The King's Commissar

by Duncan Kyle

  'Why wasn't Pepe bidding tonight?' Pilgrim demanded.

  'For the Turner? Because he bids himself - no middlemen - and he had business right here.'

  'Would he want it?'

  'Price?'

  'It went for three and a quarter.'

  'Dollars?'

  'Pounds, Pete. This is England.'

  'Hey, that's big, even for Pepe!'

  'Pepe could buy fifty, don't snow me. You want it?'

  'Can you get it?'

  'I think so.'

  'Hey, Pal, it's Pepe - for Chrissake don't putz around. Do him a favour and he's your friend. But foul up, oh boy!'

  Pilgrim flushed. The painting now belonged to Hillyard, Cleef. He was Senior Partner. A quick sale, even a profit beckoned. He said, 'Plus ten per cent.'

  'And you can deliver?' *

  'Right.'

  'Pepe'll be very happy. He wanted it. I'll telex his confirmation.'

  Pilgrim hung up. He found he was sweating a little. Pepe Robizo was big, dangerous and enormously rich: a huge-scale building contractor with strong connections in Washington and even stronger ones in the Mafia, now trying hard to buy social acceptance through his art gallery.

  Pilgrim took a shower, and then, as he shaved, regarded his face in the mirror with satisfaction. Money-back-plus-ten for the price of a phone call!

  Two signatures were always required upon any Hillyard, Cleef cheque for a sum of more than one hundred pounds. This was another Zaharoff legacy. Malory, not much relishing the task, took the half-signed cheque to Pilgrim's office next morning and placed it before him.

  I7S Pilgrim glanced at it in silence and reached for his pen, then did a double take.

  'I remember exactly,,' he said, 'because it is graven upon my heart, the figure we had to pay for the goddam thing! And it was not three million, five hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds! We paid three and a quarter!' His voice had risen.

  Malory sighed. 'I'm afraid there's something called a buyer's premium. Ten per cent on the price paid.'

  'Oh yeah.' Pilgrim remembered it now. 'That goes to the auctioneer for doing nothing, right? Three hundred and twenty-five thousand! We're in the wrong business, Horace.'

  Malory, hatted and coated, went on his way to St James's, accompanied by a security company van and several men armed with clubs and gas sprays, to collect the Turner. He returned less than an hour later and the security men bore the painting, no longer in its twelve-foot-square crate but in a light wooden one more appropriate to its size, up the stairs to the partners' room. The men then adjourned to stand unobstrusively outside 6 Athelsgate.

  Malory, meanwhile, approached the crate with a cold chisel and a hammer. It proved not difficult to open. With Pilgrim's assistance the painting, in its steel frame, was lifted out.

  Together they examined the frame. In the back there was a small flap, closed and sealed. Malory broke the seal with anxious fingers, and lifted the flap to reveal a key. There was a keyhole in one corner.

  When the key was turned part of the frame came open and a small bundle of papers was revealed.

  It was all very simple. If rather expensive.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  --------------------------

  Fourth instalment of the account, written by

  Lt-Cdr H. G. Dikeston RN, of his journeyings

  in Russia in the spring and summer of 1918

  I stood swaying in the night, feeling like death, and repeated, in Russian, 'I am in urgent need of your assistance. It is most important that I speak with Mr Preston, the Consul.' I could barely stand, so powerfully was the fever upon me now; but the man stood there in silk, looking down his nose at me. He said again, 'It is too late,' and made to close the door.

  It was Ruzsky, beside me, who turned matters. He said in a low and threatening voice, 'Urgent! We are from the Urals Oblast Soviet. You should have a care, Comrade.'

  The man frowned. 'Who are you?'

  'Commissar Ruzsky. He is Commissar Yakovlev,' said Ruzsky. 'Inform Preston at once.'

  And so it was done. Preston appeared; I told him I must speak with him urgently and alone; he took me to an upstairs room and looked upon me with no great favour. 'What the devil is all this about?'

  'It is about the King's business,' I said, and he looked at me sharply, cocking an eyebrow; he must have wondered if this were a joke of some kind. 'Have you a Navy List?' I then demanded.

  He had, the Lord knows why, for he stood a thousand miles from navigable ocean. I said, 'Dikeston, Henry George, Lieutenant-Commander.'

  'Then what's this Yakovlev nonsense?' he demanded, laying the List to one side.

  'I want your word, Preston,' I told him. 'Your word that nothing about me, and nothing of what I tell you, will ever be passed to another soul.'

  He frowned at once, reluctant. 'Only if you convince me you are on the King's errand. You'll have to prove it.'

  'I can't. ' But I told him my tale and showed him my paper from Sverdlov, and I could see he soon began to believe. Mention of Zaharoff made him scowl, though. 'That man -and with the King!' It was as though he could not believe it.

  'And with the King's blessing,' said I. 'Now: your word.'

  He gave it, and I then explained our difficulties. Preston had some of his own. He was under pressure from both London and the embassy in Moscow to intercede for the Imperial Family and had been making daily attempts to visit them. All his requests had been refused. 'However,' he went on, 'though I have been unable to have audience of His Majesty, or to speak with him, it is possible to see him from a distance. Come with me.'

  I accompanied him to the stairs and we climbed to a room on the upper floor, where he drew back a curtain and, as the moonlight entered the room, said, 'You see?'

  And indeed I did. The consulate lay beyond the Ipatiev House, with the result that the view that lay before us was a slanting one. But from that upper room the line of sight was of a height to pass over the palisade and see direct into a corner of the courtyard of the House of Special Purpose. The space was deserted now, of course, and no movement was visible in the former Ipatiev House, though in a few places there was light at a dimmed window.

  'You do see them?' I asked Preston.

  'Oh yes.' He was matter-of-fact in his manner of delivery, but it was easy to see that Consul Preston had deep feelings. 'For an hour or so each day the Tsar and Tsarina and their daughter come into the courtyard there, for air and exercise. They walk up and down. Imagine - for the Tsar of all the Russias to be so confined!'

  'Could you communicate with them?' I demanded. 'Would it be possible?"

  He shook his head. 'I dare not.'

  'Dare!' I said angrily. 'Surely when the cousin of your Sovereign is in such -'

  He interrupted me. 'There is much you do not know. Difficult news.'

  'In what way?'

  Preston sighed: 'British and American troops have made a landing at Archangel. Accordingly, I am now the representative here of a power engaged in acts of war against Russia.'

  'At war with Russia!' I could hardly believe my ears. Russia had so long been Britain's ally.

  'Not at war,' Preston said. 'Though it is a mere technicality, there has in fact been no declaration. None the less my position here in the Urals must now be considered precarious. For myself it hardly matters, of course, but as senior Consul I represent the interests of many residents here, not only British subjects, and I cannot put them further at risk by provocative acts.'

  I eyed him angrily, but he put his hand on my sleeve and went on, 'There is a similar view across the street, perhaps a better, from the Purin house. From there the garden can be seen.'

  'Where is this house?' I asked him.

  It was close by, and owned by a merchant, one Lev Purin.

  'Is he loyal to the Tsar?' I demanded.

  'He's a banker,' Preston said wryly. 'What is there for him now but loyalty?'

  The hand on my sleeve must at last have sensed my trembling, for he no
w said, 'You are ill?'

  I shall be,' I replied, for by now I was certain of it.

  'Aspirin, hot toddy and lemon,' he said, and took me to a sitting-room where a fire burned, even though the evening was a warm one. He made the toddy with whisky and boiling water and as I drank it, Preston told me more of Purin, and remarkable listening it made. For not only did

  17Q the Purin house offer a better sight of the House of Special Purpose; it had a secret telephone. Purin's wife had a sister who lived elsewhere in the town and the private line ran between the two houses. 'It could be useful to you,' Preston said.

  In that way he was helpful; otherwise he was determined he could offer nothing more. I recall arguing with him heatedly about duty, but I was close to collapse by then, and have no true recollection of the detailed conversation.

  Soon I left, staggering, barely able to stay upright. I remember little more, save that Ruzsky had waited outside for me: that I babbled out to him the things told to me by Preston, and that twice he cracked his palm across my cheek when I was in danger of sinking to the ground . . .

  I woke in a bare room and for a time lay unmoving, eyes closed more than they were open, for merely to raise my eyelids seemed to require an effort beyond my strength. Then, gradually I came to know my surroundings. A white sheet covered me, the walls were white also; there was a window, small and barred and bare of curtains, and I thought for a moment this must be a cell - as indeed it proved to be, though not in a prison. An hour passed, in which I learned the extent of my weakness. To lift my hand or move my head was an impossibility. To move a finger needed willpower. My body seemed without sensation and my mind afloat in emptiness.

  I lay for an hour, unconcerned. I learned later this was a product of weakness, for I was weak indeed, weakened almost to death.

  At last I heard a door catch, and the movement of harsh fabric, and a woman's voice said in Russian, 'Can you be awake?' I tried to answer, but my mouth was arid and nothing came but a grunt.

  Next I saw her face looking down at me. She was a woman of perhaps fifty, her head and shoulders shrouded ¡n the habit of a nun of the Orthodox Church. 'You are awake,' she said, and added when I tried to nod, 'No, be still' She put her hand on my forehead and it felt cool and dry. 'How do you feel - are you thirsty?' My eyelids, heavy as they were, gave her an affirmative and she filled a glass with water and, lifting my head, held it to my lips.

  I drank gratefully, and she said, 'Prayer saved you, you know. We all prayed 50 much.'

  I thanked her and asked where I was, and learned that this was a convent and that I was still in the city of Ekaterinburg.

  The water had moistened my mouth and lips; now I could speak, but weakness lay also in my voice, which emerged as the barest of whispers. 'How did I get here?'

  'Your friend brought you. Monsieur Bronard. Oh, so long ago, m'sieu!' She had slipped into French; like so many educated Russians in those days, she must have preferred that language to her own.

  'So long ago?' I asked. 'When does that mean?'

  'Almost one month,' she said, smiling. 'For almost one whole month you have had us all worried and praying for you.'

  A month! 'What is the date?'

  'The fourth of June.'

  Yet I had returned to the city on May 10th! 'How can it be - what has happened?'

  She gave me a smile of great gentleness. 'Pneumonia: first one lung, then the other. Two bouts of severe illness, m'sieu, two long fevers, two crises. Twice you were all but dead. Now you need food, strength.'

  The shock was clearing my head now. My mind was no longer content to drift and was instead engaged in speculation as to what might have happened.

  'Tell me, mousieur, who holds the city?'

  'The Bolsheviks,' she said with tight lips. It was apparent she had little time for them.

  'The Whites have not -?'

  'They advance,' she answered. 'So it is said. But not yet to Ekaterinburg.'

  'And the Tsar? Is he -?'

  She shushed me then. 'Too much talk, m'sieu. You must rest.'

  'Tell me.'

  'We must not speak of such things,' she said.

  'Is he alive?'

  She nodded and moved away, murmuring, 'Sleep now, m'sieu.' And I heard the door latch.

  My mind would have had me out of bed at once, but my mind was not in control. A few minutes' wakefulness and a sip of water had given me no vitality and indeed I felt, if anything, still weaker. Willy-nilly, sleep took me and when I woke again it was to a shadowed room lit by candles, to the sight of the good sister - and to the smell of food ! It was a broth of meat and she placed a stool beside my bed and fed it to me, spoonful by spoonful, as though I were a baby. There was barley in it, I remember, and onion, and in all my life I remember no food so entirely delicious. And more, for as I ate it was possible to feel something positive in my body, an awakening of strength, a movement in the blood. When it was done the nun smiled again and said, 'Soon now you will be strong,' and departed.

  Bronard came an hour later, and now I was slipping into sleep, but he would have none of it and pinched my cheek until my eyes opened. Even so, I begged him to leave me, but it could only have been weakness that spoke, for in fact I was desperate for news.

  He whispered, 'Don't you want to know?'

  'Yes, yes.'

  'They're here. The whole family.'

  'Where?'

  "The Ipatiev House. Still under guard. The others were brought from Tobolsk - the boy and the three Grand Duchesses. Now they're all together.'

  'But alive?'

  'So far,' he said. 'Some of their entourage have been returned to Tobolsk.'

  I felt a great sense of relief: the family was together and unharmed. An entire month gone and they remained safe. 'What other news?' I asked.

  'One of the servants has been shot,' Bronard said harshly-

  'The paper - what of that?' But my strength was ebbing.

  'I can hardly hear you,' he said irritably. 'Paper,' I muttered.

  'No,' he said impatiently. 'I haven't got it! But we must find a way - understand!'

  CHAPTER NINE

  --------------------------------------

  The Boy on the Talking Motor-Cycle

  It was not Sir Horace Malory's habit to attend the quarterly dinners of the organization known as UKUS, a society whose members, as the name indicated, came equally from United Kingdom and United States business and banking houses in the City of London. The society's twin purposes were to ease the flow of business between the two nations, and to enable Americans resident in Britain to become acquainted in congenial surroundings with one another and with well-disposed Brits.

  By tradition the evenings were boozy: bread rolls were thrown about, speakers hissed, practical jokes played, wagers won and lost.

  Malory felt he was a little old for that kind of thing, but he went, for Pilgrim's sake. The man might enjoy it ...

  He didn't though; nor did Malory. A florid actuary sitting across from them at the long table began the trouble.

  'Saw you at the Turner auction the other night,' he said jovially to Malory. 'Any idea who bought it?'

  'No,' said Malory shortly.

  'Lot of cash for a yard of canvas and a smear or two of paint, wouldn't you say?' the actuary went on cheerfully. 'People really do toss their money around. Don't believe in it myself.'

  'Nor I.' Malory, disliking this talk, wished the man would shut up. He put on his bumbling-old-duffer manner, 'Lot of damned nonsense. That's what I say. Waste of good money! I say, I was hearing about the Chancellor -'

  'Funny,' said the actuary with determination. 'I did hear Hillyard, Cleef were the buyers.'

  'Got more damned sense,' Malory bumbled. 'Hillyard, Cleef! Dear, oh dear. Hear that, Pilgrim?'

  Pilgrim laughed harshly. 'Where'd that pile of horseshit come from?'

  'And,' added the actuary cheerfully, raising his voice a little and looking around for additional attention, 'that wasn't all I h
eard!'

  'If the rest is as puerile as that, I should concentrate on the soup,' Malory said. He sipped his own. It was scalding hot.

  But the thing was started now. 'The way I heard the story,' said the actuary happily, 'it started very close to the dealer who did the bidding. He said the buyer had to remain anonymous, but it was an Anglo-American banking house -'

  'Stuff and nonsense!' said Malory.

  '- with a guilty conscience.' The circle of laughter round the actuary widened.

  The doddering-old-buffer-manner slid away from Malory's shoulders like a snake's sloughed skin. He could sense now what was coming. He reached across the table, placed his forefinger beneath the rim of the actuary's soup plate, and tipped it into the actuary's lap.

  As he said later to an astonished Pilgrim, 'Really it was the only gratifying moment in the whole evening. Nice to see the fella hopping about clutching his trousers, what? You do know what he was going to say, don't you?'

  'No.'

  Malory gave him a warning glance. 'I'm not going to let the words even pass my lips, my dear chap. Let things like that get out and they take wing.'

  They were taking wing even as he spoke. The actuary had a smallish but painful scald in a thoroughly inconvenient place and he was not the kind of man to allow Malory's grey hairs to offer protection against retribution.

  From his bathroom, where he sat with a bag of ice in one hand and a telephone in the other, he set about discovering the name of the current Art Critic of The Times. This established, he managed finally to reach the man and pass on what he described as 'a rumour, but from well-informed circles'. The man from The Times said he was most interested, and certainly he sounded it.

  'The City Editor of The Times would be grateful for a word with you,' Pilgrim's secretary said brightly, early the following morning.

  Pilgrim picked up the telephone. 'What can I do for you, George?'

  It turned out not to be George, the City Editor, whom he knew, but one Valentine, the mumble-mumble, whom he didn't.

  'Just one question, Mr Pilgrim, really.'

  'Go ahead.'

  'Is it true you bought the Turner to present it to the nation?'

  Pilgrim proceeded to think very rapidly. If his answer were no, the next question would be, 'Then why did you buy it?' A 'yes' would cost Hillyard, Cleef three and a half million-plus. 'No comment?' No comment indicated slippery men in dark corners. Pilgrim disliked being rude to reporters. Fashionable theory at the Harvard Business School in his time had dictated that the Press was a friend.