Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less (22 page)

“No, it isn’t. If France had conquered
America your French would be excellent. Blame it on the Pilgrim Fathers.”

Adrian laughed. For fear of being overheard,
neither of them spoke again until they reached Room 217. Stephen had no doubts
about the risk and responsibility they were taking this time.

Harvey Metcalfe was on the deck of his
yacht, sunbathing and reading the morning papers.
Nice Matin,
irritatingly enough, was in French. He read it
laboriously, with the aid of a dictionary, to see if there were any social
events to which he ought to get himself invited. He had gambled late into the
night, and was enjoying the sun’s rays on his fleshy back. If money could have
obtained it, he would have been six foot and 170 pounds with a handsome head of
hair, but no amount of suntan oil would stop his balding dome from burning, so
he covered it with a cap inscribed “I’m sexy.”
If Miss Fish
could see him now.

At eleven o’clock he turned over and allowed
the sun to see his massive stomach as James strolled into Room 217 to find the
rest of the team waiting for him.

Jean Pierre reported on the layout of the
Casino and Harvey Metcalfe’s habits. James brought them up to date on the
result of his run the night before and confirmed that he thought he could cover
the distance in just
under
eleven minutes.

“Perfect,” said Adrian. “Stephen and I took
fifteen minutes by taxi from the hospital to the hotel and if Jean Pierre warns
me immediately the balloon goes up in the Casino, I should have enough time to
see that everything is ready before you all arrive.”

“I do hope the balloon is going to go down,
not up, in the Casino,” remarked Jean Pierre.

“I have booked an agency nurse to be on call
from tomorrow night. The hospital has all the facilities I require. It will
take about two minutes to get a stretcher from the front door to the theatre,
so from the moment James leaves the car park, I should have at least sixteen
minutes to prepare myself. James, you will be able to pick up the vehicle from
the hospital car park at twelve o’clock today. The keys have been left in
reception in the name of Doctor Barker. Do a couple of practice runs and no
more. I don’t want you causing interest or looking conspicuous. And could you
put this parcel in the back, please.”

“What is it?”

“Three long white laboratory coats and a
stethoscope for Stephen. While you’re at it, better check that you can unfold
the stretcher easily. When you have finished the two runs put the vehicle back
in the car park and return to your room until eleven P.M. From then through to
four o’clock in the morning you will have to wait in the car park until you get
a message from Jean Pierre of ‘action stations’ or ‘all clear.’ Everybody buy
new batteries for your transmitters. We can’t have the whole plan collapse for
the sake of a tenpenny battery. I am afraid there is nothing much for you to
do, Jean Pierre, until this evening, except relax. I hope you have some books
in your room.”

“Can’t I go to the Princes Cinema and see
Frangois Truffaut’s
La mat Americaine?
I just adore Jacqueline Bisset.
Vive la France!”

“My dear Jean Pierre, Miss Bisset’s from
Reading,” said James.

“I don’t care. I still want to see her.”

“A frog he would a-wooing go,” said Adrian
mockingly.
“But why not?
The last thing Harvey will do
is take in an intellectual French film with no subtitles. Hope you enjoy it and
good ‘luck tonight, Jean Pierre.”

Jean Pierre left for his room as quietly as
he had come, leaving the rest of them together in Room 217.

“Right, James. You can do your practice runs
any time you like now. Just make sure you are fully awake tonight.”

“Fine.
I’ll go and pick up the keys from the
hospital reception. Let’s just hope nobody stops me for a real emergency.”

“Now, Stephen, let’s go over it again. There
is more than money to lose if we get this one wrong. We will start from the
top. What do you do if the nitrous oxide falls below five litres...
”

“Station check–station
check–operation Metcalfe.
This is Jean Pierre. I am on the steps of the Casino. Can you hear me, James?”

“Yes. I am in the car park of the hospital.
Out.”

“Adrian here.
I am on the balcony of Room 217. Is Stephen
with you, Jean Pierre?”

“Yes. He’s drinking on his own at the bar.”

“Good luck and out.”

Jean Pierre carried out a station check
every hour on the hour from 7 P.M. until 11 P.M., merely to inform Adrian and
James that Harvey had not arrived.

Eventually he did show up at eleven-sixteen
and took his reserved place at the baccarat table. Stephen stopped sipping his
tomato juice and Jean Pierre moved over and waited patiently by the table for
one of the men seated on the left or right of Harvey to leave. An hour passed
by. Harvey was losing a little, but remained playing. So did the tall, thin
American on his right and the Frenchman on his left.
Another
hour and still no movement.
Then suddenly the Frenchman on the left of
Metcalfe had a particularly bad run, gathered his few remaining chips and left
the table. Jean Pierre moved forward.

“I am afraid, monsieur, that that seat is
reserved for another gentleman,” said the banker. “We do have an unreserved
place on the other side of the table.”

“It’s not important,” said Jean Pierre and
retreated, cursing the deference with which the Monegasques treat the wealthy.
Stephen could see from the bar what had happened and made furtive signs to
leave. They were all back in Room 217 just after 2 A.M.

“What a bloody silly mistake.
Merde, merde, merde.
I should have thought of it.”

“No, it was my fault. I don’t know how
casinos work and I should have queried it during rehearsals,” said Adrian,
stroking his newly acquired moustache.

“No one is to blame,” chipped in Stephen. “We
still have three nights and we mustn’t panic. We will have to work out how to
overcome the seating problem, but for now we’ll all get some sleep and meet
again in this room at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

They left a little depressed. Adrian had sat
waiting in the hotel on edge for four hours, James was cold and bored in the
hospital car park, Stephen was sick of tomato juice and Jean Pierre had been on
his feet by the baccarat table waiting for a seat that wasn’t even available.

Once again Harvey lounged in the sun. He was
now a light pink and was hoping to be a better colour towards the end of the
week. The New York
Times
informed him
that the price of gold was still going up and the deutschmark and the Swiss
franc were firm, while the dollar seemed to be on the retreat against every
currency, except sterling. Sterling stood at $2.42. Harvey thought a more
realistic price was $2.10 and the sooner it reached there the better.

“Nothing new in that,” he
thought,
when the sharp ring of a French telephone roused him. He never could get used
to the sound of another country’s telephones. The attentive steward bustled out
on deck with the instrument on an extension lead.

“Hi, Lloyd.
Didn’t know you were in Monte–yes, of
course–why don’t we get together?–about eight o’clock?–me too–I’m even getting
brown–must be getting old–what–great, I’ll see you then.”

Harvey replaced the receiver and asked the
steward for a large whisky on the rocks. He settled down happily once again to
the morning’s financial bad news.

“That seems to be the obvious solution,”
said Stephen. They all nodded their approval. “Jean Pierre will give up the
baccarat table and book a place next to Harvey Metcalfe on his blackjack table
in the Salon des Ameriques and wait for him to change games. We know both the
seat numbers Harvey plays at and we will alter our plans accordingly.”

Jean Pierre dialled the number of the Casino
and asked to speak to the Pierre Cattalano:

“Reservez-moi la deuxieme place sur la table
deux pour le vingt-et-un ce sou-
et
demain sou”, s’il
vous plait.”

“Je pense
que cette place est deja reservee, monsieur. Un instant, s’il vous plait, je
vais verifier.”

“Peut-etre
que cent francs la rendra libre,” replied Jean Pierre.

“Maid certainment,
monsieur, presentez-vous a moi des votre ar-rivee, et le necessaire sera fait.”

“Merci,” said Jean Pierre, and replaced the
receiver.

‘That’s under control.” Jean Pierre was
visibly sweating, though had the outcome of his call been of no significance,
not a drop of perspiration would have appeared for such a simple request. They
all returned to their rooms.

Just after midnight Adrian waited quietly in
Room 217, James stood in the car park humming, “I get along without you very
well,” Stephen was at the bar of the Salon des Ameriques toying with yet
another tomato juice and Jean Pierre was at seat number two on table number two
playing blackjack. Both Stephen and Jean Pierre saw Harvey come through the
door chatting to a man in a loud checked jacket which only a Texan could have
worn outside his own front garden. Harvey and his friend sat down together at
the baccarat table. Jean Pierre beat a hasty retreat to the bar.

“Oh, no!
I give up.”

“No, you don’t,” whispered Stephen.
“Back to the hotel.”

Spirits were very low when they were all
assembled in Room 217, but it was agreed that Stephen had made the right
decision. They could not risk the whole operation being carefully watched by a
friend of Harvey’s.

“The first operation is beginning to look a
bit too good to be true,” said Jean Pierre.

“Don’t be silly,” said Stephen. “We had two
false alarms then, and the entire operation had to be changed at the last
minute. We can’t expect him just to walk in and hand over his money. Now snap
out of it, all of you, and get some sleep.”

They returned to their separate rooms, but
not to much sleep. The strain was beginning to tell.

“That’s enough, I think, Lloyd.
A goodish evening.”

“For you, you mean, Harvey, not for me. You
are one of nature’s winners.”

Harvey patted the checked shoulder
expansively. If anything pleased him more than his own success, it was other
people’s failure. “Do you want to spend the night on my yacht, Lloyd?”

“No, thanks.
I must get back to Nice. I have a meeting
in Paris, France, tomorrow lunch. See you soon, Harvey–take care of yourself.”
He dug Harvey in the ribs jocularly. “That’s a fair-sized job.”

“Good night, Lloyd,” said Harvey a little
stiffly.

The next evening Jean Pierre did not arrive
at the Casino until eleven o’clock. Harvey Metcalfe was already at the baccarat
table minus Lloyd. Stephen was at the bar looking angry and Jean Pierre glanced
at him apologetically as he took his seat at the blackjack table. He pkyed a
few hands to get the feel, trying to keep his losses fairly limited without
drawing attention to the modesty of his stakes. Suddenly Harvey left the
baccarat table and walked into the Salon des Ameriques, glancing at the
roulette tables as he passed, more out of curiosity than interest. He detested
games of pure chance and considered baccarat and blackjack games of skill. He
headed to table number two, seat number three, on the left of Jean Pierre. The
adrenaline started pumping round again and the heartbeat was back up to 120. Stephen
left the Casino for a few minutes to warn James and Adrian that Harvey was now
sitting next to Jean Pierre. He then returned to the bar and waited.

There were now seven punters at the
blackjack table. On box number one, a middle-aged lady, smothered in diamonds,
who
looked as if she was passing time while her husband
played roulette or perhaps baccarat. On box number two, Jean Pierre. On box
number three, Harvey. On box number four, a dissipated young man with the
world-weariness that goes with a large unearned income. On box number five, an
Arab in full robes. On box number six, a not unattractive actress who was
clearly resting and, Jean Pierre suspected, with the occupier of box number
five, and on box number seven, an elderly straight-backed, aristocratic
Frenchman.

“A large black coffee,” Harvey drawled to
the slim waiter in his smart brown jacket.

Monte Carlo does not allow hard liquor to be
sold at the tables or girls to serve the customers. The Casino’s business is
gambling, not booze or women, in direct contrast to Las Vegas. Harvey had
enjoyed Vegas when he was younger, but the older he became the more he
appreciated the sophistication of the French. He had grown to prefer the formal
atmosphere and decorum of the Casino. Although at the number three table only
he and Jean Pierre were in dinner jackets, it was frowned upon to be dressed in
any way that might be described as casual.