Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [41]
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 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 catalog 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