Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [42]
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 catalog 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 catalog 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 catalog 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 inquired.
“One thousand pounds plus expenses,” said Max, “against two and a half percent of the hammer price, which I can assure you is standard practice.”
Lord Kennington removed his checkbook 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.