Cat O'Nine Tales: And Other Stories (16 page)

This left only
the red king to be unearthed.

The family had
for some time been paying well over the odds for any missing pieces, since
every dealer across the globe was well aware that if Lady
Kennington
was able to complete the set it would be worth a fortune.

When Elsie
entered her ninth decade, she informed her sons that on her demise she planned
to divide the estate equally between the two of them, with one proviso. She
intended to bequeath the chess set to whichever one of them found the missing
red king.

Elsie died at
the age of eighty-three, without her king.

Edward had
already acquired the title–something you can’t dispose of in a will–and now,
after death duties, also inherited the Hall and a further £857,000.

James moved
into the
Cadogan
Square apartment, and also received
the sum of £857,000. The
Kennington
Set remained in
its display case for all to admire, one square still unoccupied, ownership
unresolved. Enter Max Glover.

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
collectors
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
color, 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 artifacts 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 artifacts 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 Mar-
lowe’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 catalog 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 catalog 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 catalog 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 catalog 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.”