The King's Commisar

Pilgrim proceeded to think very rapidly. If his answer were no, the next question would be, 'Then why did you buy it?' A 'yes' would cost Hillyard, Cleef three and a half million-plus. 'No comment?' No comment indicated slippery men in dark corners. Pilgrim disliked being rude to reporters. Fashionable theory at the Harvard Business School in his time had dictated that the Press was a friend. So what he said was: 'You're out of your skull.'

'You mean you didn't buy it to add it to the Turner Bequest?'

'I mean,' Pilgrim lied crossly, 'that we didn't buy it. That clear?'

'Perfectly,' said Valentine, 'and thank you. Oh, Mr Pilgrim -'

'You said one question.'

'I thought you'd like to know that this story has very wide currency. They were even talking about it in the bar at the House of Commons last night.'

'I see.' Pilgrim ground out a laugh. 'Wonder who's spreading this junk around? Thanks for the tip.'

'So you'll get a lot of enquiries. I should be careful with your answers.'

Pilgrim hung up. On the blotter before him lay the telex from Pepe Robizo confirming that purchase-plus-ten was acceptable.

Pilgrim winced: He now appreciated the truth of Malory's observation of the previous evening: the idea was out and was indeed taking wing. As a result, forces would be gathering. Hillyard, Cleef might be compelled to give away the Turner. And he. Pilgrim, had promised it to Pepe Robizo of all people. The thought made his back feel chill with sweat. That was like snatching its dinner away from a tiger. Time for confession, then. Malory was the adviser; let him advise. To his surprise, Malory appeared quite unconcerned about Robizo but was grimly angry that the story was all over London. 'It's plain malice,' he muttered. That oily little mongrel Sudbury's behind it - can't be anybody else. '

'We can't prove it.'

'Of course we can't. Whole point, isn't it! Fault's yours, Laurence, if I may say so. Fellas like that, they think they have a licence to bore you to death, as well as rob you. But you told him to get a move on. It's wounded vanity.'

'It's going to be all over the papers.'

'Flat denials. It's the only way,' said Malory firmly. 'If we answer no long enough, it will all go away.'

But it stayed. A photograph had somehow been taken on the pavement outside the auction room as Malory and his security men placed the crate in the armoured van. That night the picture was all over the front page of the Standard, the remaining London evening paper, along with a report of Pilgrim's denial.

'It's a lovely likeness! Sir Horace,' Mrs Frobisher remarked as she brought the newspaper into Malory's office. And it was.

Malory, knowing now what was coming, diverted himself for a while by playing a game he rather thought he could win. If Pilgrim's dangerous millionaire Robizo really was a man of strong social ambition, then Robizo was vulnerable; such people always were. It was, after all, simple enough: Robizo was not currently acceptable to a few people whose society he craved. Not the rich: Robizo was rich, so the rich would accept him. It was therefore the aristocratic, the old money. And in Florida that meant. . . Malory smiled. There was always someone. And in this case there was old Digby's daughter, wasn't there Randolph's first wife! Pretty thing, too: Malory remembered the wartime wedding at Admiralty House, even the little silk Persian prayer rug he'd given them. Daughter of one aristo, bearer of the great name of the century, and now married to God! All he needed was somebody in regular touch. After all, it wasn't a question of inviting this Robizo creature to dinner; just some charity reception or other and a large donation plus a shake of the Harriman hand. Yes, she could certainly be asked. Malory was quite busy for a while on the telephone. At last a lady promised to talk to Clarissa, who'd talk to Digby's daughter. Something would certainly be arranged.

In spite of this pleasing little triumph, however, the next few days were not happy ones for anyone except the Press. They, however, loved it! Some targets are far more satisfying to strike at than others, and very high on that list are banks. Then come greedy oil companies, profligate local authorities and corrupt clergymen. The Bank with the Golden Hoard got it very firmly in the neck. The louder the denials, the less they were heeded: 'Sir Horace Malory' [wrote a gentleman in the Sunday Express], 'has spent most of his seventy-eight years making mountains of money. He has a mansion in Gloucestershire, a town house in Mayfair and several million in the bank. Wouldn't it be nice if he devoted some of his filthy lucre to a good clean purpose and added the Turner masterpiece to Britain's great heritage of art treasures!' 'You can't take it with you, Sir Horace . . .'

'I'm not going,' Malory muttered savagely. 'Not yet, anyway.' He and Pilgrim, both by now feeling somewhat beleaguered, sat in Pilgrim's teak and steel office.

'Can't be Dikeston doing it,' Pilgrim said. 'You can't play Press campaigns from the grave.'

'No, no, no. It's the Sudbury chap,' Malory said.

'It's so damned unfair!' Pilgrim went on. 'We buy a painting - what the hell's wrong with buying a painting? Now we have to give it away - we can't even sell it!'

'Clever, though,' said Malory. 'You'll admit it's clever.'

Pilgrim gave him a long, hard look. He thumped both hands palm down on the desk and said with new determination, 'We're going to fight back, Horace. We have to. We start off with hundreds, it goes to thousands, then to hundreds of thousands - and now it's goddam millions] The next stage is tens of millions and after that it's hundreds and we're wiped out! How in hell did Dikeston get this thing going?'

'He had fifty thousand a year and a lot of time to think and plan,' Malory said. 'And at the moment, if I may remind you, we have no idea at all where the next packet of Dikeston's papers will be coming from. There were no instructions with the last batch.'

Pilgrim said, 'Look, we don't need the papers. We know what happened to the Romanovs. They were shot in a cellar in Ekaterinburg, right?'

'So it's said,' Malory said, scepticism in his voice.

'You don't believe it.'

too'It's problematical, Laurence. Some would disagree. There's a book I'll lend you -'

'I've read the damn books. The Reds shot the whole family.'

'Andso?'

'So what's to worry about?'

'We worry about the paper,' Malory said. 'To Zaharoff the secret of that paper was worth a fortune. Remember his choice of word. He warns of calamity.'

Again Pilgrim's flat hand thumped the desk. 'Calamity! The only calamity I see lies in carrying on round this obstacle course Dikeston set. He's got us paying on a geometrical progression. It'll ruin us!' He stood straight and fixed Malory with a hard eye. 'We come back to Zaharoff, don't we? Always back to him. Why does he matter so much? You knew him, Horace; you held him in high regard. You-'

'No.' Malory held up a hand to stop him. 'You're wrong, quite wrong.'

'What do you mean?'

'I held him in awe. I was terrified of him, Laurence!'

'I thought you liked the guy.'

'Like?' Malory gave what might have been a snort of amusement, I do not believe there was a man on earth who liked Basil Zaharoff. Not one. And only one woman. Respected, oh yes\ - he was respected!

He was feared, and with reason. He was listened to, he was courted as an ally. But not as a friend, I think.'

'Yet you still think his word is holy writ?'

'If you like.' Malory paused and pursed his lips. 'Tell me, have you ever played a ball game of any kind against a really good player?'