Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less (18 page)

“Do we have to watch him all day?” asked
Anne.

“No, we must just make sure he returns to
the hotel and doesn’t change his plans suddenly or anything silly like that. If
we miss our chance when he walks past Jean Pierre’s gallery, we won’t get
another one.”

“What do you do if he does change his plans?”

“God knows, to be more accurate, Stephen
knows–he’s the mastermind.”

“Game to Mrs. King.
Mrs. King leads by one game to love in the
second set.”

“Poor Miss May, she’s about as successful as
you. How is the Jean Pierre operation going?”

“Awful, he just won’t go anywhere near the
gallery. He was within thirty yards of it today. Poor Jean Pierre nearly had
heart failure. But we are more hopeful tomorrow. He seems to have covered
Piccadilly and the top end of Bond Street and the one thing we can be sure of
about Harvey Metcalfe is that he’s thorough, so he’s almost bound to cover our
bit of territory at one time or another.”

“You should all have taken out life
insurances for a million
dollars,
naming the other
three as beneficiaries,” said Anne, “and then when one of you had a heart
attack you could have got your money back.”

“It’s not a laughing matter, Anne. It’s
bloody nerve-wracking while you are waiting, especially when you have to allow
him to make all the moves.”

“Game to Mrs. King.
Mrs. King leads by two games to love in the
second set and one set to love.”

“How about your own plan?”

“Nothing.
Useless and now we have started with the
other I seem to have less time to concentrate on it.”

“Why don’t I seduce him?”

“Not a bad idea, but it would have to be
some night to get a hundred thousand pounds out of him when he can stand
outside the Hilton or in Shepherd Market and get it for twenty pounds. If there’s
one thing we have learnt about that gentleman it’s that he expects value for
money. At twenty pounds a night it would take you just under fifteen years to
repay my share, and I’m not sure the other three will be willing to wait that
long. In fact, I’m not sure they will wait fifteen days.”

“We’ll think of something,” said Anne.

“Game to Miss May. Mrs. King leads by two
games to one and by one set to love.”

“Well, well. Miss May has managed another
game.
Excellent lunch, Harvey.”

“A Claridge’s special,” said Harvey, “so
much better than getting caught up with everybody in the restaurant, where you
can’t even watch the tennis.”

“Billie Jean is making mincemeat of her
fellow American.”

“Much as I expected,” said Harvey.
“Now, Jörg, to my second numbered account.”

Once again the unidentifiable piece of paper
that bore a few numbers appeared. It is this discretion of the Swiss that leads
half the world, from heads of state to Arab sheiks, to trust them with their
money. In return the Swiss maintain one of the
most healthy
economies in the world because the system works. So why go anywhere else?
Birrer spent a few seconds studying the figures.

“On April first–only you could have chosen
that day, Harvey–you transferred $7,486,000 to your Number Two account, which
was already in credit $2,791,428. On April second, on your instructions, we
placed $1 million in the Banco do Minas Gerais in the names of Mr. Silverstein
and Mr. Elliott. We covered the bill with Reading & Bates for the hire of
the rig for $420,000 and several other bills amounting to $104,112, leaving
your present Number Two account standing at $8,753,316.”

“Game to Mrs. King.
Mrs. King leads three games to one in the
second set and by one set to love.”

“Very good,” said Harvey.

“The tennis or the money?” said Birrer.

“Both. Now, Jörg, I anticipate needing about
two million dollars over the next six weeks. I want to purchase one or two pictures
in London. I have seen a Klee that I quite like and I still have a few
galleries to visit. If I had known that the Discovery Oil venture was going to
be such a success, I would have outbid Armand Hammer at the Sotheby
Parke-Bernet for that Van Gogh last year. I shall also need ready cash for the
purchase of some new horses at the Ascot Blood Stock Auctions. My stud is
running down and it’s still one of my greatest ambitions to win the King George
and Elizabeth Stakes.” James would have winced if he could have heard Harvey
describe such a famous race so inaccurately. “My best result to date, as I
think you know, was third place and that is not good enough. My entry this year
is Rosalie, my best chance for some considerable time. If I lose I must build
up the stud again, but I am determined to win this year.”

“Game to Mrs. King.
Mrs. King leads four games to one and one
set to love.”

“So is Mrs. King, it seems,” said Birrer. “I
will brief my senior cashier that you are likely to be drawing large amounts
over the next few weeks.”

“Now, I don’t want the remainder to lie
idle, so I want you to purchase more gold carefully over the next few months,
with a view to offloading in the New Year. If the market does take a turn, I’ll
phone you in Zurich. At the close of business each day you are to loan the
outstanding balance on an overnight basis to first-class banks and triple ‘A’
commercial names.”

“What are you going to do with it all,
Harvey, if those cigars don’t get you first?”

“Oh, lay off, Jörg. You are sounding like my
doctor. I have told you a hundred times, next year I retire, I
quit,
finite.”

“I can’t see you dropping out of the rat
race voluntarily, Harvey. It pains me to wonder how much you are worth now.”

Harvey laughed.

“I can’t tell you that, Jörg. It’s like
Aristotle Onassis said–if you can count it, you haven’t got any.”

“Game to Mrs. King.
Mrs. King leads by five games to one and by
one set to love.”

“How’s that daughter of yours, Rosalie? We
still have instructions to pass the accounts on to her if anything should
happen to you.”

“She’s well. Phoned me this morning to tell
me she was unable to join me at Wimbledon because she’s tied up with her work.
I expect she’ll marry some rich American in any case and then she won’t need
it. Enough of them have asked her.
Can’t be easy for her to
decide if they like her or my money.
I’m afraid we had a row about that
a couple of years back and she still hasn’t forgiven me.”

“Game, set and match to Mrs. King–six-one,
six-one.”

Harvey, Jörg, James and Anne joined in the
applause while the two girls left the court, curtseying in front of the Royal
Box to the president of the All England Club, His Royal Highness
The
Duke of Kent. Harvey and Jörg Birrer stayed for the next
match, a doubles, and then returned to Claridge’s together for dinner.

James and Anne had enjoyed their afternoon
at Wimbledon and when they had seen Harvey safely back to Claridge’s,
accompanied by his mid-European friend, they returned to James’s flat.

“Stephen, I’m back. Metcalfe is settled in
for the night.
On parade at eight-thirty in the morning.”

“Well done, James. Maybe he will bite
tomorrow.”

“Let’s hope so.”

The sound of running water led James to the
kitchen in search of Anne. She was elbow-deep in suds, attacking a souffle dish
with a scourer. She turned and brandished it at him.

“Darling, I don’t want to be offensive about
your daily, but this is the only kitchen I’ve ever been in where one has to do
the washing up before one makes the dinner.”

“I know. She only cleans the clean bits of
the flat. As a result, her work load is getting lighter by the week.” He sat on
the kitchen table, admiring the slenderness of her arms and body.

“Will you scrub my back like that if I go
and have a bath before dinner?”

The water was deep and comfortably hot.
James lay back in it luxuriously, letting Anne wash him. Then he stepped
dripping out of the bath.

“You’re a bit overdressed for a bathroom
attendant, darling,” he said. “I think you ought to do something about it.”

Anne slipped out of her clothes while James
dried himself.

Later, he smiled down at her.

“You know, you’re getting quite good.”

“With such a fine teacher, how can I do
other than improve? Out you get. The baked cheese will be ready and I want to
remake the bed.”

“No need to bother about
that, you silly woman.”

“Yes, there is. Last night I didn’t sleep at
all. You pulled all the blankets over to your side and I just watched you
huddled up like a self-satisfied cat while I froze to death. Making love to you
is not at all like Harold Robbins promised it was going to be.”

“When you have finished
chattering, set the alarm for seven o’clock.”

“Seven o’clock? You don’t have to be at
Claridge’s until eight-thirty.”

“I know, but I want to go to work on an egg.”

“James, you really must get rid of your
undergraduate sense of humour.”

“Oh, I thought it was rather funny.”

“Yes, darling.
Why don’t you get dressed before the dinner
is burnt to a cinder?”

James arrived at Claridge’s at eight
twenty-nine. He was determined, despite his own inadequacies, not to fail the
others in their plans. He tuned in to check that Stephen was in Berkeley Square
and Adrian in Bond Street.

“Morning,” said Stephen. “Had a good night?”

“Bloody good,” said James.

“Sleep well, did you?” said Stephen.

“Hardly a wink.”

“Stop making us jealous,” said Adrian, “and
concentrate on Harvey Metcalfe.”

James stood in the doorway of Slaters
Antique Shop watching the early morning cleaners leave for home and the first
of the office staff arriving.

Harvey Metcalfe was going through his normal
routine of breakfast and the papers. He had had a telephone call from his wife
in Boston the night before and another from his daughter during breakfast,
which started his day well. He decided to pursue the hunt for an Impressionist
picture in some of the other galleries in Cork Street and Bond Street. Perhaps
Sotheby’s would be able to help him.

He left the hotel at nine forty-seven at his
usual brisk pace.

“Action stations.”

Stephen and Adrian snapped out of their
day-dreaming.

“He’s just entered Bruton Street. Now he’s
heading for Bond Street.”

Harvey walked briskly down Bond Street, past
the territory he had already covered.

“Only fifty yards off now,” said James. “Forty
yards, thirty yards, twenty yards... Oh no, damn it, he’s gone into Sotheby’s.
There’s a sale of medieval painted panels. Hell, I didn’t know he was
interested in them.”

He glanced up the road at Stephen, padded
out and aged to the condition of a wealthy, middle-aged businessman. The cut of
the collar and the rimless glasses proclaimed him as West German. Stephen’s
voice came over the speaker:

“I am going into Jean Pierre’s gallery.
James, you stay upstream from Sotheby’s on the far side of the street and
report every fifteen minutes. Adrian, you go inside and dangle the bait under
Harvey’s nose.”

“But that’s not in the plan, Stephen,”
stammered Adrian.

“Use your initiative and get on with it;
otherwise all you will be doing is taking care of Jean Pierre’s heart
condition.
O.K.?”

“O.K.” said Adrian nervously.

Adrian went into Sotheby’s and made a
surreptitious beeline for the nearest mirror. Yes, he was still unrecognisable.
Upstairs, he located Harvey near the back of the sale room, and inserted
himself in a nearby seat in the row behind.

The sale of medieval painted panels was well
under way. Harvey knew he ought to like them, but could not bring himself to
condone the Gothic partiality for jewellery and bright, gilded colours. Behind
him, Adrian thought quickly,
then
struck up a
quiet-voiced conversation with his neighbour.

“Looks very fine to me, but I’ve no
knowledge. I am happier with the modern era. Still, I must think of something
polite to say for my paper.” Adrian’s neighbour smiled politely.

“Do you cover all the auctions?”

“Almost all–especially where there may be
surprises. Actually, I’m really on my way to the Lamanns Gallery up the road.
One of the assistants here gave me a tip that they may have something special
in the Impressionist field.”

Adrian beamed the whispered information
carefully at Harvey’s right ear. Shortly afterwards, he was rewarded by the
sight of Harvey squeezing out of his row to leave. Adrian waited for three more
lots to be auctioned,
then
followed him.