Cat O'Nine Tales (2006) Read online

  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 collectors 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 color, 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 artifacts 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 artifacts 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