than, ‘I’ll need to speak to my solicitor,’ the two men departed. They then drove up to Yorkshire for a meeting with Lord Kennington. Having obtained a detailed statement from his lordship, they returned to London to interview his brother James. The police found him just as cooperative.
A week later Max was arrested for fraud. The judge took into account his past blemished record, and did not grant bail.
‘But how did they find out that you’d stolen the red king?’ I ask
ed.
‘They didn’t,’ Max replied as he stubbed out his cigarette.
I put my pen down. ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ I murmured from the upper bunk.
‘And neither did I,’ admitted Max, ‘at least not until they charged me.’ I remained silent, as my pad mate began to roll his next cigarette. ‘When they read out the charge sheet,’ he continued, ‘no one was more surprised than me.
‘ “Max Victor Glover, you are charged with attempting to obtain money by false pretences. Namely that on October seventeenth, two thousand, you bid fifty-five thousand dollars for a red king, lot twenty-three at Phillips auctioneers in New York, while enticing other interested parties to bid against you, without informing them that you were the owner of the piece.” ’
A heavy key turned in the lock and our cell door cranked open.
‘Visits,’ bellowed the wing officer.
‘So you see,’ said Max as he swung his legs off the bunk, ‘I was charged with the wrong offence, and sentenced for the wrong crime.’
‘But why go through such an elaborate charade, when you could have sold the red king to either of the brothers?’
‘Because then I would have had to show them how I got hold of the piece in the first place, and if I had been caught . . .’
‘But you were caught.’
‘But not charged with theft,’ Max reminded me.
‘So what happened to the red king?’ I demanded, as we stepped out into the corridor and made our way across to the visits centre.
‘It was returned to my solicitor after the trial,’ said Max, ‘and locked up in his safe, where it will remain until I’m released.’
‘But that means—’ I began.
‘Have you ever met Lord Kennington?’ Max asked casually.
‘No, I haven’t,’ I replied.
‘Then I’ll introduce you, old boy,’ he mimicked, ‘because he’s coming to visit me this afternoon.’ Max paused. ‘I have a feeling that his lordship is about to make me an offer for the red king.’
The New Collected Short Stories Page 34