Duncan Kyle - The King's Commisar

'Now, consider Monaco. For three hundred years, from the time of the Treaty of Peronne in 1641 Monaco has been part of France. The Grimaldi prince has no true sovereignty and what's more, he has a French garrison quartered on him just in case he turns ambitious. But there were one or two things he could still do, and in 1862 he granted to a man named Blanc a concession to open a casino in Monte Carlo. Blanc was clever and also had a son who was very clever; so, before you could say Athelsgate, the place was coining money. So much that the whole of Monaco lived on it, from the prince downward. No taxes. Police, judges, public works, all were paid for. As an arrangement,' Malory said admiringly, 'it was quite lovely! But then came the war.'

'Which war?'

'Ah. Nineteen-fourteen. Am I boring you, Laurence?'

'Not yet.'

'Well, with the war going strong, business dwindled. For poor Monsieur Blanc, that is, not for Zaharoff as you might imagine. He had a small commission on many of the bullets, most of the shells and almost all the guns. But with business going down in the casino, down went the income of the current Grimaldi prince, who didn't much like it, and therefore made an approach -quietly, of course, to Zaharoff. What it amounted to was that in due course, given a secret option to purchase, Zaharoff would be able to throw out Blanc and his sons and sons-in-law, one of whom was a Buonoparte, by the way, and the other a Radziwill. Sure you're not getting lost in all this, Laurence?'

'I'm waiting for the fish hook.'

Malory smiled. 'Soon, soon. One further point to remember is the long relationship that existed, on the very closest terms, between the French premier Georges Clemenceau and Zaharoff. Forgive me if I sound like a schoolmaster, will you?'

'Goon,Horace!'

'What happened - and this in the middle of the greatest war in history - was that Clemenceau suddenly concluded a treaty - a treaty which was kept absolutely secret! - with Monaco's Prince. Under its terms Monaco was to be a sovereign principality again. The treaty was never published, I might tell you, not as such. But the terms did turn up eventually, in the small print of the Versailles Treaty, where it was damned hard to find.

'After that,' said Malory, 'it was easy. Zaharoff paid a million for the Casino and so he became the true ruler of Monaco.'

'Smart,' said Pilgrim.

'Yes, that's a fair word.'

'He was quite an operator.'

'He was indeed. Are you conv - Good gracious me!’ Malory sat as though pole-axed, mouth agape, eyes staring.

Pilgrim came quickly out of his chair, wondering if the old man might not be having some kind of seizure.

'You okay, Horace?'

Malory frowned at him. 'Eh?'

'You all right?'

'All right? Oh yes. But damned puzzled.'

'By what?'

'The date of the Treaty between France and Monaco -between Clemenceau and Grimaldi. I've just realized what it was!'

'And?'

'Basil got his kingdom on July 17th, 1918.'

'Christ,' Pilgrim breathed. 'I know that date, too. That's the day they shot the Tsar!'

The cheque, signed by Pilgrim and by Malory, and delivered by Malory when he made his well-documented visit to collect the painting, had now been paid into the auctioneer's bank. Another cheque, drawn by the financial director of the auction house, was sent to Coutts & Co., bankers to Royalty - and to the anonymous seller of the Turner. This cheque was for£2,925,000, a sum arrived at by deducting ten per cent from the auction price of three and a quarter million. The ten per cent represented what was termed 'Seller's Premium'. Hillyard, Cleef had already paid a ten per cent Buyer's Premium. The auctioneers had therefore cleared £650,000 and were pleased to act with reasonable expedition. They did not, as was their normal practice, keep the money for a month to earn interest at money market terms; the cheque was sent in a very few days.

Mr Everard Polly, the official at Coutts & Co, entrusted with all matters concerned with removal of the Turner from its vault and its subsequent sale, now proceeded to ensure rapid clearance of the auctioneers' cheque, and then consulted the instructions deposited at the bank by their deceased client. The final passage read:

. . , upon receipt of the monies raised at sale by auction, Envelope Five shall be forwarded to Messrs Dazey, Cheyne & Co., solicitors, of 199 Chancery Lane, London. Mr Polly was enormously intrigued. He had been with Coutts & Co., for more than forty years and this was infinitely the most .., he had difficulty finding the word . . , f lavoursome transaction he had been involved with. Yes, flavoursome. A great painting in the vaults, a price of millions, everything done in great secrecy. Oh yes, flavour-some! It was with some regret that he summoned one of the bank's messengers and told him to deliver Envelope Three at once, because Mr Polly knew that with that action his own involvement ended. It was a shame that he would never know . . . The messenger from Coutts took a taxi. It was not very far from the Strand to Chancery Lane, and as it was a pleasant morning he could easily have walked, but he had gathered from Mr Polly's expression and manner that there must be something rather special about the wax-sealed manila envelope with the large Roman V upon it which now rested in his document case. He decided that, having delivered the envelope, he would walk back through Lincoln's Inn Fields. With luck the girls would be playing netball, and he could pause at the new wine bar . . .

He handed the envelope to Mr Redvers Pratt, chief clerk of Dazey, Cheyne, who said, 'Right, thanks, who's it from?'

"Fraid I can't tell you.'

Mr Pratt frowned. 'Don't be daft. It must be from somebody.'

'Bound to be,' said the messenger, 'but I don't know who. My job to deliver, that's all.'

'Oh.' Mr Pratt looked at it and smiled. 'Bomb, could it be, d'you reckon?'

'Too thin.'

'Hope you're right. Thanks.'

As the messenger left Mr Pratt broke the seal. Inside lay a further envelope and, paperclipped to it, a single sheet of paper upon which was written, 'To be delivered at once to the Senior Partner, Hillyard, Cleef, at 6, Athelsgate, E.C

Unlike Mr Polly, Mr Pratt was only mildly and momentarily interested. The passing on of papers was part of his job, and he simply took a small pride in doing it efficiently. As the postal service declined, Mr Pratt had searched for replacement means and had recently taken to using a firm which had given itself an extremely unlikely name.

'Suzuki Highway,' said the girl's Cockney voice on the telephone, when he rang up. Said Redvers Pratt: 'This is Dazey, Cheyne, solicitors, of 199 Chancery -'

'Piss orf, darlin, why doncha?' The girl said amiably. 'Don't waste me bloody time -'

'We're customers,' said Pratt patiently. 'Look up the account like a good girl. We all know it's a funny name. Dazey, -'

'Cheyne. Yer, Gorrit. Orl right, I'll have a Crimson Suzuki with you in a minute, okay? Who's he ask for?'

'Mr Pratt.'

She laughed. 'By name if not by nature, eh?' And hung up. Pratt, too, was smiling. He was an East Ender himself and enjoyed his occasional contacts with the native sharpness. Several Crimson Suzuki motor-cycles were at that moment delivering packages and letters in various parts of the metropolis. Several more, parked in assorted places, awaited the call. It came always by radio.

Crimson Suzuki 7 stood at that moment outside a Macdonald's Hamburger palace in Shaftesbury Avenue. Its driver-owner, one Dave Legg, dressed in leathers of surpassing griminess, had just purchased a Big Mac and a large Coca-Cola and was settling himself comfortably on the saddle when the loudspeaker behind him squawked suddenly.