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 № 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.
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.’