Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less (16 page)

Harvey strode down the gangplank like a man
with a purpose. He had never learnt to relax completely, even when he was on
vacation. He could just about spend four days away from the world, but if he
had been left on the
Q.E.2
any longer
he would have been negotiating to buy the Cunard Steamship Company, and with
the shares the way they were at that moment, it would have probably been a good
purchase. Harvey had met the chairman of Cunard, Vie Matthews, at Ascot on one
occasion and he seemed to feel the prestige and reputation of the company were
as important as profits. Harvey was interested in prestige, but never at the
expense of profits.

Customs clearance was given with the usual
speed. Harvey never had anything of consequence to declare on his European
trips, and after they had checked two of his Gucci suitcases, the other seven
were allowed through without inspection. The chauffeur opened the door of the
white Rolls Royce Corniche. It sped through Hampshire into London in just over
two hours, which gave Harvey the chance for a rest before dinner.

Albert, the head doorman at Claridge’s,
stood smartly to attention and saluted. He knew Harvey of old and was aware
that he had come, as usual, for Wimbledon and Ascot. Albert would undoubtedly
receive a
fifty-pence
tip every time he opened the
Rolls door. Harvey didn’t know the difference between a fifty-pence and a
ten-pence
piece–a difference which many head doormen had
welcomed since the introduction of decimalisation in Britain. Moreover, Harvey
always gave Albert five pounds at the end of Wimbledon fortnight if an American
won the singles title. An American invariably reached the finals, so Albert
would place a bet with Ladbrokes, the London bookmaker, on the other finalist
so that he won either way. There was not a great deal of difference between
Albert and Harvey: only the sums involved were different.

Albert arranged for the luggage to be sent
to the Royal Suite, which during the year had already been occupied by King
Constantine of Greece, Princess Grace of Monaco and Emperor Haile Selassie of
Ethiopia, all with considerably more conviction than Harvey. Although, as
Harvey pointed out to Albert, it looked as if he had a better chance of making
it every year.

The Royal Suite is on the first floor at
Claridge’s and can be reached by an elegant sweeping staircase from the ground
floor, or by a large, commodious lift. Harvey always took the lift up and
walked down. At least that way he convinced himself he was taking some
exercise. The suite itself consists of four rooms: a small dressing room, a
bedroom, a bathroom, and a drawing room, which is elegantly laid out and
overlooks Brook Street. The furniture and pictures make it possible for you to
believe that you are still in Victorian England. Only the telephone and
television dispel the illusion.

The room is large enough to be used for
cocktail parties or for visiting heads of state to entertain visitors. Henry
Kissinger had received Harold Wilson there only the week before. Harvey enjoyed
the thought of that.

After a shower and change of clothes, Harvey
glanced through his waiting mail and telexes from the bank, which were all
routine
. He took a short rest before going down to dine in
the main restaurant.

There in the large foyer was the usual
string quartet. Harvey even recognised the four players. He had reached the
time of life when he did not like great change–the management of Claridge’s
knew that the average age of their customers was over fifty and they catered
accordingly. Francois, the head waiter, showed him to his usual table.

Harvey managed a little shrimp cocktail and
a medium fillet steak with a bottle of Mouton Cadet, and continued reading
The Billion Dollar Sure Thing
which read
not unlike his autobiography. He did not notice the four young men eating in
the alcove on the far side of the room.

Stephen, Adrian, Jean Pierre and James all
had an excellent view of Harvey Metcalfe. He would have had to bend double and
move slightly backwards to have any view of them.

“Not exactly what I expected,” commented
Adrian.

“Put on a bit of weight since those
photographs you supplied,” said Jean Pierre.

“Hard to believe he’s real after all this
preparation,” remarked Stephen.

“He’s real enough, the bastard, and a
million dollars richer because of our stupidity,” said Jean Pierre.

James said nothing. He was still in disgrace
after his futile efforts and excuses at the last full
briefing,
although the other three had to admit that they did get good service wherever
they went with him. Claridge’s was no exception.

“Wimbledon tomorrow,” said Jean Pierre. “I
wonder who will win the first
round?
”

“You will, of course,” chipped in James,
hoping to soften Jean Pierre’s acid comments about his own feeble efforts.

“We can only win your round, James, if we
ever get an entry form.”

James sank back in silence.

“I must say, looking at the size of him we
ought to get away with your plan, Adrian,” said Stephen.

“If he doesn’t die of cirrhosis of the liver
before we get going,” replied Adrian. “How do you feel about Oxford, Stephen?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll feel better when I
have belled the cat at Ascot. I want to hear him speak, watch him in his normal
environment, get the feel of the man, and you can’t do all that from the other
side of a dining room.”

“You may not have to wait too long. This
time tomorrow we may know everything we need to know, or we may all be in jail,”
said Adrian.

“I can’t even afford bail,” said Jean
Pierre.

When Harvey had downed a large glass of Remy
Martin V.S.O.P. he left his table, slipping the head waiter a crisp new pound
note.

“The bastard,” said Jean Pierre with great
feeling. “It’s bad enough knowing he’s stolen our money, but it’s humiliating
having to watch him spend it.”

The four of them prepared to leave, the
object of their outing achieved. Stephen paid the bill and carefully added it
to the list of expenses against Harvey Metcalfe. Then they left the hotel
separately and as inconspicuously as possible. Only James found this difficult,
as all the waiters and porters would insist on saying to him: “Good night, my
lord.”

Harvey took a stroll round Berkeley Square
and did not even notice the tall young man slip into the doorway of Moyses
Stevens, the florists, for fear of being spotted by him.

Harvey never could resist asking a policeman
the way to Buckingham Palace just to compare the reaction he would get with
that of a New York cop, leaning on a lamp post, chewing gum,
holster
on hip. As Lenny Bruce had said on being deported from England, “Your
pigs is
so much better than our pigs.” Yes, Harvey liked
England.

He arrived back at Claridge’s at about
eleven-fifteen, showered and went to bed–a large double bed with that glorious
feel of clean linen sheets. There would be no women for him at Claridge’s or,
if there were, it would be the last time he would find the Royal Suite
available to him during Wimbledon or Ascot. The room moved just a little, but
then after five days on an ocean liner it was unlikely to be still until the
following night. He slept well despite it, without a worry on his mind.

H
arvey rose at 7:30 A.M., a habit he could
not break, but he did allow himself the holiday luxury of breakfast in bed. Ten
minutes after he had called room service the waiter arrived with a trolley
laden with a half grapefruit, bacon and eggs, toast, steaming black coffee, a
copy of the previous day’s
Wall Street
Journal,
and the morning’s edition of
The
Times, Financial Times
and
International
Herald Tribune.

Harvey was not sure how he would have
survived on a European trip without the
International
Herald Tribune,
known in the trade as the “Trib.” This unique paper,
published in Paris, is jointly owned by the New York
Times
and the Washington
Post.
Although only one edition of 120,000 copies is printed, it does not go to press
until the New York Stock Exchange has closed. Therefore, no American need wake
up in Europe out of touch. When the New York
Herald Tribune
folded in 1966, Harvey had been among those who advised
John H. Whitney to keep the
International
Herald Tribune
going in Europe. Once again, Harvey’s judgement had been
proved sound. The
International Herald
Tribune
went on to absorb its faltering rival, the New York
Times,
which had never been a success in
Europe. From then the paper has gone from strength to strength.

Harvey ran an experienced eye down the Stock
Exchange lists in the
Wall Street Journal
and the
Financial Times.
His bank now
held very few shares as he, like Jim Slater in England, had suspected that the
Dow Jones Index would collapse and had therefore gone almost entirely liquid,
holding only some South African gold shares and a few well-chosen stocks about
which he had inside information. The only monetary transaction he cared to undertake
with the market so shaky was selling the dollar short and buying gold so that
he caught the dollar on the way down and gold on the way up. There were already
rumours in Washington that the President of the United States had been advised
by his Secretary of the Treasury, George Shultz, to allow the American people
to buy gold on the open market some time in 1975. Harvey had been buying gold
for fifteen years: all the President was going to do was to stop him from
breaking the law. Harvey was of the opinion that the moment the Americans were
able to buy gold, the bubble would burst and the price of gold would recede–the
real money would be made while the speculators anticipated the rise, and Harvey
intended to be out of gold well before it came onto the American market.

Harvey checked the commodity market in
Chicago. He had made a killing in copper a year ago. Inside information from an
African ambassador had made this possible–information the ambassador had
imparted to too many people. Harvey was not surprised to read that he had
subsequently been recalled to his homeland and later shot.

He could not resist checking the price of
Discovery Oil, now at an all-time low of eighteen cents: naturally there would
be no trading in the stock simply because there would be only sellers and no
buyers. The shares were virtually worthless. He smiled sardonically and turned
to the sports pages of
The Times.

Rex Bellamy’s article on the forthcoming
Wimbledon Championships tipped John Newcombe as favourite and Jim Connors, the
new American star who had just won the Italian Open, as the best outside bet.
The British press wanted Ken Rosewall to win in his thirty-ninth year. Harvey
could well remember the epic final between Rosewall and Drobny in 1954, which
had run to fifty-eight games. Like most of the crowd, he had then supported the
thirty-three-year-old Drobny, who had finally won after three hours of play,
13-11, 4-6, 6-2,
9
-7. This time, Harvey wanted history
to repeat itself after a fashion, and Rosewall to win, though he felt the
popular Australian’s chance had slipped by during the ten years when
professionals did not compete at Wimbledon. Still he saw no reason why the
fortnight should not be a pleasant break, and perhaps there would be an
American victor if Rosewall couldn’t manage it.

A quick glance at the art reviews and Harvey
finished his breakfast, leaving the paper strewn over the floor. The quiet
Regency furniture, the elegant service and the Royal Suite did nothing for
Harvey’s manners. He padded into the bathroom for a shave and shower. Arlene
told him that most people did it the other way round–showered and then ate
breakfast. But, as Harvey pointed out to her, most people did things the other
way round from him, and look where it got them.

Harvey habitually spent the first morning of
Wimbledon fortnight visiting the Summer Exhibition at The Royal Academy in
Piccadilly. He would then follow this with visits to most of the West End’s
major
galleries–Agnew’s
, Tooth’s, the Marlborough, O’Hana–all
within easy walking distance of Claridge’s. This morning would be no exception.
If Harvey was anything he was a creature of habit, which was something the Team
were
quickly learning.

After he had dressed and bawled out room
service for not leaving enough whisky in his cabinet, he headed down the
staircase and emerged through the swing door of the Davies Street entrance and
headed towards Berkeley Square. Harvey did not notice a studious young man with
a two-way radio on the other side of the road.

“He has left the hotel,” said Stephen
quietly to his little Pye Pocket Phone, “and he’s heading towards you, James.”

“I’ll pick him up as he comes into Berkeley
Square, Stephen. Adrian, can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll let you know when I spot him. You stay
at the Royal Academy.”

“Right you are,” said Adrian.

Harvey strolled round Berkeley Square down
into Piccadilly and through the Palladian arches of Burlington House. With a
bad grace, he stood and queued with the assorted humanity in the forecourt,
shuffling past the Astronomical Society and the Society of Antiquaries. He did
not see the young man opposite in the entrance of the Chemical Society, deep in
a copy of
Chemistry in Britain.
Adrian was a thorough man. Finally, Harvey made it up the red-carpeted ramp
into The Royal Academy itself. He handed the cashier £3.50 for a season ticket,
realising that he would probably come at least three or four times. He spent
the entire morning studying the 1,182 pictures, none of which had been
exhibited anywhere else in the world before the opening day, in accordance with
the stringent rules of the Academy. Despite the rule, the Hanging Committee
still had to choose from over 5,000 pictures.