Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less (20 page)

“No,” said Stephen, “start praying. I’ve
reached Berkeley Square.
Where now?”

“Across the garden, then continue down Hill
Street.”

Adrian ran all the way to Bruton Street,
until he was fifty yards behind Harvey.

“Now, about that Henry Moore,” said the
well-corseted lady.

“Screw Henry Moore!”

The steel-reinforced bosom heaved.

“Young man, I have never been spoken to in...”

But it was pointless. Jean Pierre had
already reached the lavatory, retching with nervousness.

“You’re crossing South Audley Street now,
then
continue into Deanery Street. Keep going, don’t turn
right or left and don’t look back. Harvey is about fifty yards behind you. I’m
a little more than fifty yards behind him,” said Adrian.

“Is Room 120 free?”

“Yes sir, they checked out this morning, but
I am not sure if it is ready for occupancy yet. I think the maid is still
clearing the room. I’ll have to check, sir,” said the tall receptionist in his
morning suit, indicating that he was a senior member of the floor staff.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” said James. “I
always have that room. Can you book me in for one
night.
Name’s Drosser, Herr–um–Helmut Drosser.”

He slipped a pound over the counter.

“Certainly, sir.”

“That’s Park Lane, Stephen. Look right–the
big hotel on the corner straight in front of you is the Dorchester. The
semicircle facing you is the main entrance. Go up the steps and through the
revolving door and you’ll find reception on your right. James ought to be
there.”

Adrian was grateful that the annual dinner
of the Royal Society for Medicine had been held at the Dorchester last year.

“Where’s Harvey?” bleated Stephen.

“Only forty yards behind
you.”

Stephen quickened his pace and ran up the
steps of the Dorchester and pushed through the revolving door so hard that the
other residents going round found themselves on the street faster than they had
originally planned. Thank God, James was there holding a key.

“The
lift’s
over
there,” said James, pointing. “You’ve only chosen one of the most expensive
suites in the hotel.”

Stephen glanced in the direction James had
indicated and turned back to thank him. But James was already heading off to
the American Bar to be sure he was well out of sight when Harvey arrived.

Stephen left the lift and found Room 120 on
the first floor. The Dorchester, which he had never entered before, was as
traditional as Claridge’s and its thick royal blue and golden carpets led to a
magnificently appointed corner suite which overlooked Hyde Park. He collapsed
into an easy chair, not quite sure what to expect next. Nothing had gone as
planned.

Jean Pierre waited at the gallery, James sat
in the American Bar and Adrian loitered by the side of Barclays Bank, Park
Lane, a mock Tudor building fifty yards from the entrance of the Dorchester.
All four waited nervously.

“Have you a Mr. Drosser staying at this
hotel? I think
it’s
Room 120,” barked Harvey.

The receptionist looked up the name.

“Yes, sir.
Is he expecting you?”

“No, but I want a word with him on the house
phone.”

“Of course, sir.
Would you be kind enough to go through the
small archway on your left, and you will find five telephones. One of them is
the house phone.”

Harvey marched through the archway as
directed.

“Room 120,” he instructed the operator,
sitting in his own little section, wearing the green Dorchester uniform with
golden castles on his lapels.

“Cubicle Number One, please, sir.”

“Mr. Drosser?”

“Speaking,” said Stephen, summoning up his
German accent for a sustained effort.

“I wonder if I could come up and have a word
with you? My name is Harvey Metcalfe. It’s about the Van Gogh you bought this
morning.”

“Well, it’s a little inconvenient at the
moment. I am about to take a shower and I do have a lunch appointment.”

“I won’t keep you more than a few minutes.”

Before Stephen could reply the telephone had
clicked. A few moments later there was a knock on the door. Stephen answered it
nervously. He was dressed in a white Dorchester dressing gown and his brown
hair was somewhat dishevelled and darker than normal. (It was the only disguise
he could think of at such short notice as the original plan had not allowed for
a face-to-face meeting with Harvey.)

“Sorry to intrude, Mr. Drosser, but I had to
see you immediately. I know you have just got yourself a Van Gogh from the
Lamanns Gallery and I was hoping as you are a dealer, you might be willing to
resell it for a quick profit.”

“No thank you,” said Stephen, relaxing for
the first time. “I’ve wanted a Van Gogh for my gallery in Munich for many years
and I’m sorry it’s not for sale.”

“Listen, you paid 170,000 guineas for it.
What’s that in dollars?” Stephen paused.

“Oh, about $425,000.”

“I will give you $15,000 if you release the
picture to me. All you have to do is ring the gallery and say that the picture
is mine and that I will cover the bill.”

Stephen sat silent, not sure how to deal
with the situation without blowing it. Think like Harvey Metcalfe, he told
himself.

“Twenty thousand dollars in cash and it’s a
deal.”

Harvey hesitated. Stephen felt weak.

“Done,” said Harvey. “Ring the gallery
immediately.”

Stephen picked up the telephone. “Can you
get me the Lamanns Gallery in Bond Street as quickly as possible–I have a lunch
appointment.”

A tew seconds later the call came through.

“Lamanns Gallery.”

“I would like to speak to Mr. Lamanns.”

“At last, Stephen.
What the hell
happened
your end?”

“Ah, Mr. Lamanns, this is Herr Drosser. You
remember
,
I was in your gallery earlier this morning.”

“Of course I remember, you fool. What are
you going on about, Stephen? It’s me–Jean Pierre.”

“I have a Mr. Metcalfe with me.”

“Christ, I’m sorry, Stephen. I hadn’t...”

“And you can expect him in the next few
minutes.” Stephen looked towards Harvey, who nodded his assent.

“You are to release the Van Gogh I purchased
this morning to him and he will give you a cheque for the full amount, 170,000
guineas.”

“Out of disaster, triumph,” said Jean Pierre
quietly.

“I’m very sorry I shall not be the owner of
the picture myself, but I have, as the Americans would say, had an offer I can’t
refuse. Thank you for the part you played,” said Stephen, and put the telephone
down. Harvey was writing out a cheque to cash for $20,000.

“Thank you, Mr. Drosser. You have made me a
happy man.”

“I am not complaining, myself,” said Stephen
honestly. He escorted Harvey to the door and they shook hands.

“Good-bye, sir.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Metcalfe.”

Stephen closed the door and tottered to the
chair, almost too weak to move.

Adrian and James saw Harvey leave the
Dorchester. Adrian followed him in the direction of the gallery, his hopes
rising with each stride. James took the lift to the first floor and nearly ran
to Room 120. He banged on the door. Stephen jumped at the noise. He didn’t feel
he could face Harvey again.

“James, it’s you. Cancel the room, pay for
one night and then join me in the cocktail bar.”

“Why?
What for?”

“A bottle of Krug 1964.”

One down and three to go.

J
ean Pierre was the last to arrive at Lord
Brigsley’s King’s Road flat. He felt he had the right to make an entrance.
Harvey’s cheques were cleared and the Lamanns Gallery account was for the
moment $447,560 the better for it. The painting was in Harvey’s possession and
the heavens had not fallen in. Jean Pierre had cleared more money in two months
of crime than he had in ten years of legitimate trading.

The other three greeted him with acclaim and
a glass of James’s 1st bottle of Veuve Clicquot 1959.

“We were lucky to pull it off,” said Adrian.

“We weren’t lucky,” said Stephen. “We kept
our cool under pressure. What we have learnt is that Harvey can change the
rules in the middle of the game.”

“He almost changed the game, Stephen.”

“Agreed, and we must remember that we shall
fail unless we can be as successful, not once, but three times. We must not
underestimate our opponent because we have won the first round.”

“Relax, Professor,” said James. “We can get
down to business again after dinner. Anne came in this afternoon especially to
make the salmon mousse, and it won’t go well with Harvey Metcalfe.”

“When are we going to meet this fabulous
creature?” asked Jean Pierre.

“When this is all over and
behind us.”

“Don’t marry her, James. She’s only after
our money.” They all laughed. James hoped the day would come when he could tell
them she had known all along. He produced the boeuf en croute and two bottles
of fichezeaux 1970. Jean Pierre sniffed the sauce appreciatively.

“On second thoughts, she ought to be
seriously considered if her touch in bed is half as deft as it is in the
kitchen.”

“You’re not going to get the chance to be
the judge of that, Jean Pierre. Content yourself with admiring her French
dressing.”

“You were outstanding this morning, James,”
said Stephen, steering the conversation away from Jean Pierre’s pet subject. “You
should go on the stage. As a member of the English aristocracy, your talent is
simply wasted.”

“I have always wanted to, but my old pa is
against it. Those who live in expectation of a large inheritance have to toe
the filial line.”

“Why don’t we let him play all four parts at
Monte Carlo?” suggested Adrian.

The mention of Monte Carlo sobered them up.

“Back to work,” said Stephen. “We have so
far received $447,560. Expenses with the picture and an unexpected night at the
Dorchester were $11,142, so Metcalfe still owes us $563,582. Think of what we
have lost, not of what we have won.
Now, the Monte Carlo
operation which depends upon split-second timing and our ability to sustain our
roles.
Adrian will bring us up to date.”

Adrian retrieved the green dossier from the
brief case by his side and studied his notes for a few moments.

“Jean Pierre, you must grow a beard starting
today, so that in three weeks’ time you will be unrecognisable. You must also
cut your hair very short.” Adrian grinned unsympathetically at Jean Pierre’s
grimace. “Yes, you will look absolutely revolting.”

“That,” said Jean Pierre, “will not be
possible.”

“How
are
the
baccarat and blackjack coming on?” continued Adrian.

“I have lost thirty-seven dollars in five
weeks, including my member’s fee at Crockford’s.”

“It all goes on expenses,” said Stephen. “That
puts the bill up to $563,619.”

They all laughed. Only Stephen’s lips did
not move. He was in sober earnest.

“James, how is your handling of the van
going?”

“I can get to Harley Street from St. Thomas’s
in fourteen minutes. I should be able to do the actual run in Monte Carlo in
about eleven minutes, though naturally I shall do some practice runs the day
before. I must master driving on the wrong side of the road.”

“Strange how everybody except the British
drives on the wrong side of the road,” observed Jean Pierre.

James ignored him.

“I’m not sure of all the continental road
signs either.”

“They are all in the Michelin guide that I
gave you as part of my dossier.”

“I know, Adrian, but I will still feel
easier when I have experienced the actual run and not just studied maps. There
are quite a few one-way streets in Monaco, and I want to be going down them in
the right direction.”

“Don’t worry. You will have ample time when
we are there. That just leaves Stephen, who is about the most able medical
student I have ever had. You’re happy with your newly acquired knowledge, aren’t
you?”

“About as happy as I am
with your American accent, Adrian.
Anyway, I trust that Harvey Metcalfe will be in no state to size us up
by the time we meet.”

“Don’t worry. Believe
me,
he wouldn’t even register if you introduced yourself as Herr Drosser with a Van
Gogh under each arm.”