Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less (13 page)

“It must be a hell of a job being a model.”

What a bloody silly line, he thought. Why
couldn’t he just say to her, I think you are absolutely fantastic? Can we talk
a little and if I still think you are fantastic perhaps we’ll take it from
there? But it never was possible that way and he would have to go through the
usual routine.

“It’s rather fun if the contracts are good,”
she replied, “but today’s been particularly tiring.” Her voice was gentle, and
her faint transatlantic accent appealed to James. “I’ve been smiling my head
off all day, modelling for some toothpaste advertisement for Close-Up: the
photographer never seemed to be satisfied. The only good thing was that it
ended earlier than expected. How do you know Patrick?”

“We were freshmen together at Harrow in our
first year. He was rather better than me at getting out of work.”

Anne laughed–a gentle, warm laugh. It was
obvious he did know Lord Lichfield.

“Do you see much of him now?”

“Occasionally at dinner
parties, but not regularly.
Does he photograph you a lot?”

“No,” said Anne, “the cover picture for
Vogue
is the only occasion I have been
shot by him.”

They chatted on and the thirty-five minutes’
journey between Reading and London seemed to pass in a flash for James. As they
walked down the platform of Paddington Station together he ventured:

“Can I give you a lift home? My car is
parked in Craven Street.” Anne accepted. It was raining and it did not look as
if she would get a taxi easily at that late hour.

James drove her home in his Alfa Romeo. He
had already decided that he could not hold on to that for much longer with
petrol going up and the cash flow going down. He chattered merrily all the way
to her destination in a block of flats overlooking the Thames in Cheyne Row,
and much to Anne’s surprise just dropped her off at the front door and said good
night. He did not even ask for her telephone number and he only knew her
Christian name. In fact, she did not have any idea what his name was. Pity, she
thought, he had been a rather pleasant change from the men who worked on the
fringe of the advertising media, who imagined they had an automatic right to a
girl’s compliance just because she poses in a bra.

James knew exactly what he was doing. He
always found a girl was more flattered if he called her when she least expected
it. His tactics were to leave the impression that she had seen the last of him,
especially when the first meeting had gone well. He returned to his home in the
King’s Road and thought for a while. But unlike Stephen, Adrian and Jean
Pierre, with thirteen days to go, he had no ideas for defeating Harvey
Metcalfe: he was developing plans for Anne.

On waking in the morning, Stephen began to
do a little more research. He started with a close study of the way the
university was administered. He visited the vice chancellor’s office in the
Clarendon Building, where he spent some time asking strange questions of the
personal secretary, Miss Smallwood. She was most intrigued. He then left for
the Office of the University Registrar, where he was equally inquisitive. He
ended the day by visiting the Bodleian Library, and copying out some of the
University Statutes. Among other outings during the next fourteen days was a
trip to the Oxford tailors Shepherd and Woodward, and a full day at the
Sheldonian Theatre to watch a batch of students take their B.A. degrees in a
brief ceremony. Stephen also studied the layout of the Randolph, the largest
hotel in Oxford. This he took considerable time over, so much that the manager
became inquisitive, but Stephen left before this turned to suspicion. His final
trip was a return journey to the Clarendon to meet the secretary of the
University Chest, and to be taken on a guided tour of the building by the
porter. Stephen warned him that he anticipated showing an American the building
on the day of Encaenia, but remained vague.

“Well, that won’t be easy...” began the
porter. Stephen carefully and deliberately folded a pound note and passed it to
the porter.

“Though I’m sure we will be able to work
something out, sir.”

In between the trips all over the
university city
, Stephen did a lot of thinking in his big
leather chair and a lot more writing at his desk. By the fourteenth day his
plan was perfected and ready for presentation to the other three. He had put
the show on the road, as Harvey Metcalfe might have said, and he intended to
see it had a long run.

Adrian rose early on the morning after the
Oxford dinner, and avoided awkward questions from his wife at breakfast about
his experience the night before. He travelled to London as quickly as he could
get away and on arrival in Harley Street was greeted by his efficient
secretary-cum-receptionist, Miss Meikle.

Elspeth Meikle was a dedicated, dour Scot
who looked upon her work as a vocation. Her devotion to Adrian, not that she
ever called him that even in her own mind, was obvious for all to see.

“I want as few appointments as possible over
the next fourteen days, Miss Meikle.”

“I understand, Dr. Tryner,” she said.

“I have some research to do and do not want
to be interrupted when I am alone in my study.”

Miss Meikle was a little surprised. She had
always thought that Dr. Tryner was a good doctor, but had never known him in
the past to indulge in research work. She padded off noiselessly in her
white-shod feet to let the first of a bunch of admirably healthy ladies in for
Dr. Tryner’s clinic.

Adrian entered his consulting room. He
started the morning by making several telephone calls, among them two overseas
calls to the Boston Infirmary and several to a leading gastroenterologist for
whom he had been a houseman at Cambridge. Then he pressed the buzzer to summon
Miss Meikle.

“Pop round to H. K. Lewis, would you, Miss
Meikle, and get two books on my account. I want the latest edition of Polsen
and Tattersall’s
Clinical Toxicology
and Harding Rain’s book on the bladder and abdomen.”

“Yes, sir,” she said imperturbably, and
thought nothing of missing her lunchtime sandwiches to fetch them in time for
Adrian’s return from his habitual club lunch.

They were on his desk when he returned, and
he started a careful reading of them. The following day he spent at St. Thomas’s
Hospital, not taking his morning clinic as usual, but closely watching two of
his colleagues at work. His confidence in the plan he was formulating was
growing. He returned to Harley Street and wote some notes on the techniques he
had observed, as he had done in his student days. He remembered the words
Stephen had used:

“Think as Harvey Metcalfe would. Think not
as a cautious professional man, but as a risk taker, as an entrepreneur.”

Adrian was getting onto Harvey Metcalfe’s
wavelength and he would be ready for the American, the Frenchman and the lord
when his plan was called for: he looked forward to their next meeting.

Jean Pierre returned from Oxford the next
day. None of the youthful artists had greatly impressed him, though he felt
Anthony Bamber’s watercolours showed considerable promise and he made a mental
note to keep an eye on his future work. When he arrived in London he started,
like Adrian and Stephen, on his research. The tentative idea that had come to
him in the Eastgate Hotel was beginning to develop. Through his numerous
contacts in the art world he checked all the buying and selling of major
Impressionist pictures over the previous twenty years. He made a list of the
pictures which were currently thought to be on the market. He then contacted
the one person who had it in his power to set Jean Pierre’s plan in motion. The
man whose help he most needed, David
Stein,
was
luckily in England and free to visit him: but would he fall in with the plan?

Stein arrived late the next afternoon and
spent two hours with Jean Pierre privately in his little room in the basement
of the Lamanns Gallery. When he departed Jean Pierre was smiling to himself. A
final afternoon spent at the German Embassy in Belgrave Square, followed by a
call to Dr. Wormit of the Preussischer Kulturbesitz in Berlin and a further one
to Mrs. Tellegen at the Rijks-bureau in The Hague, gave him all the information
he needed. Even Metcalfe would have praised him for that touch. There would be
no relieving the French this time. The American and the Englishmen had better
be up to scratch when he presented his plan.

On waking in the morning the last thing
James had on his mind was a plan for outwitting Harvey Metcalfe. His thoughts
were fully occupied with Anne. He telephone Patrick Lichfield at home.

“Patrick?”

“Yes.”

“James Brigsley.”

“Oh, hello, James.
Haven’t seen you for some
time.
What are you doing waking me up at this filthy hour?”

“It’s ten o’clock, Patrick.”

“Is it? I had a hell of a night last night.
What can I do for you?”

“You took a picture of a girl for
Vogue
whose first name was Anne.”

“Summerton,” said Patrick without
hesitation.
“Got her from the Stacpoole Agency.”

“What’s she like?”

“No idea,” said Patrick. “I tried, but she
wasn’t wearing it from me.”

“I can’t say I blame her. Go back to bed,
Patrick. See you soon.” Anne Summerton was not in the telephone directory, so
that ploy had failed. James stayed in bed, scratching the stubble on his chin,
when a triumphant look came into his eye. A quick flip through the S-Z Directory
revealed the number he required.

“The Stacpoole Agency.”

“Can I speak to the manager?”

“Who’s calling?”

“Lord Brigsley.”

“I’ll put you through, my lord.”

James heard the phone click and the voice of
the manager, Michael Stacpoole.

“Good morning, my lord, can I help you?”

“I hope so. I’m looking for a model for the
opening of an antique shop and I want a classy sort of bird. You do understand?”
James then described Anne as if he had never met her.

“We have two models that I think would suit
you, my lord,” said Stacpoole.
“Paulene Stone and Anne
Summerton.
Unfortunately, Paulene is in Birmingham today for the
launching of the new Allegro car and Anne is completing a toothpaste ad in
Oxford.”

“I need a girl today,” James said. How he
would have liked to have told Stacpoole that Anne was back in town. “If you
find either of them is free, perhaps you would ring me at 352 2109, Mr.
Stacpoole.”

James rang off, a little disappointed. At
least, he thought, if nothing comes of it today I can start planning my part in
the Team versus Harvey Metcalfe. He was just resigning himself to it when the
phone rang. A shrill, high-pitched voice announced:

“This is the Stacpoole Agency. Mr. Stacpoole
would like to speak to Lord Brigsley.”

“Speaking,” said James.

“I’ll put you through, my lord.”

“Lord Brigsley?”

“Yes.”

“Stacpoole here, my lord.
It seems Anne Summerton is free today. When
would you like her to come to your shop?”

“Oh,” said James, taken aback for a second. “My
shop is in Berkeley Street, next to the Empress Restaurant. It’s called
Albemarle Antiques. Perhaps we could meet outside at twelve forty-five?”

“I’m sure that will be acceptable, my lord.
If I don’t ring back in the next ten minutes you can assume the meeting is on.
Perhaps you would be kind enough to let us know if she is suitable. We normally
prefer you to come to the office, but I am sure we can make an exception in
your case.”

“Thank you,” said James, and put the phone
down, pleased with himself.

James stood in the west side of Berkeley
Street in the doorway of the Mayfair Hotel so that he could watch Anne
arriving. When it came to work, Anne was always on time, and at twelve-forty
she appeared from the Piccadilly end of the street. Her skirt was of the latest
elegant length but this time James could see that her legs were as slim and
shapely as the rest of her. She stopped outside the Empress Restaurant and
looked in puzzlement at the Brazilian tourist office on her right and the Rolls
Royce showrooms of H. R. Owen on her left.

James strode across the road, a large grin
on his face.

“Good morning,” he said casually.

“Oh, hello,” said Anne, “what a coincidence.”

“What are you doing all alone?” said James.

“I’m trying to find a shop called Albemarle
Antiques. Do you know it? I am supposed to be doing an assignment for them. I’m
waiting for the owner, Lord Brigsley.”

James smiled:

“I am Lord Brigsley.”

Anne looked surprised and then burst out
laughing. She realised what James had done and was flattered by the compliment.