Cat O'Nine Tales

The Red King

“They charged me with the wrong offence, and sentenced me for the wrong crime,’ Max said as he lay in the bunk below me, rolling another cigarette.

While I was in prison, I heard this claim voiced by inmates on several occasions, but in the case of Max Glover it turned out to be true.

Max was serving a three-year sentence for obtaining money by false pretences. Not his game. Max’s speciality was removing small items from large homes. He once told me, with considerable professional pride, that it could be years before an owner became aware that a family heirloom has gone missing, especially, Max added, if you take one small, but valuable, object from a cluttered room.

‘Mind you,’ continued Max, ‘I’m not complaining, because if they had charged me with the crime I did commit, I would have ended up with a much longer sentence—’ he paused — ‘and nothing to look forward to once I’m released.’

Max knew he had aroused my curiosity, and as I had nowhere to go for the next three hours before the cell door would be opened for Association — that glorious forty-five minutes when prisoners are allowed out of their cell for a stroll around the yard — I picked up my pen, and said, ‘OK, Max, I’m hooked. So tell me how you came to be sentenced for the wrong crime.’

Max struck a match, lit his hand-rolled cigarette and inhaled deeply before he began. In prison, every action is exaggerated, as no one is in a hurry. I lay on the bunk above and waited patiently.

‘Does the Kennington Set mean anything to you?’ Max began.

‘No,’ I replied, assuming he must be referring to a group of red-coated gentlemen on horseback, glass of port in one hand, whip in the other, surrounded by a pack of hounds with intent to spend their Saturday morning in pursuit of a furry animal with a bushy tail. I was wrong. The Kennington Set, as Max went on to explain, was in fact a chess set.

‘But no ordinary chess set,’ he assured me. I became more interested. The pieces were probably crafted by Lu Ping (1469–1540), a master craftsman of the Ming Dynasty (1368–1644). All thirty-two ivory pieces were exquisitely carved and then delicately painted in red and white. The details have been faithfully recorded in several historic documents, though it has never been conclusively established exactly how many sets Lu Ping was responsible for producing in his lifetime.

‘Three complete sets were known to be in existence,’ continued Max as smoke spiralled up from the lower bunk. ‘The first is displayed in the throne room of the People’s Palace in Peking; the second in the Mellon Collection in Washington, and the third at the British Museum. Many collectors scoured the great continent of China in search of the fabled fourth set, and although such efforts always ended in failure, several individual pieces appeared on the market from time to time.’

Max stubbed out the smallest cigarette butt I have ever seen. ‘I was at the time,’ continued Max, ‘carrying out some research into the smaller objects of Kennington Hall in Yorkshire.’

‘How did you manage that?’ I asked.

‘Country Life commissioned Lord Kennington to write a coffee-table book for Christmas, in which he detailed the treasures of Kennington Hall,’ Max said, before rolling a second cigarette. ‘Most considerate of him,’ he added.

‘Among the peer’s ancestors was one James Kennington (1552–1618), a true adventurer, buccaneer, and loyal servant of Queen Elizabeth I. James rescued the first set in 1588, only moments before he sunk the Isabella. On returning to Plymouth, following a seventeen-four victory in the match against the Spanish, Captain Kennington lavished treasure plundered from the sinking ship on his monarch. Her Majesty always showed a great deal of interest in anything solid, especially if she could wear it — gold, silver, pearls or rare gems — and rewarded Captain Kennington with a knighthood. Elizabeth had no use for the chess set, so Sir James was stuck with it. Unlike Sir Francis or Sir Walter, Sir James continued to plunder the high seas. He was so successful that, a decade later, his monarch elevated him to the House of Lords, with the title the first Lord Kennington, for services rendered to the Crown.’ Max paused before adding, ‘The only difference between a pirate and a peer is who you divide the spoils with.’

The second Lord Kennington, like his monarch, showed no interest in chess, so the set was left to gather dust in one of the ninety-two rooms in Kennington Hall. As there were few historical incidents worthy of mention during the uneventful lives of the third, fourth, fifth or sixth Lords Kennington, we can only assume that the remarkable chess set remained in situ, its pieces never moved in anger. The seventh Lord Kennington served as a colonel in the 12th Light Dragoons at the time of Waterloo. The colonel played the occasional game of chess, so the set was dusted down and returned to the Long Gallery.

The eighth Lord Kennington was slaughtered during the Charge of the Light Brigade, the ninth in the Boer War, and the tenth at Ypres. The eleventh, a playboy, led a more peaceful life, but eventually found it necessary, for pecuniary reasons — Kennington Hall required a new roof — to open his home to the public. They turned up every weekend in countless numbers, and for a small sum were allowed to stroll around the Hall; when they ventured into the Long Gallery they came across the Chinese masterpiece on its stand, surrounded by a red rope.

With mounting debts, which the publics entrance fees could not offset, the eleventh Lord Kennington was forced to sell off several of the family heirlooms, including the Kennington Set.

Christie’s placed an estimate of £100,000 on the masterpiece, but the auctioneer’s hammer finally fell at £230,000.

‘When you next visit Washington,’ added Max between puffs, ‘you can view the original Kennington Set, as it’s now part of the Mellon Collection. This would have been the end of my tale,’ continued Max, ‘if the eleventh Lord Kennington hadn’t married an American striptease artiste, who gave birth to a son. This child displayed a quality that the Kennington lineage had not troubled themselves with for several generations — brains.

‘The Hon. Harry Kennington became, much to the disapproval of his father, a hedge-fund manager, and thus the natural heir to the first Lord Kennington. He was a man who took as easily to the currency market as his pirate ancestor had to the high seas. By the age of twenty-seven, Harry had plundered his first million as an asset stripper, much to his mother’s amusement, who suggested that stripping was clearly a hereditary trait. By the time Harry inherited the title he was chairman of Kennington’s Bank. The first thing he did with his new-found wealth was to set about restoring Kennington Hall to its former glory. He certainly did not allow members of the public to pay five pounds to park their cars on his front lawn.

‘The twelfth Lord Kennington, like his father, also married a remarkable woman. Elsie Trumpshaw was the offspring of a Yorkshire cotton mill proprietor, and the product of a Cheltenham Ladies’ College education. Like any self-respecting Yorkshire lass, Elsie considered the saying, If you take care of the pennies, the pounds will take care of themselves to be a creed, not a cliché.

‘While her husband was away making money, Elsie was unquestionably the mistress of Kennington Hall. Having spent her formative years wearing her elder sister’s hand-me-downs, carrying her thumbed books to school and later borrowing her lipstick, whatever the colour, Elsie was well qualified to be the guardian of a hereditary pile. With consummate skill, diligence and good housekeeping, she set about the maintenance and upkeep of the newly restored Hall. Although she had no interest in the game of chess, she was irritated by the empty display cabinet in the Long Gallery. She finally solved the problem while strolling around a local car-boot sale,’ said Max, ‘and at the same time changed the fortunes of so many people, myself included.’ Max stubbed out his second cigarette and I was relieved that he didn’t immediately roll another, as our little cell was fast coming to resemble Paddington Station in the era of the steam engine.

Elsie was trudging around a car-boot sale in Pudsey on a rainy Sunday morning — she only ever attended such events when it was raining, as that ensured fewer customers and it was therefore easier for her to strike a bargain. She was rummaging through some clothes when she came across the chessboard. The red and white squares brought back memories of a photograph she had seen in the old Christie’s catalogue, dating from when the original set had been sold. Elsie bargained for some time with the man standing at the back of an ancient Jaguar, and ended up having to part with £23 for the ivory chessboard.

When Elsie returned to the Hall, she placed the newly acquired board in the empty display cabinet and was delighted to discover that it was a perfect fit. She thought nothing more of the coincidence, until her uncle Bertie advised her to have it valued — for insurance purposes, he explained.

Unconvinced, but unwilling to slight her uncle, Elsie took the board up to London on one of her monthly trips to visit her aunt Gertrude. Lady Kennington — she was always Lady Kennington in London — dropped into Sotheby’s on her way to Fortnum & Mason. A young assistant in the Chinese department asked if her ladyship would be kind enough to come back later that afternoon, by which time their expert would have placed a value on the board.

Elsie returned to Sotheby’s after a leisurely lunch with Aunt Gertrude. She was greeted by a Mr Sencill, the head of the Chinese department, who offered the opinion that the piece was unquestionably Ming Dynasty.

‘And are you able to place a value on it—’ she paused — ‘for insurance purposes?’

‘Two thousand, two thousand five hundred, m’lady,’ said Mr Sencill. ‘Ming chessboards are fairly common,’ he explained. It is the individual pieces that are rare, and a complete set...’ He raised the palms of his hands and placed them together, as if praying to the unseen God of auctioneers. ‘Are you perhaps considering selling the board?’ he enquired.

‘No,’ replied Elsie firmly. ‘On the contrary, I’m thinking of adding to it.’

The expert smiled. After all, Sotheby’s is nothing more than a glorified pawn shop, with each generation of the aristocracy either buying or selling.

On arriving back at Kennington Hall, Elsie returned the board to its position of honour in the drawing room.

Aunt Gertrude set the ball rolling. On Christmas Day she presented her niece with a white pawn. Elsie placed the single piece on the empty board. It looked lonely.

‘And now, my dear, you must see if you can complete the set in your lifetime,’ the old lady challenged, unaware of the chain of events she was about to set in motion. What had begun as a whim, while attending a car-boot sale in Pudsey, turned into an obsession, as Elsie began to search the globe for the missing pieces. The first Lord Kennington would have been proud of her.

When Lady Kennington gave birth to their first son, Edward, a grateful husband presented his wife with a white queen. A magnificently sculptured ivory lady adorned in a long, intricately carved royal gown. Her Majesty stared down with disdain on the single pawn.

The next acquisition was another white pawn, acquired by Uncle Bertie from a dealer in New York. This allowed the white queen to reign over two of her subjects.

The birth of a second son, James, was rewarded with a red bishop, resplendent in a flowing surplice and carrying a shepherd’s crook. The queen and her two subjects were now able to celebrate Holy Communion, even if they had to travel to the other side of the board to do so. Soon the whole family began to join in the search for the missing pieces. A red pawn was the next acquisition, when it came under the auctioneer’s hammer at Bonham’s. He took up his place on the far side of the board, waiting to be taken. By now, everyone in the trade was only too aware of Lady Kennington’s lifetime mission.

Next to find its place on the board was a white castle, which Aunt Gertrude left Elsie in her will.

In 1991 the twelfth Lord Kennington passed away, by which time the white set was lacking only two pawns and a knight, while the red set was short of four pawns, one rook and a king.

On 11 May 1992, a dealer in possession of three red pawns and a white knight knocked on the door of Kennington Hall. He had recently returned from a journey through the outer regions of China. A long and arduous trek, he told her ladyship. But, he assured her, he had not returned empty-handed.

Although her ladyship was in her declining years, she still held out for several days, before the dealer finally settled his bill at the Kennington Arms and left clutching a cheque for £26,000.

Despite following up rumours from Hong Kong, flying to Boston, contacting dealers as far afield as Moscow and Mexico, rumour rarely became reality in Lady Kennington’s unremitting search for the last of the missing pieces.

During the next few years, Edward, the thirteenth Lord Kennington, came across the last red pawn and a red rook in the home of a penniless peer, who had been on the same staircase as Eddie at Eton. His brother James, not to be outdone, acquired two white pawns from a dealer in Bangkok.

This left only the red king to be unearthed.

The family had for some time been paying well over the odds for any missing pieces, since every dealer across the globe was well aware that if Lady Kennington was able to complete the set it would be worth a fortune.

When Elsie entered her ninth decade, she informed her sons that on her demise she planned to divide the estate equally between the two of them, with one proviso. She intended to bequeath the chess set to whichever one of them found the missing red king.

Elsie died at the age of eighty-three, without her king.

Edward had already acquired the title — something you can’t dispose of in a will — and now, after death duties, also inherited the Hall and a further £857,000. James moved into the Cadogan Square apartment, and also received the sum of £857,000. The Kennington Set remained in its display case for all to admire, one square still unoccupied, ownership unresolved. Enter Max Glover.

Max had one undisputed gift, his ability to wield a willow. Educated at one of England’s minor public schools, his talent as a stylish left-handed batsman allowed him to mix with the very people that he would later rob. After all, a chap who can score an effortless half century is obviously somebody one can trust.

Away fixtures suited Max best, as they allowed him the opportunity to meet eleven potential new victims. Kennington Village XI was no exception. By the time his lordship had joined the two teams for tea in the pavilion, Max had wormed out of the local umpire the history of the Kennington Set, including the provision in the will that whichever son came up with the missing red king would automatically inherit the complete set.

Max boldly asked his lordship, while devouring a portion of Victoria sponge, if he might be allowed to view the Kennington Set, as he was fascinated by the game of chess. Lord Kennington was only too happy to invite a man with such an effortless cover drive into his drawing room. The moment Max spotted the empty square, a plan began to form in his mind. A few well-planted questions were indiscreetly answered by his host. Max avoided making any reference to his lordship’s brother, or the clause in the will. He then spent the rest of the afternoon at square leg, refining his plan. He dropped two catches.

When the match was over, Max declined an invitation to join the rest of the team at the village pub, explaining that he had urgent business in London.

Moments after arriving back at his flat in Hammersmith, Max phoned an old lag he’d shared a pad with when he’d been locked up in a previous establishment. The former inmate assured Max that he could deliver, but it would take him about a month and ‘would cost ’im’.

Max chose a Sunday afternoon to return to Kennington Hall and continue his research. He left his ancient MG — soon to become a collector’s item, he tried to convince himself — in the visitors’ carpark. He followed signs to the front door, where he handed over five pounds in exchange for an entrance ticket. Maintenance and running costs had once again made it necessary for the Hall to be opened to the public at weekends.

Max walked purposefully down a long corridor adorned with ancestral portraits painted by such luminaries as Romney, Gainsborough, Lely and Stubbs. Each would have fetched a fortune on the open market, but Max’s eyes were set on a far smaller object, currently residing in the Long Gallery.

When Max entered the room that displayed the Kennington Set, he found the masterpiece surrounded by an attentive group of visitors who were being addressed by a tour guide. Max stood at the back of the crowd and listened to a tale he knew only too well. He waited patiently for the group to move on to the dining room and admire the family silver.

‘Several pieces were captured at the time of the Armada,’ the tour guide intoned as the group followed him into an adjoining room.

Max looked back down the corridor to check that the next group was not about to descend upon him. He placed a hand in his pocket and withdrew the red king. Other than the colour, the intricately carved piece was identical in every detail to the white king standing on the opposite side of the board. Max knew the counterfeit would not pass a carbon-dating test, but he was satisfied that he was in possession of a perfect copy. He left Kennington Hall a few minutes later, and drove back to London.

Max’s next problem was to decide which city would have the most relaxed security to carry out his coup: London, Washington or Peking. The People’s Palace in Peking won by a short head. However, when it came to considering the cost of the whole exercise, the British Museum was the only horse left in the race. But what finally tipped the balance for Max was the thought of spending the next five years locked up in a Chinese jail, an American penitentiary, or residing at an open prison in the east of England. England won in a canter.

The following morning Max visited the British Museum for the first time in his life. The lady seated behind the information desk directed him to the back of the ground floor, where the Chinese collection is housed.

Max discovered that hundreds of Chinese artefacts occupied the fifteen rooms, and it took him the best part of an hour to locate the chess set. He had considered seeking guidance from one of the uniformed guards, but as he had no desire to draw attention to himself, and also doubted that they would be able to answer his question, he thought better of it.

Max had to hang around for some time before he was left alone in the room. He could not afford a member of the public or, worse, a guard, to witness his little subterfuge. Max noted that the security guard covered four rooms every thirty minutes. He would therefore have to wait until the guard had departed for the Islam room, while at the same time being sure that no other visitors were in sight, before he could make his move.

It was another hour before Max felt confident enough to take the bastard out of his pocket and compare the piece with the legitimate king, standing proudly on its red square in the display cabinet. The two kings stared at each other, identical twins, except that one was an impostor. Max glanced around — the room was still empty. After all, it was eleven o’clock on a Tuesday morning, half term, and the sun was shining.

Max waited until the guard had moved on to Islamic artefacts before he carried out his well-rehearsed move. With the help of a Swiss Army knife, he carefully prised open the lid of the display cabinet that covered the Chinese masterpiece. A raucous alarm immediately sounded, but long before the first guard appeared, Max had switched the two kings, replaced the cover of the case, opened a window and strolled casually into the next room. He was studying the costume of a samurai when two guards rushed into the adjoining room. One cursed when he spotted the open window, while the other checked to see if anything was missing.

‘Now, you’ll want to know,’ suggested Max, clearly enjoying himself, ‘how I trapped both brothers into a fool’s mate.’ I nodded, but he didn’t speak again until he’d rolled another cigarette. ‘To start with,’ continued Max, ‘never rush a transaction when you’re in possession of something two buyers want, and in this case, desperately want. My next visit—’ he paused to light his cigarette — ‘was to a shop in the Charing Cross Road. This had not required a great deal of research, because they advertised themselves in the Yellow Pages under Chess, as Marlowe’s, the people who serve the masters and advise the beginners.’

Max stepped into the musty old shop, to be greeted by an elderly gentleman who resembled one of life’s pawns: someone who took the occasional move forward, but still looked as if he must eventually be taken — certainly not the type who reached the other side of the board to become a king. Max asked the old man about a chess set that he had spotted in the window. There then followed a series of well-rehearsed questions, which casually led to the value of a red king in the Kennington Set.

‘Were such a piece ever to come onto the market,’ the elderly assistant mused, ‘the price could be in excess of fifty thousand pounds, as everyone knows there are two certain bidders.’

It was this piece of information that caused Max to make a few adjustments to his plan. His next problem was that he knew his bank account wouldn’t stretch to a visit to New York. He ended up having to ‘acquire’ several small objects from large houses, which could be disposed of quickly, so he could visit the States with enough capital to put his plan into effect. Luckily it was in the middle of the cricket season.

When Max landed at JFK, he didn’t bother to visit Sotheby’s or Christie’s, but instead instructed the yellow cab to drive him to Phillips Auctioneers on East 79th Street. He was relieved to find that, when he produced the delicate carving stolen from the British Museum, the young assistant didn’t show a great deal of interest in the piece.

‘Are you aware of its provenance?’ asked the assistant.

‘No,’ replied Max, ‘it’s been in my family for years.’

Six weeks later a sales catalogue was published. Max was delighted to find that Lot 23 was listed as being of no known provenance, with a high value of $300. As it was not one of the items graced with a photograph, Max felt confident that few, if any, would take much interest in the red king, and it would therefore be unlikely to come to the attention of either Edward or James Kennington. That is, until he made them aware of it.

A week before the sale was due to take place, Max rang Phillips in New York. He had only one question for the young assistant, who replied that although the catalogue had been available for over a month, no one had shown any particular interest in his red king. Max feigned disappointment.

The next call Max made was to Kennington Hall. He tempted his lordship with several ifs, buts and even a maybe, which elicited an invitation to join Lord Kennington for lunch at White’s.

Lord Kennington explained to his guest over a bowl of brown Windsor soup that Max could not produce any papers over lunch as it was against the club rules. Max nodded, placed the Phillips catalogue under his chair, and began an elaborate tale of how by sheer accident, while viewing the figure of a mandarin on behalf of a client, he had come across the red king.

‘I would have missed it myself,’ said Max, ‘if you hadn’t acquainted me with its history.’

Lord Kennington did not bother with pudding (bread and butter), cheese (Cheddar) or biscuits (water), but suggested they took coffee in the library, where you are allowed to discuss business.

Max opened the Phillips catalogue to reveal Lot 23, along with several loose photographs he had not shown the auctioneer. When Lord Kennington saw the estimate of three hundred dollars, his next question was, ‘Do you think Phillips might have told my brother about the sale?’

‘There is no reason to believe so,’ replied Max. ‘I’ve been assured by one of the assistants working on the sale that the public have shown little interest in lot twenty-three.’

‘But how can you be so sure of its provenance?’

‘That’s what I do for a living,’ said Max with confidence. ‘But you can always have the piece carbon-dated, and if I’m proved wrong, you won’t have to pay for it.’

‘Can’t ask for more than that,’ said Lord Kennington, ‘so I suppose I’ll have to fly to America and bid for the piece myself,’ he added, thumping the arm of the leather chair. A cloud of elderly dust rose into the air.

‘I wonder if that would be wise, my lord,’ said Max, ‘after all—’

‘And why not?’ demanded Kennington.

‘It’s just that, if you were to fly to the States without explanation, it might arouse unnecessary curiosity among certain members of your family,’ Max paused, ‘and if you were then spotted in an auction house...’

‘I take your point,’ said Kennington, and looking across at Max added, ‘so what do you advise, old boy?’

‘I would be only too happy to represent your lordship’s interests,’ said Max.

‘And what would you charge for such a service?’ Lord Kennington enquired.

‘One thousand pounds plus expenses,’ said Max, ‘against two and a half per cent of the hammer price, which I can assure you is standard practice.’

Lord Kennington removed his chequebook from an inside pocket and wrote out the figure £1,000. ‘How much do you estimate the piece might fetch?’ he asked casually.

Max was pleased that Lord Kennington had raised the subject of price, as it would have been his next question. ‘That will depend on whether anyone else is privy to our little secret,’ said Max. ‘However, I would suggest that you place an upper limit of fifty thousand dollars on the piece.’

‘Fifty thousand?’ spluttered Kennington in disbelief.

‘Hardly excessive,’ suggested Max, ‘remembering that a complete set could fetch more than a million—’ he paused — ‘or nothing, were your brother to acquire the red king.’

‘I take your point,’ repeated Kennington. ‘But you still might be able to pick it up for a few hundred dollars.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Max.

Max Glover left White’s Club a few minutes after three, explaining to his host that he had another appointment that afternoon, which indeed he did.

Max checked his watch and decided he still had enough time to stroll through Green Park and not be late for his next meeting.

Max arrived in Sloane Square a few minutes before four, and took a seat on a bench opposite the statue of Sir Francis Drake. He began to rehearse his new script. When he heard the clock on a nearby tower chime four times, he leapt up and walked briskly across to Cadogan Square. He stopped at № 16, climbed the steps, and rang the doorbell.

James Kennington opened the door and greeted his guest with a smile.

‘I rang earlier this morning,’ explained Max. ‘My name’s Glover.’

James Kennington ushered him through to the drawing room and offered Max a seat by an unlit fire. The younger brother took the seat opposite him.

Although the apartment was spacious, even grand, there were one or two clear outlines on the walls to suggest where pictures had once hung. Max suspected that they were not being cleaned or reframed. Gossip columns regularly referred to the Hon. James’s drinking habits and hinted at several unpaid gambling debts.

When Max came to the end of his tale, he was well prepared for the Hon. James’s first question.

‘How much do you imagine the piece will fetch, Mr Glover?’

‘A few hundred dollars,’ Max replied. ‘That’s assuming your brother doesn’t find out about the auction.’ He paused, sipped his tea, and added, ‘In excess of fifty thousand, if he does.’

‘But I don’t have fifty thousand,’ said James, something else Max was well aware of. ‘And if my brother were to find out,’ James continued, ‘there would be nothing I could do about it. The terms of the will couldn’t be clearer — whoever finds the red king inherits the set.’

‘I’d be willing to put up the necessary capital to secure the piece,’ said Max, not missing a beat, ‘if in turn you would then agree to sell me the set.’

‘And how much would you be willing to pay?’ asked James.

‘Half a million,’ said Max.

‘But Sotheby’s have already valued a complete set at over a million,’ protested James.

‘That may well be the case,’ said Max, ‘but half a million is surely better than nothing, which would be the outcome if your brother were to learn of the red king’s existence.’

‘But you said that the red king might sell for a few hundred—’

‘In which case, I would require only a thousand pounds in advance, against two and a half per cent of the hammer price,’ said Max for the second time that afternoon.

‘That’s a risk I am quite willing to take,’ said James with the smile of someone who believes he has gained the upper hand. ‘If the red king should sell for less than fifty thousand,’ he continued, ‘I’d be able to raise the money myself. If it goes for more than fifty thousand, you can purchase the piece and I’ll sell you the set for half a million.’ James sipped his tea, before adding, ‘I can’t lose either way.’

Neither can I, thought Max, as he extracted a contract from an inside pocket. James read the document slowly. He looked up and said, ‘You obviously felt confident that I would fall in with your plan, Mr Glover.’

‘If you hadn’t,’ said Max, ‘my next visit would have been to your brother, which would have left you with nothing. At least now, to quote you, you can’t lose either way.’

‘Presumably I will have to travel to New York,’ said James.

‘Not necessary,’ replied Max. ‘You can bid for the piece by phone, which has the added advantage that no one else will know who’s on the other end of the line.’

‘But how do I go about that?’ asked James.

‘It couldn’t be easier,’ Max assured him. ‘The New York sale begins at two in the afternoon, which will be seven o’clock in the evening in London. The red king is lot twenty-three, so I’ll arrange for Phillips to place a call through to you once they reach lot twenty-one. Just be sure you’re sitting by the phone, with no one else blocking the line.’

‘And you’ll take over, if it goes above fifty thousand?’

‘You have my word,’ said Max, looking him straight in the eye.

Max flew to New York the weekend before the sale was due to take place. He booked himself into a small hotel on the East Side and settled for a room not much larger than our cell, but then he only had enough money left over to cover the endgame.

Max rose early on the Monday morning. He hadn’t been able to sleep because of an orchestra of New York traffic and police sirens. He used the time to go over and over the different permutations that might occur once the sale began. He would be on centre stage for less than two minutes and, if he failed, would be back on the next plane to Heathrow, with nothing to show for his efforts other than an overdrawn bank account.

He grabbed a bagel on the corner of Third and 66th, before walking another few blocks to Phillips. He spent the rest of the morning at a manuscript sale that was being held in the room where the Chinese auction would take place. He sat silently at the back of the room, watching how the Americans conduct an auction, so that he wouldn’t be wrong-footed later that afternoon.

Max didn’t eat any lunch, and not just because his meagre funds were already stretched to their limit. Instead, he used the time to make two overseas calls; the first to Lord Kennington, to confirm that he still had his authority to take the bidding for the red king up to fifty thousand dollars. Max assured him that, the moment the hammer fell, he would call to let him know what sum the piece had sold for. A few minutes later Max made a second call, this time to the Hon. James Kennington at his home in Cadogan Square. James picked up the phone after one ring, clearly relieved to hear Max’s voice on the other end of the line. Max made the Hon. James Kennington exactly the same promise.

Max replaced the phone and made his way across to the bidding counter, where he gave an assistant the details of James Kennington’s telephone number in London and told her of his intention to bid for Lot 23.

‘Leave it to us, sir,’ the assistant replied. ‘I’ll make sure we’re in touch with him well in time.’

Max thanked the assistant, made his way back to the saleroom and took his favoured place on the end of the eighth row, just to the right of the auctioneer. He began to turn the pages of the catalogue, checking on items in which he had no interest. While he sat around, impatiently waiting for the auctioneer to invite bids for lot number one, he tried to work out who were the dealers, who the serious bidders and who the simply curious.

By the time the auctioneer climbed the steps of the rostrum at five minutes to two, the saleroom was full of expectant faces. At two o’clock the auctioneer smiled down at his clientele.

‘Lot number one,’ he declared, ‘a delicately crafted ivory fisherman.’

The piece sold for $850, giving no hint of the drama that was about to follow.

Lot 2 reached $1,000, but it wasn’t until Lot 17, the figure of a mandarin bent over a desk reading a ledger, that the $5,000 mark was achieved.

One or two dealers whose only interest was clearly in later lots began to drift into the room, while a couple of others left, having failed or succeeded in acquiring the items they’d been after. Max could hear his heart pounding, although it would still be some time before the auctioneer reached Lot 23.

He turned his attention to the row of phones on a long table by the side of the room. Only three were manned. When the auctioneer called Lot 21, an assistant started to dial. A few moments later, she cupped a hand over the mouthpiece and began to whisper. When Lot 22 was offered, she spoke briefly to her client again. Max assumed that she must be warning James Kennington that the red king would be the next item to come under the hammer.

‘Lot twenty-three,’ declared the auctioneer glancing down at his notes. ‘An exquisitely carved red king, provenance unknown. Do I have an opening bid of three hundred dollars?’

Max raised his catalogue.

‘Five hundred?’ enquired the auctioneer turning to face the assistant on the phone. She whispered into the mouthpiece and then nodded firmly. The auctioneer turned his attention back to Max, who had raised his catalogue even before a price had been suggested.

‘I have a bid of a thousand dollars,’ said the auctioneer, returning to face the telephone bidder. ‘Two thousand,’ he ventured, surprised to see the assistant nod so quickly.

‘Three thousand?’ he suggested as he looked back at Max. The catalogue shot up again, and several dealers at the back of the room began chatting among themselves.

‘Four thousand?’ enquired the auctioneer, staring in disbelief at the assistant on the phone. $5,000, $6,000, $7,000, $8,000, $9,000 and $10,000 were overtaken in less than a minute. The auctioneer tried desperately to look as if this was exactly what he had anticipated as the murmurs in the room grew louder and louder. Everyone seemed to have an opinion. One or two dealers abandoned their favoured places and quickly walked to the back of the room, hoping to find an explanation for the bidding frenzy. Some were already beginning to make assumptions, but were in no position to bid under such pressure, especially as the amounts were now going up in leaps of $5,000.

Max raised his catalogue in response to the auctioneer’s enquiry, ‘Forty-five thousand? Are you bidding fifty thousand?’ he enquired of the lady on the telephone. Everyone in the room turned to see how she would respond. For the first time she hesitated. The auctioneer repeated, ‘Fifty thousand.’ She whispered the figure into the phone and, after a long pause, nodded, but not quite so enthusiastically.

When Max was offered the piece for $55,000, he also hesitated, taking his time before he finally raised his catalogue.

‘Sixty thousand?’ suggested the auctioneer to the assistant on the phone. Max waited nervously as she cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and repeated the figure. Beads of sweat began to appear on Max’s forehead, as he wondered if James Kennington had managed to raise more than $50,000, in which case he would just about clear his expenses on the whole exercise. After what seemed like an eternity, but was, in fact, only twenty seconds, the assistant shook her head. She put the phone down.

When the auctioneer smiled in Max’s direction and said, ‘Sold to the gentleman on my left, for fifty-five thousand dollars,’ Max felt sick, triumphant, dazed and relieved all at the same time.

Max remained in his place, as he waited for the furore to die down. After a dozen more lots had been disposed of, he slipped quietly out of the room, unaware of the suspicious stares from dealers, who wondered who he was. He strolled across the thick green carpet and stopped at the purchasing counter.

‘I wish to leave a deposit on lot twenty-three.’

The clerk looked down at her list. ‘A red king,’ she said, and double-checked the price. ‘Fifty-five thousand dollars,’ she added, and looked up at Max for confirmation.

He nodded as the assistant began to fill in the little boxes on the purchasing document. A few moments later she swivelled the form round for Max to sign.

‘That will be five thousand, five hundred dollars deposit,’ she said, ‘and the full amount must be settled within twenty-eight days.’ Max nodded nonchalantly, as if this was a procedure he was well familiar with. He signed the agreement and then wrote out a cheque for $5,500, aware that it would empty his account. He pushed it across the counter. The assistant handed him back the top copy of the agreement and retained the duplicate. When she checked the signature, she hesitated. It might have been a coincidence: after all, Glover was a common enough name. She didn’t want to insult a customer, but she knew she would have to report the anomaly to their compliance department, before they could consider cashing the cheque.

Max left the auction house and headed north to Park Avenue. He strode confidently into Sotheby Parke Bernet and approached the reception desk. He asked if he could have a word with the Head of the Oriental Department. He was kept waiting for only a few minutes.

On this occasion, Max didn’t waste time with any preliminary questions that would have only been a smokescreen to disguise his true intent. After all, as the sales clerk at Phillips had pointed out, he only had twenty-eight days to complete the transaction.

‘Should the Kennington Chess Set come onto the market, what would you expect it to fetch?’ Max asked.

The expert looked incredulous, although he had already been briefed on the sale of the red king at Phillips, and on the price the piece had fetched. ‘Seven hundred and fifty thousand, possibly as much as a million,’ came back the reply.

‘And if I was able to deliver the Kennington Set, and you were in a position to authenticate it, what amount would Sotheby’s be willing to advance against a future sale?’

‘Four hundred thousand, possibly five, if the family were able to confirm that it was the Kennington Set.’

‘I’ll be in touch,’ promised Max, all his immediate and long-term problems solved.

Max checked out of his little hotel on the East Side later that evening, and took a taxi to Kennedy Airport. Once the plane had taken off, he slept soundly for the first time in days.

The 727 touched down at Heathrow just as the sun was rising over the Thames. Having nothing to declare, Max took the Heathrow Express to Paddington, and was back in his flat in time for breakfast. He began to fantasize about what it would be like to dine regularly at his favourite restaurant and always hail a taxi, rather than having to wait for the next bus.

Once he’d finished breakfast, Max put the plates in the sink and settled down in the one comfortable chair. He began to consider his next move, confident that now the red king had found its place on the board, the game must end in checkmate.

At eleven o’clock — a proper hour to phone a peer of the realm — Max put a call through to Kennington Hall. When the butler transferred the call to Lord Kennington, his first words were, ‘Did we get it?’

‘Unfortunately not, my lord,’ replied Max. ‘We were outbid by an unknown party. I carried out your instructions to the letter, and stopped bidding at fifty thousand dollars.’ He paused. ‘The hammer price was fifty-five thousand.’

There was a long silence. ‘Do you think the other bidder could have been my brother?’

‘I’ve no way of knowing,’ replied Max. ‘All I can tell you is that they were bidding by phone, no doubt wishing to ensure their anonymity.’

‘I’ll find out soon enough,’ responded Kennington, before hanging up.

‘You certainly will,’ agreed Max as he began to dial a number in Chelsea.

‘Congratulations,’ said Max the moment he heard the Hon. James’s plummy voice. ‘I’ve purchased the piece, so you’re now in a position to claim your inheritance, under the terms of the will.’

‘Well done, Glover,’ said James Kennington.

‘And the moment you deliver the rest of the set, my lawyers have been instructed to hand over a cheque for four hundred and forty-five thousand dollars,’ said Max.

‘But we agreed on half a million,’ snapped James.

‘Minus the fifty-five thousand I had to pay for the red king.’ Max paused. ‘You’ll find it’s all spelled out in the contract.’

‘But—’ James began to protest.

‘Would you prefer me to call your brother?’ Max asked, as the front door bell rang. ‘Because I’m still in possession of the piece.’ James didn’t immediately reply. ‘Think about it,’ added Max, ‘while I answer the front door.’ Max placed the receiver on the side table, and strolled out into the hall, almost rubbing his hands. He released the chain, undid the Yale lock, and pulled the door open a couple of inches. Two tall men wearing identical trench coats stood in front of him.

‘Max Victor Glover?’ enquired one of them.

‘Who wants to know?’ asked Max.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Armitage of the Fraud Squad, and this is Detective Sergeant Willis.’ They both produced warrant cards, with which Max was only too familiar. ‘May we come in, sir?’

Once the police had taken down Max’s statement, which consisted of little more than, ‘I’ll need to speak to my solicitor,’ the two men departed. They then drove up to Yorkshire for a meeting with Lord Kennington. Having obtained a detailed statement from his lordship, they returned to London to interview his brother James. The police found him just as cooperative.

A week later Max was arrested for fraud. The judge took into account his past blemished record, and did not grant bail.

‘But how did they find out that you’d stolen the red king?’ I asked.

‘They didn’t,’ Max replied as he stubbed out his cigarette.

I put my pen down. ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ I murmured from the upper bunk.

‘And neither did I,’ admitted Max, ‘at least not until they charged me.’ I remained silent, as my pad mate began to roll his next cigarette. ‘When they read out the charge sheet,’ he continued, ‘no one was more surprised than me.

‘ “Max Victor Glover, you are charged with attempting to obtain money by false pretences. Namely that on October seventeenth, two thousand, you bid fifty-five thousand dollars for a red king, lot twenty-three at Phillips auctioneers in New York, while enticing other interested parties to bid against you, without informing them that you were the owner of the piece.” ’

A heavy key turned in the lock and our cell door cranked open.

‘Visits,’ bellowed the wing officer.

‘So you see,’ said Max as he swung his legs off the bunk, ‘I was charged with the wrong offence, and sentenced for the wrong crime.’

‘But why go through such an elaborate charade, when you could have sold the red king to either of the brothers?’

‘Because then I would have had to show them how I got hold of the piece in the first place, and if I had been caught...’

‘But you were caught.’

‘But not charged with theft,’ Max reminded me.

‘So what happened to the red king?’ I demanded, as we stepped out into the corridor and made our way across to the visits centre.

‘It was returned to my solicitor after the trial,’ said Max, ‘and locked up in his safe, where it will remain until I’m released.’

‘But that means—’ I began.

‘Have you ever met Lord Kennington?’ Max asked casually.

‘No, I haven’t,’ I replied.

‘Then I’ll introduce you, old boy,’ he mimicked, ‘because he’s coming to visit me this afternoon.’ Max paused. ‘I have a feeling that his lordship is about to make me an offer for the red king.’

‘And will you accept his offer?’ I asked.

‘Steady on, Jeff,’ Max replied as we entered the visits room. ‘I won’t be able to answer that question until next week, when I’ve had a visit from his brother James.’