Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less (9 page)

As he picked up the phone, he realised for
the first time the palms of his hands were slippery with sweat.

“Stephen Bradley.”

“Good morning, sir. My name is Detective
Inspector Clifford Smith of the Fraud Squad, Scotland Yard. I was wondering if
you would be kind enough to see me this
afternoon?
”

Stephen hesitated, thinking wildly for a
minute he had done something criminal by his investment in Discovery Oil.

“Certainly, Inspector,” he said uncertainly.
“Would you like me to travel to London?”

“No, sir,” replied the inspector. “We will
come down to you. We’ll be with you at four o’clock.”

“I’ll expect you then. Good-bye, Inspector.”
Stephen replaced the receiver. What did they want? He knew little of English
law and hoped he was not going to be involved with the police as well.
All this just six months before he was due to return to Harvard.
Stephen was now beginning to wonder if that would ever materialise.

It was an interminable wait until four o’clock
and the knock on the door made him jump. The porter announced: “Mr. Smith and
Mr. Ryder, sir.”

The detective inspector was about five feet
eleven inches tall, somewhere between forty-five and fifty. His hair was
turning grey at the sides, but brilliantine toned it in with the original
black. He was dressed in a shabby suit more indicative, Stephen thought, of a
policeman’s pay than the inspector’s personal choice. His heavy frame would
have fooled most people into thinking he was rather slow. In fact, Stephen was
in the presence of one of the few men in England who fully understood the
criminal mind. Time and time again he had been behind the arrest of
international defrauders. He had a tired look that had come from years of
putting men behind bars for major crimes, and seeing them freed again after
only two or three years, living off the spoils of their various shady
transactions. The force was so understaffed that some of the smaller fry even
got away scot free because the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions
had decided it would be too expensive to follow the case through to a proper
conclusion. On other occasions, the Fraud Squad just did not get the backup
staff to finish the job properly. The detective inspector was accompanied by
Detective Sergeant Ryder,
a considerably younger man–six feet
one inch, thin in body and face. His large brown eyes had a haunted look
against his sallow skin. He was at least dressed a little better than the
inspector, but then he probably wasn’t married, thought Stephen.

“I am sorry about this intrusion, sir,”
began the inspector after he had settled himself comfortably in the large
armchair usually occupied by Stephen, “but I’m making enquiries into a company
called Discovery Oil. Now, before you say anything, sir, we realise that you
had no personal involvement in the running of this company. But we do need your
help, and I would prefer to ask you a series of questions which will bring out
the points I need answered, rather than you just giving a general assessment.”

Stephen nodded his agreement.

“First, sir, why did you
invest such a large amount in Discovery Oil?”

The inspector had in front of him a sheet of
paper with a list of all the investments made in the company over the past four
months.

“On the advice of a friend,” replied Stephen.

“Would the friend be a Mr. David Kesler?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know Mr. Kesler?”

“We were students at Harvard together and
when he took up his appointment in England to work for an oil company I invited
him down to Oxford for old times’ sake.”

Stephen went on to explain the full
background of his association with David, and the reason he had been willing to
invest such a large amount. He ended his explanation by asking if the inspector
considered David was criminally involved in the rise and fall of Discovery Oil.

“No, sir.
My own view is that Kesler, who
incidentally has made a run for it and left the country, is no more than a dupe
of bigger men, but we would like to question him, so if he contacts you, please
let me know immediately.

“Now, sir,” he continued, “I’m going to read
you a list of names and I would be obliged if you could tell me whether you
have ever met, spoken to or heard of any of them... Harvey Metcalfe?”

“No,” said Stephen.

“Bernie Silverstein?”

“I have never met or spoken to him, but
David did mention his name in conversation when he dined with me here in
college.”

The Detective Sergeant was writing down
everything Stephen said, slowly and methodically.

“Richard Elliott?”

“The same applies to him as Silverstein,”
murmured Stephen.

“Alvin Cooper?”

“No,” said Stephen.

“Have you had any contact with anyone else
who invested in this company?”

“No,” said Stephen.

For well over an hour the inspector quizzed
Stephen on minor points, but he was unable to give very much help, although he
had kept a copy of the geologist’s report.

“Yes, we have one of those, sir,” said the
inspector, “but it’s carefully worded and we won’t be able to rely much on that
for evidence.”

“Evidence against whom or for what, Inspector?”
Stephen leaned forward. “It’s clear to me that I have been taken for a great
big ride. I probably don’t need to tell you what a fool I have been. I put my
shirt on Discovery Oil because it sounded like a surefire winner. Now I have
lost everything I had and I don’t know where to turn. What in heaven’s name has
been going on in Discovery Oil?”

He offered the two men some whisky and
poured himself a donnish dry sherry.

“Well, sir,” said the inspector, “you’ll
appreciate there are aspects of the case I can’t discuss with you. Indeed,
there are aspects that aren’t very clear to us yet. However, the game is an old
one, and this time it has been played by an old pro, a very cunning old pro. It
works like this: a company is set up or taken over by a bunch of villains who
acquire most of the shares. They make up a good story about a new find or
product that will send the shares up, whisper it in a few ears, release their
own shares onto the market, where they are snapped up by the likes of you, sir,
at a good price. Then they clear off with the profit they have made and the
shares collapse. As often as not, it ends in dealings in the company’s shares
being suspended on the stock market, and finally in the compulsory liquidation
of the company. That has not yet happened in this case, and may not. The
Montreal Stock Exchange is only just recovering from the Aquablast fiasco and
they don’t want another scandal. I’m sorry to say, we can hardly ever recover
the money, even if we get the evidence to nail the villains. They have it all
stashed away halfway round the world before you can say Dow Jones Index.”

Stephen groaned. “My God, you make it all
sound so appallingly simple, Inspector. The geologist’s report was a fake then?”

“No, very impressively set up, with plenty
of ifs and buts; and one thing is for certain, the DPP’s office is not going to
spend millions finding out if there is oil in their part of the North Sea.”

Stephen buried his head in his hands and
mentally cursed the day he met David Kesler.

“Tell me, Inspector, who put Kesler up to
this? Who
was the brains
behind the nest of sharks?”

The inspector realised only too well the
terrible predicament Stephen was in. He had during his career faced many men in
the same position, and he was grateful for the co-operation Stephen had shown.

“I can answer any questions I feel cannot
harm my own enquiry,” said the inspector. “The man we would like to nail is
Harvey Metcalfe.”

“Who’s Harvey Metcalfe, for God’s sake?”

“He’s a first-generation American who’s had
his hands in more dubious deals in Boston than you’ve had hot dinners.
Made himself a multi-millionaire and a lot of other people bankrupt
on the way.
His style is now so professional and predictable we can
smell the man a mile off. It won’t amuse you to learn he is a great benefactor
of Harvard–does it to ease his conscience, I wonder? We have never been able to
pin anything on him in the past, and I doubt if we will be able to this time
either. He was never a director of Discovery Oil. He only bought and sold
shares on the open market, and he never, as far as we know, even met David
Kesler. He hired Silverstein, Cooper and Elliott to do the dirty work, and they
found a bright young man all freshly washed behind the ears to sell their story
for them. Just a bit unlucky for you, sir, wasn’t it, that the young man in
question was your friend, David Kesler?”

“Never mind him, poor sod,” said Stephen. “What
about Harvey Metcalfe? Is he going to get away with it again?”

“I fear so,” said the inspector. “We have
warrants out for Silverstein, Elliott and Cooper. They all beat it for South
America. After the Ronald Biggs fiasco I doubt if we will ever get an
extradition order to bring them back, despite the fact the American and
Canadian police also have warrants out for them. They were fairly cunning too.
They closed the London office of Discovery Oil, surrendered the lease and
returned it to Conrad Ritblat, the estate agents, gave notice to both
secretaries with one month’s pay in advance. They cleared the bill on the oil
rig with Reading & Bates. They paid off their hired hand, Mark Stewart, in
Aberdeen, and took the Sunday morning flight to Rio de Janeiro, where there was
a million in a private account waiting for them. Harvey Metcalfe rewarded them
well and left David Kesler holding the baby.”

“Clever boys,” said Stephen.

“Oh yes,” said the inspector, “it was a neat
little operation.
Worthy of the talents of Harvey Metcalfe.”

“Are you trying to arrest David Kesler?”

“No, but as I said, we would like to
question him. He bought and sold five hundred shares, but we think that was
only because he believed in the oil strike story himself. In fact, if he was
wise he would return to England and help the police with their enquiries, but I
fear the poor man has panicked under pressure and made a bolt for it. The
American police are keeping an eye out for him.”

“One last question,” said Stephen. “Are
there any other people who have made such fools of themselves as I have?”

The inspector gave this question long
consideration. He had not had as much success with the other big investors as
he had had with Stephen. They had all been evasive about their involvement with
Kesler and Discovery Oil. Perhaps if he released their names it might bring
them out in some way. The police have many ways of gaining information.

“Yes, sir, but... please understand that you
never heard about them from me.”

Stephen nodded.

“For your own interest you could find out
what you want to know if you made some thorough enquiries at the Stock
Exchange. There were four main punters, of which you were one. Between you, you
lost approximately one million dollars. The others were a Harley Street doctor,
Adrian Tryner, a London art dealer called Jean Pierre Lamanns, and a farmer,
who I feel the sorriest of all for, really. He mortgaged his farm to put up the
money, as far as I can gather.
Titled young man: Viscount
Brigsley.
Metcalfe’s snatched the silver spoon out of his mouth all
right.”

“No other big investors?”

“Yes, two or three banks burnt their fingers
badly, but there were no other private investors above $25,000. What you, the
banks and the other big investors did was to keep the market going long enough
for Metcalfe to offload his entire holding.”

“I know, and I was foolish enough to advise
friends to invest in the company as well.”

“Uhm, there are two or three small investors
from Oxford,” said the inspector, looking down at the sheet of paper in front
of him, “but don’t worry, sir, we won’t be approaching them. Well, that seems
to be all. It only leaves me to thank you for your co-operation and say we may
be in touch again sometime in the future, but in any case, we will keep you
informed of developments, and hope you will do the same for us.”

“Of course, Inspector.
I do hope you have a safe journey back to
town.” The two policemen downed their drinks and left to catch their train to
London.

Stephen was not sure if it was sitting in
his armchair looking out at the cloisters, or later in bed that
night, that
he decided to employ his academic mind to carry
out a little research on Harvey Metcalfe and his fellow dupes. His grandfather’s
advice to him, when as a small child he could seldom win their nightly game of
chess, floated through his mind: Stevie, don’t get cross, get even. When he
finally fell asleep at three
o’clock, that
was his
plan. He was pleased he had given his final lecture and finished work for the
term, and he slept soundly, almost relieved by knowing the truth.

S
tephen awoke at about 5:30 A.M. He seemed to
have been heavily, dreamlessly asleep, but as soon as he came to, his nightmare
started again. He forced himself to use his mind constructively, to put the
past firmly behind him and see what he could do about the future. He washed,
shaved, dressed and missed college breakfast, pedalling to Oxford station on
his ancient bicycle, the preferred mode of transportation in a city blocked
solid with juggernaut lorries in one-way systems. He left Ethelred the Unsteady
padlocked to the station railings. There were as many bicycles standing in the
ranks as there are cars in any other station in England.