Джеффри Арчер - Cat O'Nine Tales

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.’