The King's Commissar

by Duncan Kyle

  That done, I concerned myself for a time with opposition to the Bolsheviks. The Romanov treasure aboard the steamer Rus, still at Tobolsk and still guarded, was captured by White Russian forces, guided by myself, a few days after the fall of Ekaterinburg and went into the war chest of Admiral Kolchak's anti-Bolshevik armies. I fought with Kolchak for a while, but became spirit-weary of war and killing and at last contrived a way to Moscow where, when I had recovered the document, I learned that Sverdlov had died already of some natural ailment.

  Is there more? Yes, there is Zaharoff: he was already Sir Basil by the time I returned to England; honoured everywhere, trusted nowhere and rich as Croesus.

  God, how he deserved to die! - he who all his life had profited by the deaths of others. But somehow I could not kill him though it would, ironically, have been supremely simple. For many times I watched him sit, often alone, at a café in Monte Carlo. But killing was now beyond me. I had seen enough of death.

  So I decided in the end that a truer justice should be done. Zaharoff's empire must be toppled by the greed that built it. And this I have arranged.

  Did he know? Yes, he knew. For years he had me hunted; paid me a pension of fifty thousand pounds a year because he had no alternative. And had me hunted. Not successfully. The money I sent to children, always: principally to those damaged (and always there are plenty) by weapons of war.

  He would have had me killed, but he never found me. I could have killed him, but I left him to age and the knowledge of his mortality.

  We are both gone, now. But in my old age I have drawn comfort from the knowledge that though I failed so many, I shall not fail in the end. Greed will pull down what was built.

  You - whoever you may be - you began the process by questioning the payment. That was the trigger. I knew that some day, a greedy man would seek to prevent the payment. And so would begin to bring down the Temple. For, once the process was begun, nothing would stop it. What, then, have I done? I have simply provided others with the means of litigation. There are three papers, three pieces of evidence.

  1. The document signed by Nicholas Romanov disclaiming not fifty but five hundred million in gold sent to London and to Zaharoff.

  2. My own sworn statement that Tsar Nicholas II signed the disclaimer under duress.

  3. Several photographs - those taken outside Ekaterinburg on 17th July, 1918. Bronard was as clever at photography as at treachery, for they are all clear and very recognizable. Their authenticity I have also attested in a sworn statement.

  As you read this, copies of all these documents are on their way to you, but also to the present head of the House of Romanov, and to the Soviet Government, both of whom will, I feel sure, be keen to acquire the sum which five hundred million has grown into after more than half a century in the hands of a fine and reputable bank.

  I remain,

  Yours faithfully, H.G. Dikeston.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Zaharoff Defence

  Malory sat white-faced, the final packet of Dikeston's story on the desk in front of him.

  It was all before his time, yet it was no puzzled; he knew enough of the times to make sense of it, and what he was not sure of, could guess. The Tsar had sent the gold: there was very strong evidence for that. Dikeston's narrative was true, too: it squared too closely with history to be anything else.

  The hundred million in Hillyard, Cleef's vault could only be a part of the Romanov bullion. But where was the rest? Covered by the Arrangement, the ever-mysterious Arrangement? That Arrangement of Sir Basil's with the Chancellor of the Exchequer and the Bank of England, and known only to the Chancellor, the Governor, and the Senior Partner of Hillyard, Cleef: the Arrangement that there be always one hundred million in the vault.

  All the rest went to the Bank of England. As gold prices rose, the Bank took more. It had done so for half a century.

  The Arrangement made by Zaharoff and Lloyd George, Malory thought. Made by cunning men: the one with war businesses to feed, the other with a war to be paid for.

  Five hundred million! Four hundred taken into Lloyd George's - no, into the nation's - coffers to pay for a war. And one hundred to Zaharoff's care. But not for spending, not for conversion, not for transfer; no, something worth more than any of them. Here was the provision of eternal stability.

  Clever, cunning men . . . Malory sat up suddenly.

  Eternal? Apparently not.

  All through the day Malory sat; a stooped and elderly version of Rodin's Thinker, he was brooding and almost motionless. Beside him lay the papers which step by step had brought Hillyard, Cleef to the edge of the calamity promised by Zaharoff in that first Senior Partner's note.

  Malory had no doubt that if it could be shown that enough bullion to make up the justly-famous Hillyard, Cleef hoard had come originally from Imperial Russia, from the private treasure store of Tsar Nicholas II, then serious legal battle would unquestionably be joined. Romanov survivors would lay claim to Romanov gold; the Russian Government would demand the return of Russian gold. Hillyard, Cleef would have to defend against both.

  The golden foundation upon which Hillyard, Cleef had been based so proudly for so long, would be ripped away . . .

  Not only that; the British Government, having misappropriated four-fifths of the Tsar's gold in 1915, would find itself paying interest compound*. Malory informed the office of the Governor of the Bank of England of a probable and large liability and quite soon the Governor came round in person to 6 Athelsgate to hear the story and left, moaning softly to himself, to calculate compound interest at assorted rates on four hundred million for sixty-odd years.

  All this left Malory still plunged in thought and deeply unhappy. Though he had suspected from the very start that Dikeston's threat was anything but a joke, the realization that ruin now faced Hillyard, Cleef was a single and continuing nasty surprise, recurring minute by minute. He was naturally much troubled at the thought of the bank's ruin but he was baffled and angry at the prospect of defeat by a man like Dikeston who had been not only less than clever, but was dead

  But most of all he was unhappy with Zaharoff. The old villain had known the danger and had even paid out a fortune over the years to ward it off; but he appeared to have erected no actual defence. Zaharoff must have guessed, presumably, at Dikeston's hatred, but he who foresaw everything had not foreseen the attack upon the bank itself.

  Why not - when he knew the hazards?

  Surely, Malory kept muttering to himself, Zaharoff must have taken further measures to protect the gold. He had done so once - by sending Dikeston to Russia. But then nothing more? Ridiculous! Malory suddenly sat up straight and busied himself with a fresh and aromatic Romeo No.3. Yes, ridiculous: Sir Basil would have done something . . .

  He lit the Romeo with particular care and searched the wreathing smoke for Zaharoff's likeness, wanting to peer even into the phantom brain. The image was elusive. He sent for the oaken box of Senior Partner's Notes and went through the many envelopes. No luck again. By now, however, Malory was convinced that Sir Basil had done something, must have done something. It had not been in the nature of the man to leave his castles undefended. Somewhere there would have been a drawbridge to raise.

  Would have been? The virtue of gold was that it was indestructible, more or less, short of a nuclear bomb. So -there would be!

  Soon, in the boardroom - he had been hunting through the building for traces of Zaharoff's remaining spoor - he sat looking at the oaken chair, wishing the old man were seated in it. He contemplated the ancient wood fruitlessly for a long time and actually rose to go before noticing in the decorative carving that curious continuous line which keeps turning back upon itself: the pattern known as the Greek Key.

  Scenting the trail, he went over the chair from top to bottom, and could see nothing. He tapped with a paper-knife for hollowed places; there were none. Any knobs and on cracks in the wood were prised and pressed: hidden compartments were not revealed.

 
As Horsfall drove him home, Malory glowered out of the Bentley's window, seeking inspiration in the streets. Twice in as many miles he saw the Greek Key pattern again: once on the canopy above a restaurant, and again in gold on the window of an antique shop.

  Lady Malory awaited him in the library, as she always did; she stood, again as she always did, beside a silver tray upon which decanters rested. He kissed her cheek, and she began to pour whisky. He said, 'Not now, thankee, m'dear.'

  She stared at him. She had poured his evening whisky for half a century, failing to do so only when he was abroad. 'You're not ill, Horace?'

  'Puzzled.' He lowered himself into a chair, rather heavily, she thought.

  'Is it serious?'

  He nodded.

  Lady Malory, too, had known Zaharoff. Her interest immediately quickened at his name, and a smile began to flicker on her lips. She had been a famous beauty as a girl and Sir Basil, even in old age, had had an eye for beautiful girls. She had once told Malory of a contemporary, a lovely debutante of the same year, who had an enormous fondness for the city of Venice. Zaharoff invited her to dinner at his Paris home in the Avenue Hoche and in the course of the evening took her to see the cellars. One had been flooded. On the water floated a gondola. It contained a double bed.

  Lady Malory was in no doubt at all that her husband must be right. 'It will be simple,' she said, 'and really rather clever. And it will be nothing whatever to do with the Greek Key design. That simply informs you there is a key.'

  Unusually, Malory had no appetite, but his thirst returned after an hour or so. Lady Malory also sipped malt whisky and as the hours went on they became obsessed with a possibility.

  Upon Sir Horace's thin watch-chain hung a gold numeral. The number was 6, and he had inherited it from his father; the numeral represented 6 Athelsgate, and had been given to Malory's father by Zaharoff.

  It was quite possible that the 6 could serve as a key. But where was the lock?

  Six Athelsgate being very much a place of small rituals, the telephone on Malory's desk rang next morning at five minutes to eleven. Since the day was a Tuesday, he knew why.

  He lifted the receiver and said, 'Good morning, Griffin.'

  'Five minutes, Sir Horace, if you're coming down.' Griffin was the keeper of the gold, a once-massive Cockney now rather shrunken by advanced years, and responsible not only for the machinery of protection, but for showing the gold to inspecting parties.

  'I don't think so. Any visitors?'

  'Party of kids from Wapping, that's all. Just the five minutes, then?'

  'Yes.'

  Malory replaced the telephone. The thought and the disconnection came simultaneously and he hurried out of his office and down the stairs, to stand glowing with a patient benevolence he was far from feeling as a dozen or so twelve-years-olds made noises of astonishment at the sight of the gold.

  'Hold it open,' he said to Griffin as the last of the youngsters filed out.

  Griffin, old as he was, made haste. An electronic code linked 6 Athelsgate to the safe-makers, Messrs Chubb, whose technicians alone could override the time lock which would shortly come into play. If the door closed, it would not open again for a week.

  HOW LONG? asked the computer screen.

  'Tell them several hours,' Malory replied. He looked at the gold stack and calculated there must be roughly fifteen hundred bars; he then decided, and typed, 'Vault to remain open until further notice.'

  They apparently had collective hysterics at Chubb & Co., but Malory's signature number showed his authority. He was warned that he must bear responsibility.

  'What's going on, Sir Horace?' Griffin asked in surprise. Nothing like this had ever happened before.

  'I have just realized,' Malory said, 'that I know far too little about your work, Griffin. Please describe it.'

  'Well, sir.' Griffin turned to look at the stack of ingots he had spent a lifetime tending. 'It's less than it used to be. Time was when the gold just about filled the vault. Inflation, that is, sir. Pound's worth nuthin'.'

  Malory nodded and otherwise kept silent. Somewhere in this place, he had become convinced, the answer must lie. Even if Griffin was a chatterbox, Malory was very ready to listen.

  'Most of it's never even been moved,' Griffin went on, 'Not since the gold came here. One or two bars on the top may get moved about, but not the rest.'

  'Why's that?'

  'Orders, Sir Horace.'

  'Whose?'

  'Blessed if I know, sir. Come from before my time, but they've always been followed. When the bars are moved it's always from the top layer. Never touch the next till that layer's gone.'

  'So the bottom ones have been there since -?'

  'Well, since the vault was built, sir. Nineteen-fifteen, wasn't it?'

  'Do you have the orders actually written down?' Malory enquired.

  'Well, they're typed out, sir, nowadays.'

  'Nowadays?'

  'They weren't always, sir. They were in Indian ink on vellum for years. But the vellum got wore through.' 'And thrown away, Mr Griffin?' 'No, sir. I kept it. Would you like a look?' 'Oh yes!' said Malory fervently.

  How marvellous! he thought. The handwriting was quite unmistakable, influenced as it was by the graceful, flowing Turkish/Arabic script of Zaharoff s Constantinople youth. Further, there stood at the foot of the sheet of instructions the letters ZZ. The sheet of vellum was certainly worn -and grubby too - but it was perfectly clear. Malory fumbled for his spectacles and began to read.

  As Griffin had said, the instructions were precise, but they concerned only the moving of the gold by mechanical hand on to the tiny trolley beneath the vault which connected directly with the bullion vaults of the Bank of England. They specified the order in which bars were to be removed from each layer (Zaharoff had envisaged roaring inflation; that was clear).

  And then: 'If at any time the second lowest layer of ingots be breached, such breach may only take place in the presence of the Senior Partner of Hillyard, Cleef. He must be alone in the vault at the time.'

  Malory gazed at the rows of ingots stacked like bricks on the floor of the vault. 'Something's hidden in there,' he murmured to himself.

  'Beg pardon, Sir Horace?'

  Malory began to take off his jacket. 'How old are you, Griffin?'

  'Seventy-four, sir.'

  'Well, I'm seventy-eight. If I can, you can!'

  'Can what, sir?'

  'Shift these bars.'

  It would have been hard labour for two fit young men. With the gold price that day at $ 350 per troy ounce (give or take a cent or two) Hillyard, Cleef s one hundred million was represented by something a little short of fifteen hundred 'good delivery' bars, each bar being of four hundred troy ounces. Each weighed, accordingly, close to twenty-eight pounds.

  Moving the first two was accomplished with enthusiasm accompanied by rapid diminution of energy. 'Half a hundredweight, that is, sir,' Griffin muttered. 'And there's only eighteen tons to go.'

  'My God!'

  'Yes, and I was wondering, sir . . .'

  'Go on,' Malory gasped.

  'Well, if you want to do it all by hand, Sir Horace? 'Cos we have got the mechanical hand.'

  Malory smiled at him. 'Chairs, too?' he enquired.

  They sat and watched. Griffin showed him how to control the hand as it picked up an ingot, pivoted, placed it as required, and returned for another. Malory found the movement pleasant to watch: soothing, almost - but he was too on edge to be soothed.

  In two hours the stack had been reduced to two layers, and all the bars, Malory was delighted to see, still bore as a 'chop', or imprint, not the Imperial Russian Eagle, but the oval of the Credit Suisse. How the devil that had been achieved, with war raging in Europe, he did not care to speculate.

  The soft whirr of the mechanical hand ceased now, and Griffin rose. 'Leave you to it, Sir Horace.'

  'Yes. Thank you.' Now alone, Malory began to move the bars . . .

  The object was of s
o similar a colour, and Malory's eyes had been half-dazzled for so long by the glow of the overhead lighting reflected by the surfaces of the ingots, that it must have lain exposed for some moments before he saw it and switched off the hand. He leaned over, picked up the object, and could not suppress a chuckle; for Zaharoffs secret (and he was certain now that this must be Zaharoff's secret) was contained in a vessel entirely appropriate to the man: a brass shell-case. He frowned, though, as he turned it in his hands and saw that it was stamped with the name of its maker.

  Not Vickers of Sheffield, though. The familiar stamp 'Kpz' was the mark of Krupp, of Essen.

  It took time to summon Griffin, to communicate with Chubb's, to close the vault door. Inside the vault the bars were not replaced in a single neat stack. That could wait . . .

  Sir Horace Malory, a long brown envelope in his hand concealing the shell-case, was on his way to his own office, where he quickly discovered that the 'Kpz' of Krupp was not the only peculiarity of the shell-case. Further lettering had been punched into the brass and it read: 'Do not attempt to open without correct key.' Malory looked for the keyhole and found it without difficulty. Where the percussion cap would normally have been, a barrel lock had been fitted.

  His hands trembled a little as he removed the gold number 6 from his watch-chain and examined the small key opening of the lock. This was a moment - and he was keenly aware of it - of no little danger. The shell-case itself was warning enough, and everything he knew of Zaharoff underlined the warning. To use the wrong key would probably activate some explosive or incendiary device; Zaharoff had fabricated not toys, but arms. And if the shell-case contained protection for Hillyard, Cleef, then Malory was sure it would also contain the means of its own destruction.

  He looked at the lock.

  He looked at the key, noting the exactly-fashioned curve of the descender, which must presumably act upon the lock's spring.

  I am, perhaps, about to die, he thought. He lit a cigar and poured a small measure of Cardhu, and relished both. After a while he put the key into the lock: and heard the spring inside give. So far so good.