Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [47]
“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 pretenses. 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 offense, 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 center.
“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.”
The Wisdom
of Solomon
“Mind your own business,” was Carol’s advice.
“But it is my business,” I reminded my wife as I climbed into bed. “Bob and I have been friends for over twenty years.”
“All the more reason to keep your own counsel,” she insisted.
“But I don’t like her,” I replied tartly.
“You made that abundantly clear during dinner,” Carol reminded me as she switched off her bedside light.
“But surely you can see that it’s going to end in tears.”
“Then you’ll just have to buy a large box of Kleenex.”
“She’s only after his money,” I muttered.
“He hasn’t got any,” replied Carol. “Bob’s practice is quite successful, but hardly puts him in the Abramovich league.”
“That may well be the case, but it’s still my duty, as a friend, to warn him not to marry her.”
“He doesn’t want to hear that at the moment,” said Carol, “so don’t even think about it.”
“Explain to me, O wise one,” I said as I plumped up my pillow, “why not.”
Carol ignored my sarcasm. “If it should end up in the divorce courts, you’ll just look smug. If the marriage turns out to be wedded bliss, he’ll never forgive you—and neither will she.”
“I wasn’t planning to tell her.”
“She already knows exactly how you feel about her,” said Carol. “Believe me.”
“It won’t last a year,” I predicted, just as the phone rang on my side of the bed. I picked it up, praying it wasn’t a patient.
“I’ve only got one question for you,” said a voice that needed no introduction.
“And what’s that, Bob?” I asked.
“Will you be my best man?”
Bob Radford and I first met at St. Thomas’ Hospital when we were both house officers. To be more accurate, we had first come into contact with each other on the rugby field, when he tackled me just as I thought I was about to score the winning try. In those days we were on opposite sides.
After we were appointed senior house officers at Guy’s, we started playing for the same rugby team and regularly had a midweek game of squash—which he invariably won. In our final year we ended up