The King's Commissar

by Duncan Kyle

  'No property! When he had fifty thousand a year for -'

  'None in France or England, I meant, Laurence. None that can be traced.'

  'What else do we know?'

  Malory's eye inspected the shining toe of his hand-lasted shoe. 'I have a tame historian. Consider this, Laurence. It seems that in the first months of the nineteen-fourteen war, the Tsar sent huge amounts of money out of Russia. Much of it was part of his own personal fortune and he was undoubtedly at that time the richest man on earth.'

  'Oh, come on, Horace. Not that stuff about Romanov millions scattered all over Europe and America and never claimed! You're not going to feed me that one?'

  'I fear not,' Malory said. 'I'm going to feed you, as you put it, the report of Professor Bernard Pares to the Prime Minister, Lloyd George, and quoted in Lloyd George's War Memoirs, that relations between Britain and Russia were being gravely jeopardized by the failure of Vickers, Maxim & Co, to supply munitions.'

  'Who was Pares?'

  'A scholar with political ambitions. Lloyd George had sent him to Russia. You know who represented Vickers, Maxim?'

  'Zaharoff?'

  'Zaharoff indeed.'

  Pilgrim passed a weary hand across his brow. 'Okay, I get it. You think Zaharoff fleeced the Tsar.'

  'I don't see why not,' Malory said. 'He fleeced thousands, and most of them were a good deal brighter than Nicholas Romanov.'

  'And Dikeston - where's Dikeston come in? You worked that out yet?'

  'Two things worry me,' said Malory gently. 'The first is the piece of paper. Sir Basil's paper. Did the Tsar sign it, and if so what was it?'

  'And the second?'

  'Is the really serious one. Laurence - you talked about all the people Dikeston had met, but you quite failed to mention one.'

  'Who was that?'

  Malory gave a small smile. 'We're all human, you know, Dikeston included. He's told us he met the highest and the lowest. Let me ask you, Laurence, which individual do you think made the greatest impression on him?'

  Pilgrim thought for a moment. 'You mean the girl - the Grand Duchess?'

  'Marie. He fell for her.' Malory said. 'Fell like a ton of bricks. They talked for an hour and he never forgot a moment of it. And then what happened?'

  'I don't follow you.'

  'Don't you? She was butchered,' Malory said harshly. 'We really must find the painting Dikeston talks about. Don't you agree?'

  Dikeston's letter of instructions was, in this instance, handwritten.

  You should keep a weather-eye open for a name. It

  will appear quite soon in the catalogue of one of the

  art auction houses - Christie's, Sotheby's or perhaps

  Phillips'.

  The name is Mallard. I am afraid it will be necessary

  for you to purchase the painting. The manuscript is in

  the frame.

  'I suppose we have to be grateful it's not a Rembrandt,' Pilgrim said bitterly. 'Name mean anything to you, Horace?'

  'Offhand, no. Except that it's a kind of duck. And if I remember, the name was once given to a railway engine.'

  'We'll finish by running behind that engine, you want to bet?'

  'I think not.' Malory took himself off to his room and there examined the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, which confirmed that the Mallard was indeed a duck, or at any rate a drake. It was also a festival celebrated on January 14th at All Souls College, Oxford. Of art or artists there was no mention.

  He sent for Fergus Huntly. 'There seems to have been an artist, Huntly. His name was Mallard. I want you to find out about him. Oh yes, and get on to the art auctioneers, Christie's, Sotheby's and Phillips. I want their catalogues.'

  Huntly nodded. 'You know nothing about this artist?'

  'Not a thing,' Malory said briskly. 'Come to think, it may not be an artist at all. Could be a picture, couldn't it?'

  'Of a duck?'

  'Well, why not! What about Scott? Peter Scott - that's the chap. Painted lots of ducks.'

  'Right, Sir Horace.'

  Huntly took himself to the London Library in St James's Square, but though he consulted a wide selection of art books, he found no artist named Mallard. Nor, it seemed, from enquiries at the art auction houses, was any painting of wild duck - or not a painting of any consequence -coming up for sale.

  He reported sadly back to Sir Horace Malory. 'There's no trace at all.'

  'Isn't there?' Malory sat ruminatively over the remains of a tumbler of malt whisky. 'Who do I know in art?'

  'Well - I don't know. I mean, you know a lot of people, you must know a lot of -' Huntly got hold of himself, wondering what it was in Malory that gave him verbal dysentery.

  'Historian, he is, yes, this fella. You know the one. None too savoury, matter of fact. Traitor and a pansy, nasty combination!'

  'Oh, him!' said Huntly.

  Malory found him at a club. Both men were members of several, but had only this one in common. The art historian, who had achieved eminence as a scholar and infamy as a betrayer of his country and had somehow contrived not to be prosecuted, should, Malory thought, have been sitting in a cell. He crossed the large, decaying room, with its vaulted ceiling, its worn leather chairs and its moth-eaten Afghan rugs, reflecting mischievously that the art historian was not the only one in his wide acquaintanceship who might properly be in gaol. Half the City for a start. Why, he himself, observed in a certain light . . .

  Malory smiled to himself and tottered towards the man's seat. He wore his doddering old buffer act as comfortably as though it were an old jacket.

  '. . . my dear fella, indeed, must be years. Good heavens, yes. All getting old, though, aren't we, eh?'

  The art historian, almost eighty and bent with rheumatism, sat crouched in his chair watching warily.

  'You'll have a whisky, won't you? Yes, good. No, you'd prefer cognac, would you?' He felt the eyes coldly upon him from their depths in the network of wrinkled skin. 'Yes, yes, I could cope with a little Bisquit myself, first today, ha, ha.' He wondered which of them had been a member longer, and by that time the cognac had been brought by the steward and the treacherous art expert had decided in his own favour and relaxed a little. Malory asked his question. 'M'wife really. Asked me to find out about a painter. Tell you the truth, I think she must be doing a crossword puzzle. Moment I saw you, I thought: he'll know in a jiffy. Name Mallard mean anything to you?'

  Wrinkles slid about on the ancient and reptilian countenance opposite. There was a small smile. 'I have never heard of a painter so called.'

  'Or a subject?'

  'Plenty of people paint wildfowl. There's no single celebrated picture, I think. Mallard, you say?'

  'Yes, Mallard. Well,' Malory poured the brandy down his throat, 'thanks, old lad. I'll tell my lady.' He had already doddered three or four steps away, when:

  'Oh, Malory.'

  He turned. 'Yes.'

  'You're sure it's Mallard?'

  'Well that's what it says. Why?'

  'Not Mallord - with an "o"?'

  He thought about it for a moment. Dikeston's directions had been handwritten. An 'a' for an 'o'? It was hardly impossible.

  'Could be, I suppose. There's a Mallord, is there?'

  'Well, yes. Not his surname, you know. I mean, you wouldn't find him so listed. It's one of his three Christian names.'

  'Whose?'

  Again the smile on the wrinkled features. 'Joseph Mallord William, those were his first names.'

  'And his surname?'

  'Turner. You've heard, have you?'

  Malory turned a pale face to him. 'Heard what?'

  'One's been found.'

  'Oh, really. Where?'

  'Happens all the time, you know. There are lots and lots of Turner drawings.'

  'Any great value?' Malory asked, knowing already.

  'Turner drawings? They vary. Depends how good and how big and what period. Even now you might get one for, oh, as little as eight or ten thousand.'
>
  Malory relaxed.

  'But this isn't one of those. Not from what I hear.'

  'Oh,' said Malory politely. 'What is it you hear?'

  The tortoise mouth widened in a grin, though whether of pleasure or malice it was hard to tell. 'I hear it's a big one, same size and period as The Fighting Téméraire. If it is, God alone knows what it will fetch!'

  Vivian Sudbury, for all the expensive simplicity of his Huntsman suit, his Lobb shoes and his Turnbull & Asser haberdashery (Malory guessed there was a thousand pounds on Sudbury's back), still bore with him that peculiar oiliness unmistakable in dealers in fine things. His eye had about it that lambent humility which is ready at once to turn either to obsequiousness or contempt, according to the state of negotiation.

  He said, 'Turner,' in a voice like velvet.

  'That's the feller,' Sir Horace told him. 'Tell me about him.'

  Sudbury glanced round the room, pricing everything in a single swift survey. He lit a cigarette which, Malory's nostrils told him, was Egyptian. 'There are,' said the velvet voice, 'Turners and Turners.'

  Malory nodded encouragingly. 'So I'm told.'

  'The highest price ever paid at auction,' Sudbury continued, 'was for a Turner: six million four hundred thousand dollars, at Sotheby Parke Bernet.'

  1AO 'In New York City. I remember,' Pilgrim forced the words past wincing lips.

  'Beautiful painting, three feet by four. Juliet and her Nurse.'

  This one that's coming up,' Pilgrim asked. 'What's known about it?'

  'Remarkably little.' Vivian Sudbury spoke with a patent affection for mystery, which he adored because it unfailingly forced prices higher.

  The subject, for example?' Malory asked.

  Sudbury smiled. They're being rather coy at the moment. Naughty of them, but then' he waved a bejewelled hand in a gesture of tolerance 'it does help to build up interest.'

  'How would you like to cut the crap?' said Pilgrim, hating him. 'We want to know about Turner and about this painting. For that you're charging a stiff fee. Tell us.'

  Sudbury smiled. 'I'm so sorry. As a rule I find I'm talking with people deeply interested in art as such -'

  'Not money as such, like you and me?' Pilgrim said.

  'Oh, very well. What I imagine you want to know is what the painting might be - perhaps because you're considering investing?'

  'Perhaps,' said Malory.

  Sudbury nodded. Rudeness to him did not pay: he never allowed it to. And he had just thought of a way . . .

  Then if it is a major Turner, - well, two, anyway, are known to be missing. They are The Temple of Jupiter Panellenius Restored, exhibited first in 1816 at the Royal Academy. Not seen since 1853. If it's still in good condition I'd guess it might fetch two or three million.'

  'Dollars?'

  'Pounds, I'm afraid. The other, Fishermen Coming Ashore at Sunset, was quite possibly Turner's first commissioned painting - done in 1797 when he was twenty-two -and the more interesting for that.'

  'Value?'

  'Perhaps a little less. Up to two million.'

  'Any others?'

  'A hundred or so sizeable pieces. Many of them are watercolours, but Turner really was quite amazingly prolific: did more than 500 oil paintings and nearly 20,000 pencil and watercolours. So there could be absolutely anything!’

  'At any price?' Pilgrim asked grimly.

  'Oh, any price at all.''

  A week passed: time used by the fortunate auctioneers with considerable skill. The painting, it gradually emerged, presented a mystery to delight the hearts not only of the Vivian Sudburys of this world but of all Fleet Street. For it had conditions attached. In the course of that first week the revelations came one by one: the Turner was said to be a new one, and an oil. More - it was a sea-and-landscape with ships. It was, for the moment, housed in a specially-built packing-case twelve feet square of which TV news and all the papers carried photographs as it was driven on a large truck through central London.

  But it had not yet been seen, even by the auctioneers; and for them this might have constituted a grave moral dilemma in that they could scarcely offer for sale a Turner they had never seen, yet one condition of sale was that the packing case remain unopened until one week before the auction. The auctioneers, however, did have a documentary authentication dating from the 1840s. They therefore went ahead happily, and their catalogue described the painting as the 'Mysterious' Turner.

  Interest grew, and many questions were asked, not least by Mr Vivian Sudbury on behalf of Hillyard, Cleef. Where had the painting and its packing case been? But no answer was forthcoming, for this was the 'Mysterious' Turner. The questions Who is the owner? Who bought it last? Why was it not listed among Turner's much-catalogued works? also remained unanswered.

  The honour of talking the first photograph of the painting was one for which any photographer in London would have been anxious. Famous names, great photographic artists, offered their services at half or a quarter of their normal fees. At the auction house, however, it was decided that here was an opportunity to give youth a hand, and it so happened that one young member of the Royal Family was currently studying photography with a view to a career. She was miles from the throne, but she was nubile and therefore newsworthy. Pictures of the young princess and her picture of the painting made front pages and centre spreads all over the world.

  For by now interest was spreading rapidly. Copy transparencies of the youthful princess's photograph were put aboard jet aircraft at Heathrow and Gatwick and examined a few hours later in air-conditioned galleries in Southern California and Saudi Arabia, in Texas and Johannesburg.

  And now the picture found a title, for the setting of the painting was Plymouth, and The Hoe was discernible. Naval Vessel and Plymouth Hoe, though not Turner's title, was felt to have a nice restraint about it.

  Each of these events caused its little frisson in newspapers, television studios, and galleries. But one major surprise was saved for last. The princess's photographs had been cropped to show the picture and only the picture; nothing of the frame was visible. Malory and Pilgrim, placed in the unique position of being far more interested in the frame than the picture, found themselves suffering from a most distressing absence of information. They sought help from Vivian Sudbury who, having spent a lifetime greasing palms in the art world, none the less found himself helpless. The auctioneers kept their door firmly closed to everyone. The bank's name, usually a key to most places, proved valueless, for many large financial institutions were now interested.

  And in London many were represented.

  But of course it is not strictly necessary to be present in order to bid at an auction. There are always agents bidding on behalf of unnamed clients. But technology has introduced new factors into ancient practice: electronically, and by satellite, an auction can these days can be conducted on a worldwide basis.

  And so on that Wednesday at five p.m., when the auctioneer's gavel called an audience of the very rich and the very famous to order, it was in a room bathed in hot light and surveyed by cameras. For in addition to the multi-millionaires present, others - several of them billionaires - were seated in front of TV sets in places as diverse as Riyadh, Rio, Hong Kong, Dallas and Tokyo.

  'And now,' said the auctioneer, 'a painting by J. M. W. Turner provisionally titled: Naval Vessel and Plymouth Hoe.' He turned his head to watch as a porter in a stuff coat removed the draped cloth which had until that moment concealed the painting. Now he gazed blandly over an audience sitting rigid with surprise.

  For the frame in which the picture was displayed was fashioned in dulled stainless steel, with clearly reinforced corners.

  The auctioneer spoke gently but persuasively. It was part of the conditions of sale that the painting be offered in its frame. There would be absolutely no difficulty in removing the frame later, nor would damage be done to the picture in such removal. He then spoke briefly of the Turner's provenance, citing both the original certificate of authenticati
on and another accorded in the last few days by the custodian of the great Turner Bequest at the British Museum; and he added a few quiet but proud words concerning the self-evident quality of the painting. Then, becoming practical, he further explained that bids would be accepted in steps of fifty thousand pounds.

  At that point the auctioneer coughed, just once, as a kind of punctuation. 'Now, ladies and gentlemen,' he said, 'do I hear one million?'

  In fact he heard nothing. The first bid was made by a small nod of a silver head. But it came at once . . .

  Whatever the state of disagreement which lay in the background, the instructions to Vivian Sudbury had all the clarity of a pool of dew. 'Buy it,' Malory had ordered him boldly.

  The boldness evident in Sudbury's demeanour was somewhat less in evidence in Malory's face as the bidding climbed. Pilgrim's face reflected only pain. But Sudbury was a happy man as the price floated upward: for Sudbury was on commission, which reinforced his determination to follow his client's instructions.

  At £3,250,000 the painting was knocked down to Mr Sudbury. There was sadness among disappointed buyers round the world that the masterpiece would not now go to America, or South Africa, or Brazil.

  But there was great happiness among the cognoscenti in Britain that the Turner would not now go aboard. None of this happiness was apparent among the purchasers.

  'We shall sell it again,' Malory murmured as he and Pilgrim walked out into St James's. 'Perhaps even make a profit. Care for a bracer? My club's up the road.'

  'Thanks, but not now.' Pilgrim had hailed a taxi that was emerging from King Street into St James's. As it pulled up, he glanced at his watch. Timing's right, he thought.

  In his flat a few minutes later, phone in hand, he punched up the three-zero-five of Florida, then the Key Biscayne code and the number of Robizo's private office.

  'Hello.'

  'Pete?'

  'Who is it?' The voice was flat, almost but not quite hostile.

  'Pal, how goes it?'

  Now the tone changed. They had been brought out of Hungary together as boys in 1956, had gone to school and business school together. Now Pyotr Nagy was private assistant to Pepe Rabizo.