The King's Commisar

Graves said, in astonishment, 'But -' Her forefinger was tightening, and the wavering pistol was enormous.

She fired.

'Just there,' said the man in the square to the agent-de-ville. 'I was sitting on that stone, smoking a cigarette. Heard this loud bang and looked up, and she came flying backwards over the balcony, wheelchair and all. My wife went to her and I ran upstairs, but the man was dead. My God, but there was a hell of a hole in him, did you see it?'

'I'm not surprised. Kill an elephant with that gun - God knows where she got it. They're rare, guns like that,' said the agent-de-ville. 'You'll come down and make a statement?'

'Naturally.'

'What a way to go, eh? Surprising, isn't it,' said the agent, musing, 'what fate has in store? An old lady what was she? Eighty-six - an old lady actually flying off to Heaven!'

The man chuckled. 'To Hell,' he said. 'And I never doubted she'd fly there.'

The agent looked puzzled. 'No?'

'Yes - on her broomstick!'

In the height of the dog days, it made a very pleasing story: Mystery of the Banker and the Crone - that was the way most of the English papers played it. The French press had more fun: 'Was it an assignation?' asked Nice-Matin. There was an inside page feature on the celebrated strange tastes of the British. Zaharoff was not mentioned, of course, since Mme Bronard, who would gladly have yelled curses on his name from the rooftops, was silent in refrigeration, and nobody else who was willing to talk knew about him. But Hillyard, Cleef were in the papers again. Senior executives of private banks are not shot every day by old ladies wielding revolvers so powerful that the recoil hurled the firer to her death!

And this was, in any case, one of the men, and certainly the banking house, which had figured so recently and so much in the still-extant controversy over Turner's great painting.

'Lousy goddam jokes!' Pilgrim complained. 'They have this great reputation for wit, the English, but there are no laughs, just sniggers.'

'Usually,' Malory agreed.

'I was at a Bank of England lunch.'

'Luncheon, yes.'

It was the Governor, too. Some discussion on spelling. He said -' Pilgrim attempted an Old Etonian languor-'he believed everybody at Hillyard's could spell necrophilia.'

Malory frowned. 'Naughty.' He paused. 'We will live it down, Laurence.'

'I'm not so sure. You may. I won't.'

'Rubbish.'

'Rubbish it's not, Horace. Maybe it's something in the air here. I never goofed in my life before. Here I goof all the time. Who set this ball rolling? I did. Who got Graves shot? Who had to be saved from Pepe Robizo? Every time, the answer's Pilgrim.'

Malory said with a kind of gruffness: 'My fault really, m'dear boy. I insisted on following through.'

Pilgrim shook his head. 'So I'm going,' he said harshly.

'Where to?'

'Back to the States. I tell you, Horace, on Wall Street I feel safe, my feet are on rock, my head's clear. Here I make mistakes. I don't feel I have a foothold. I'm going back where I can operate!'

'You're wrong.'

'No. We can't have a joke running this place and I'm turning into a joke. Every time we look at each other, Horace, every time we talk, Pepe Robizo'll be there with us. No thanks.'

'I repeat, you're wrong. The joke who ran this bank was me. That's why you came in and I moved over. In any case, the joke's on me, too.'

The difference,' Pilgrim said, 'is that you're an old, respected City figure. I'm Johnny-come-lately and all those bastards are enjoying it!'

Malory pursed his lips. 'You'll go back and do what?'

'What I did before. It's no problem.'

'It is for me, dear boy. Lady Malory intended that I retire. Now Lady Malory is likely to be severely displeased and I tell you that is no small matter. In any case, there's the Grim Reaper-1 hear the scythe swish occasionally. It's not on, you know.'

'It's on,' Pilgrim said, I see two scenarios here. The first is where I go and you take hold again and everything slides nicely into place. The second is where I go back to Wall Street and some other guy comes over here and runs things. Neither way should the names of Pilgrim and Hillyard, Cleef be bracketed in this City again!'

Sir Horace spread his hands. 'It must, of course, be up to you.'

'And I've decided. Naturally, I'll send my apologies to Lady Malory -'

'She collects amethysts,' Malory murmured.

'She does? I'll be sure to remember that. Anyway, you won't have to hold the baby long, Horace. Wall Street's full of bright young -'

'Yes, isn't it!' said Malory.

Within days Pilgrim was in New York, Harrods were packing his impedimenta, and Horace Malory, once again in control at 6 Athelsgate, was spending another fraught hour in contemplation of the most recent instructions from Dikeston. In order to obtain the next - the sixth, and penultimate instalment of the narrative, certain conditions were to be fulfilled. Sir Horace frowned as he read and re-read the typed sheet, sniffing for hidden snags but unable to detect them. That there would be snags he did not doubt, and he was reasonably sure the Turner painting must be involved, because: Six large copies, photographic or otherwise, of the painting Naval Vessel and Plymouth Hoe now in your possession, are to be despatched, one copy each to the following institutions, together with the number appropriate thereto.

There followed a list of six United States banks. Opposite each name appeared what looked like an account number, consisting of two or three letters and up to a dozen digits. The consequent happenings were not described but it was clear to Malory that, where Dikeston was concerned, nothing came cheap. The copies had been made, for speed's sake photographically, on 10 x 8 inch transparencies.

He buzzed for Mrs Frobisher. 'Will you send one of these to each of these.'

'Yes, Sir Horace.'

'Air freight them. And get them off today.'

'Yes, Sir Horace.'

Six American banks, Malory noted, his thumb stroking idly at the numeral which hung upon his watch-chain.

Next day he was taking tea in mid-afternoon when the call came. 'A Mr Ed Sochaki is on the line,' Mrs Frobisher reported, 'from the Custerbank in Santa Barbara, California.'

Malory glanced at his watch. Mr Sochaki, he reflected, must be one of those tiresome people who went to his desk at seven in the morning. He picked up the phone. 'Hello, Mr Sochaki?'

'Sir Malory?'

'Horace Malory speaking, yes.' Curious how often people got it wrong.

'I got your picture.'

'Must be a little puzzling to you,' Malory said. 'Matter of fact it puzzles us, too. Eccentric client, just following his instruction. Haw, haw.'

'Yeah, well we got something for you. Deposited years ago, along with the instructions.'

'Oh? Well, good,' Malory said. 'What is it?'

'Looks like some papers. In a packet.'

'That's fine, MrSochaki. I'd be grateful if you could send them - express if you would. '

'Why, sure. Be glad to. There's just one thing.'

'What's that?'

Sochaki said, 'Well, it sounds kinda crazy, but this packet only gets sent to you after we read something in the newspapers. You understand that, Sir Malory?'

'At the moment, no. What is it you are required to read?'

'That you people have given something to your country.'

'We do it all the time,' Malory said. 'It's called income tax.' But he knew what was coming. And it came. 'A painting. By a guy called Turner.'

'When you read that,' Malory said sadly, 'then you send the packet. Not before?'

'Why, no. Our client's instructions -'

'Cannot be varied?'

'Certainly not, Sir Malory. This is the Custerbank of California.'