The King's Commisar

by Duncan Kyle

  'It's going to be all over the papers.'

  'Flat denials. It's the only way,' said Malory firmly. 'If we answer no long enough, it will all go away.'

  But it stayed. A photograph had somehow been taken on the pavement outside the auction room as Malory and his security men placed the crate in the armoured van. That night the picture was all over the front page of the Standard, the remaining London evening paper, along with a report of Pilgrim's denial.

  'It's a lovely likeness! Sir Horace,' Mrs Frobisher remarked as she brought the newspaper into Malory's office. And it was.

  Malory, knowing now what was coming, diverted himself for a while by playing a game he rather thought he could win. If Pilgrim's dangerous millionaire Robizo really was a man of strong social ambition, then Robizo was vulnerable; such people always were. It was, after all, simple enough: Robizo was not currently acceptable to a few people whose society he craved. Not the rich: Robizo was rich, so the rich would accept him. It was therefore the aristocratic, the old money. And in Florida that meant. . . Malory smiled. There was always someone. And in this case there was old Digby's daughter, wasn't there Randolph's first wife! Pretty thing, too: Malory remembered the wartime wedding at Admiralty House, even the little silk Persian prayer rug he'd given them. Daughter of one aristo, bearer of the great name of the century, and now married to God! All he needed was somebody in regular touch. After all, it wasn't a question of inviting this Robizo creature to dinner; just some charity reception or other and a large donation plus a shake of the Harriman hand. Yes, she could certainly be asked. Malory was quite busy for a while on the telephone. At last a lady promised to talk to Clarissa, who'd talk to Digby's daughter. Something would certainly be arranged.

  In spite of this pleasing little triumph, however, the next few days were not happy ones for anyone except the Press. They, however, loved it! Some targets are far more satisfying to strike at than others, and very high on that list are banks. Then come greedy oil companies, profligate local authorities and corrupt clergymen. The Bank with the Golden Hoard got it very firmly in the neck. The louder the denials, the less they were heeded: 'Sir Horace Malory' [wrote a gentleman in the Sunday Express], 'has spent most of his seventy-eight years making mountains of money. He has a mansion in Gloucestershire, a town house in Mayfair and several million in the bank. Wouldn't it be nice if he devoted some of his filthy lucre to a good clean purpose and added the Turner masterpiece to Britain's great heritage of art treasures!' 'You can't take it with you, Sir Horace . . .'

  'I'm not going,' Malory muttered savagely. 'Not yet, anyway.' He and Pilgrim, both by now feeling somewhat beleaguered, sat in Pilgrim's teak and steel office.

  'Can't be Dikeston doing it,' Pilgrim said. 'You can't play Press campaigns from the grave.'

  'No, no, no. It's the Sudbury chap,' Malory said.

  'It's so damned unfair!' Pilgrim went on. 'We buy a painting - what the hell's wrong with buying a painting? Now we have to give it away - we can't even sell it!'

  'Clever, though,' said Malory. 'You'll admit it's clever.'

  Pilgrim gave him a long, hard look. He thumped both hands palm down on the desk and said with new determination, 'We're going to fight back, Horace. We have to. We start off with hundreds, it goes to thousands, then to hundreds of thousands - and now it's goddam millions] The next stage is tens of millions and after that it's hundreds and we're wiped out! How in hell did Dikeston get this thing going?'

  'He had fifty thousand a year and a lot of time to think and plan,' Malory said. 'And at the moment, if I may remind you, we have no idea at all where the next packet of Dikeston's papers will be coming from. There were no instructions with the last batch.'

  Pilgrim said, 'Look, we don't need the papers. We know what happened to the Romanovs. They were shot in a cellar in Ekaterinburg, right?'

  'So it's said,' Malory said, scepticism in his voice.

  'You don't believe it.'

  too'It's problematical, Laurence. Some would disagree. There's a book I'll lend you -'

  'I've read the damn books. The Reds shot the whole family.'

  'Andso?'

  'So what's to worry about?'

  'We worry about the paper,' Malory said. 'To Zaharoff the secret of that paper was worth a fortune. Remember his choice of word. He warns of calamity.'

  Again Pilgrim's flat hand thumped the desk. 'Calamity! The only calamity I see lies in carrying on round this obstacle course Dikeston set. He's got us paying on a geometrical progression. It'll ruin us!' He stood straight and fixed Malory with a hard eye. 'We come back to Zaharoff, don't we? Always back to him. Why does he matter so much? You knew him, Horace; you held him in high regard. You-'

  'No.' Malory held up a hand to stop him. 'You're wrong, quite wrong.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I held him in awe. I was terrified of him, Laurence!'

  'I thought you liked the guy.'

  'Like?' Malory gave what might have been a snort of amusement, I do not believe there was a man on earth who liked Basil Zaharoff. Not one. And only one woman. Respected, oh yes - he was respected!

  He was feared, and with reason. He was listened to, he was courted as an ally. But not as a friend, I think.'

  'Yet you still think his word is holy writ?'

  'If you like.' Malory paused and pursed his lips. 'Tell me, have you ever played a ball game of any kind against a really good player?'

  'A little squash once,' Pilgrim said, with a touch of pride. 'I had a knock-up once at the New York Racquet Club with Hashim Khan.'

  'Then let me tell you what it was you noticed. First, he hit the ball both much harder and much straighter than you.

  Secondly, he did not make mistakes. Thirdly, he could keep going at a very high level of performance far longer than you could. Agreed?'

  'Oh, sure.' Pilgrim was smiling now at the recollection. 'But you left one out.'

  'What's that?'

  'Positional play. Anticipation, if you like. He was there and ready with the answer while you were still trying to set the question-' Pilgrim broke off, abruptly comprehending. Malory said, 'Precisely. All these things are games. Zaharoff's game was power, and he played it supremely well.'

  Pilgrim crossed to the window and stood looking out, I realize you're convinced of it all, Horace. You know I'm not. Could you convince me?'

  'Yes, I think I could.'

  'I'm going to ask you to do it right now,' Pilgrim said. 'But first . . .' He pressed a button on his intercom and said, 'Come in, would you, Jacques.'

  Graves came in immediately. 'What I want, Jacques,' Pilgrim said, 'and I'm afraid it will probably be one hell of a job, is a complete list of all regular payments made by Hillyard, Cleef which are or even may be pension payments. Up to and including - what year did Zaharoff die, Horace?'

  'Nineteen thirty-six.'

  'Okay, from, say, nineteen-fourteen to nineteen-thirty-six. Right?'

  'Right.'

  As Graves departed, Pilgrim settled into his chair. 'Convince me.'

  'Have you ever been to Monte?' Malory enquired.

  'Monte Carlo? Yes.'

  'Did you visit the Casino?'

  'Yes.'

  'And play?'

  'No, not me.'

  'Nowadays, of course,' Malory said musingly, 'it's not what it was. There are casinos everywhere, even -' and his lip bent in distaste - 'here in London. But there was a time, Laurence, when Las Vegas did not exist, nor casinos in London and other cities. Rich men and women who wanted to play chemin de fer or roulette had to go to Monte. Know anything, do you, about Monaco's status?'

  'It's a principality, isn't it? - What's the guy's name? Rainier?'

  'The family name is Grimaldi. Hereditary rulers. Have been for centuries. Keep them in mind, will you, my dear chap, while I tell you something of Sir Basil. Oh - and the lady I believe I mentioned - she must have liked him. She waited forty years to marry him.

  'Zaharoff was born in any number of places, a
nd born poor in all of them, or so he said at different times. But effectively he started off in Constantinople as a fireman, of all things - this is the eighteen-sixties, mind, when fire brigades were perhaps a little less, er, technically minded than they are these days. Those chappies used to start a fire, then run round with their axes and chop their way into the surrounding property and see what was portable. You understand?

  'He was Greek, Zaharoff was, and this was Turkey, with scrapping going on all over the place. He began to sell arms. Sold more and more. Worked for Nordenfelt, then heard about Maxim's new machine-gun, forced a merger between 'em and became the salesman for Maxim, Nordenfelt. And when I say salesman, as I'm sure you understand, Laurence, I do not mean that he drove a little Ford motor-car and made fifteen calls per day.'

  Pilgrim smiled. 'What did he drive?'

  Malory smiled back. 'Hard bargains. Took his commission, of course. Then came the day he sold a submarine for Vickers, I think it was to Queen Marie of Roumania, and rumour had it the deal was done à deux.Heard of Queen Marie, have you? Quite a lady she was! Well, never mind. Zaharoff quickly became Vickers' top figure. He was only a director, one among many, not chairman or anything, but his will determined everything. He started wars, armed both sides, that kind of thing. Kept the Balkans boiling for decades. When you talk about anticipation, mark this - no sooner had the Wright Brothers flown at Kittyhawk than Zaharoff set up chairs in aviation at three universities: Oxford, Paris and St Petersburg. There was a fella called Constantinescu who devised the gear which enabled machine-guns to fire through rotating propellers. He was Basil's, I seem to remember.

  'But meantime, he fell in love. Oh yes, Zaharoff fell. Here comes the lady: Spanish grandee, Duchess of Villa-franca and much else besides. Married to a madman, the Duchess was, and powerfully Papist into the bargain, so -well, there couldn't be a divorce. Had to wait for the Grim Reaper. So they waited: forty-three years, I think it was. Then the Duke died and they got married. Are you still listening?'

  'You have my attention, Horace, believe me.'

  'So here's our poor boy from the slums of Constantinople. He's now among the richest men in the world and his wife is a duchess. Lloyd George, meantime, has given Basil a knighthood. He's quite the grandee himself. AH he lacks is a kingdom to lay at the feet of his bride.

  '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.

  He swore, bent, placed the Coke on the pavement, and picked up the hand-microphone in his gauntleted free hand. 'Yer?' he said.

  'Where are you?'

  He told her.

  'Outside MacDonald's again, aincher,' she said. 'Listen, go to 199 Chancery Lane, right? 'Ere you'll get fat, you will.'