Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less (25 page)

Harvey made a talkative recovery, and Adrian
removed the stitches gravely on the sixth day.

“That seems to have healed very cleanly, Mr.
Metcalfe. Take it easy, and you should be back to normal by the middle of next
week.”

“Great. I have to get over to England right
away for Ascot week. You know, my horse Rosalie is
favourite
this year. I suppose you can’t join me as my guest? What if I had a relapse?”

Adrian suppressed a smile.

“Don’t worry. I think you’ll pull through
O.K. Sorry I can’t stay to see how you do at Ascot.”

“So am I, doc. Thanks again, anyway. I’ve
never met a surgeon like you before.”

And you’re not likely to again, thought
Adrian, his American accent beginning to fray at the edges. He bid his adieus
to Harvey with relief and to Angeline with regret, and sent the chauffeur back
from the hotel with a copperplate bill.

Dr. Wiley Franklin Barker presents his
Compliments to

Mr. Harvey Metcalfe and begs to inform him
that the bill for professional services rendered is

$ 80,000

in
respect of surgery and post-operative
treatment.

The chauffeur was back within the hour with
a cash cheque for $80,000. Adrian bore it back to London in triumph.

Two down and two to go.

T
he following day, Friday, Stephen sat on
Adrian’s examination couch in Harley Street and addressed his troops.

“The Monte Carlo operation was one hundred
per cent successful in every way, thanks to Adrian keeping his cool. The
expenses were fairly high, though. The hospital and hotel bills totalled
$11,351 and we received $80,000. Therefore, we have had $527,560 returned to
us, and expenses so far have come to $22,530. So Mr. Metcalfe still owes us
$494,970. Does everyone agree with that?”

There was a general murmur of approval.
Their confidence in Stephen’s arithmetic was unbounded, although in fact, like
all algebraists, he found working with figures tedious.

“Incidentally, Adrian, however did you
manage to spend $73.50 on dinner on Wednesday night? What did you.have, caviare
and champagne?”

“Something a little out of the ordinary,”
said Adrian. “It seemed to be called for at the time.”

“I would bet more than I laid out in Monte
Carlo that I know who answered that call,” said Jean Pierre, taking his wallet
out of his pocket. “Here you are, Stephen, 219 francs–my winnings from the
Casino on Wednesday night. If you had left me there in peace, we needn’t have
bothered with Adrian’s butchery. I could have won it back all on my own. I
think the least I deserve is Nurse Faubert’s telephone number.”

Jean Pierre’s remarks went straight over
Stephen’s head.

“Well done, Jean Pierre, it will come off
expenses.
At today’s
exchange rate, your 219 francs”–he
paused for a moment and tapped out on his calculator–”is 146.76. That brings
expenses down to $22,483.24.”

“Now, my plans for Ascot are simple. James
has acquired two badges for the Members’ Enclosure at a cost of £8. We know
that Harvey Metcalfe also has a badge, as all owners do, so as long as we get
our timing right and make it appear natural, he should once again fall into our
trap. James will control the walkie-talkie, watching the movements of Metcalfe
from start to finish. Adrian will wait by the entrance of the Members’
Enclosure and follow him in. Jean Pierre will send the telegram from London at
one P.M., so Harvey ought to receive it during lunch in his private box. That
part of the plan is simple. It’s when we lure him to Oxford we all have to be
at our best. I must confess it would be a pleasant change if Ascot were to work
first time.”

Stephen grinned widely.

“That would give us extra time to go over
the Oxford plan again and again.
Any questions?”

“You don’t need us for Part A of the Oxford
plan, only B?” asked Adrian.

“That’s correct. I can manage Part A on my
own. In fact, it will be better if you all remain in London on that night. Our
next priority must be to think up some ideas for James or he might, heaven
preserve us, think up something for himself. I am very concerned about this,”
continued Stephen, “for once Harvey returns to America we will have to deal
with him on his own territory. To date he has always been at the venue of our
choosing and James could stick out like a sore thumb in Boston, even though he
is the best actor of the four of us. In Harvey’s own words, ‘
It’s
a whole different ball game.’”

James sighed lugubriously and studied the
Axminster carpet.

“Poor old James–don’t worry, you drove that
ambulance like a trooper,” said Adrian.

“Perhaps you could learn to fly a plane and
then we could hijack him,” suggested Jean Pierre.

Miss Meikle did not approve of the laughter
that was coming from Dr. Tryner’s room and she was glad to see the strange trio
leave. When she had closed the door on them she returned to Adrian’s room.

“Will you take patients now, Dr. Tryner?”

“Yes, if I must, Miss Meikle.”

Miss Meikle pursed her lips. Whatever had
come over him? It must be those dreadful types he had started mixing with
lately. He had become so unreliable.

“Mrs. Wentworth-Brewster–Dr. Tryner will see
you now.”

Stephen returned for a few days’ rest to
Magdalen College. He had started the entire exercise eight weeks before and two
of the team had succeeded far beyond his expectations. He was conscious that he
must crown their efforts with something Oxford historians would talk about
after he was dead.

Jean Pierre returned to work in his gallery
in Bond Street. Sending a telegram was not going to overtax him, although Part
B of Stephen’s Oxford plan kept him nightly in front of the mirror rehearsing
his
role.

James took Anne down to Stratford on Avon
for the weekend. The Royal Shakespeare Company obliged with a sparkling
performance of
Much Ado about Nothing
and afterwards, walking along the banks of the Avon, James proposed. Only the
royal swans could have heard her reply. The diamond ring James had noticed in
the window of Carrier while he had been waiting for Harvey Metcalfe to join
Jean Pierre in the
gallery,
looked even more beautiful
on her slim finger. James’s happiness seemed complete. If only he could come up
with a plan and shock them all, then he would need for nothing. He discussed it
with Anne again that night, considering new ideas and old ones, getting
nowhere.

O
n the Monday morning James drove Anne back
to London and changed into the most debonair of his suits. Anne was returning
to work, despite James’s suggestion that she should accompany him to Ascot. She
felt the others would not approve of her presence and would realise that James
had confided in her.

Although James had not told her the details
of the Monte Carlo exercise, Anne knew every step of what was to take place at
Ascot and she could tell that James was nervous. Still, she would be seeing him
that night and would know the worst by then. James looked lost. Anne was very
thankful that Stephen, Adrian and Jean Pierre held the baton most of the time
in the relay team–but an idea was forming in her mind that just might work out
for him.

Stephen rose early and admired his grey hair
in the mirror. The result had been expensively achieved the previous day in the
hairdressing salon of Debenham. He dressed carefully, putting on his one
respectable grey suit and blue-checked tie. These were brought out for all
special occasions, ranging from a talk to students at Sussex to dinner with the
American ambassador. The suit was no longer fashionable and it sapped slightly
at elbow and knee, but by Stephen’s standards it was sheer elegance. He
travelled from Oxford to Ascot by train, while Adrian came from Newbury by car.
They met up with James at The Belvedere Arms, almost a mile from the course, at
eleven o’clock.

Stephen immediately telephoned Jean Pierre
to confirm that all three of them had arrived and asked for the telegram to be
read over to him.

“That’s right, Jean Pierre. Now travel to
Heathrow and send it at exactly one P.M.”

“Good luck, Stephen. Grind the bastard into
the dust.”

Stephen returned to the others and confirmed
that Jean Pierre had the London end under control.

“Off you go, James, and let us know
immediately Harvey arrives.” James downed a bottle of Carlsberg and departed.
The problem was he kept bumping into friends and he could hardly explain what
he was up to.

Harvey arrived at the members’ car park just
after midday, his white Rolls Royce shining like a Tide advertisement. It was
being stared at by all the racegoers with English disdain which Harvey mistook
for admiration. He led his party to his box. His newly tailored suit had taxed
the ingenuity of Bernard Weatherill to the utmost. A red carnation in his
buttonhole and a hat to cover his bald head left him nearly unrecognisable to
James, who followed the little group at a careful distance until he saw Harvey
enter a door marked “Mr. Harvey Metcalfe and Guests.”

“He’s in his private box,” said James.

“Where are you?” enquired Adrian.

“Directly below him on the ground level by a
course bookmaker called Sam O’Flaherty.”

“Now, don’t be rude about the Irish, James,”
said Adrian. “We’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

James stared up at the vast white stand
which accommodated 10,000 spectators with comfort and gave them an excellent
view of the course. He was finding it hard to concentrate on the job in hand as
once again he had to avoid relations and friends. First
was
the Earl of Halifax and then the frightful girl he had so unwisely agreed to
take to Queen Charlotte’s Ball in the spring. What was the creature’s name? Ah
yes.
The Hon. Selina Wallop.
How appropriate. She was
wearing a mini skirt a good four years out of fashion and a hat which didn’t
look as if it ever could come into fashion. James jammed his trilby over his
ears, looked the other way and passed the time chatting to Sam O’Flaherty about
the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes at three-twenty. O’Flaherty
quoted the latest odds on the favourite.

“Rosalie at six to four,
owned by that American, Harvey Metcalfe, and ridden by Pat Eddery.”

Eddery was heading towards being the
youngest ever champion jockey and Harvey always liked winners.

Stephen and Adrian joined James at the side
of Sam O’Flaherty’s bag. His tictac man was standing on an upturned orange box
beside him and swinging his arms like a semaphore sailor aboard a sinking ship.

“What do you fancy, gentlemen?” Sam asked
the three of them. James ignored Stephen’s slight frown of disapproval.

“Five pounds each way on Rosalie,” he said,
and handed over a crisp ten-pound note, receiving in return a little green card
with the series number and “Sam O’Flaherty” stamped right across the middle.

“I suppose, James, this is an integral part
of your as yet undisclosed plan,” said Stephen. “What I should like to know is
,
if it works, how much do we stand to make?”

“Nine pounds ten pence after tax if Rosalie
wins,” chipped in Sam O’Flaherty, his large cigar bobbing up and down in his
mouth as he spoke.

“A great contribution
towards a million dollars, James.
Well, we’re off to the Members’ Enclosure. Let us know the moment
Harvey leaves his box. My guess is that will be about one forty-five, when he
will come to look at the runners and riders for the two o’clock, so that gives
us a clear hour.”

The waiter opened another bottle of Krug
1964 champagne and began pouring it for Harvey’s guests: three bankers, two
economists, a couple of ship owners and an influential city journalist.

Harvey always liked his guests to be famous
and influential, and so he invited people who would find it almost impossible
to refuse him because of the business he might put their way. He was pleased
with the company he had assembled for his big day. Senior among them was Sir
Howard Dodd, the ageing chairman of the merchant bank that bore his name,
although its name referred to his great-grandfather. Sir Howard was six foot
two and as straight as a ramrod. He looked more like a Grenadier Guard than a
respected banker. The only thing he had in common with Harvey was the amount of
hair, or lack of hair, on his balding head. His young assistant, Jamie Clark,
accompanied him. Just over thirty and extremely bright, he was there to be sure
his chairman did not commit the bank to anything he would later regret. Clark,
although he had a sneaking admiration for Harvey, did not think him the sort of
customer the bank should do business with. Nevertheless, he was far from averse
to a day at the races.

The two economists, Mr. Colin Emson and Dr.
Michael Hogan from the Hudson Institute, were there to brief Harvey on the
perilous state of the British economy. They could not have been more different.
Emson was a totally self-made man who had left school at fifteen and educated
himself. With his contacts in social life, he had built up a company that
specialised in taxation, which had been very successful, thanks to the British
Government putting through a new Finance Act every few weeks. Emson was six
foot, solid and genial, game to help the party along whether Harvey lost or
won. Hogan, in contrast, had been to all the right places–Winchester, Trinity
College, Oxford, and Wharton Business School in Pennsylvania. A spell with
McKinsey, the management consultants in London, had made him one of the
best-informed economists in Europe. Those who observed his slim, sinewy body
would not have been surprised to learn that he had been an international squash
player. Dark-haired, with brown eyes that rarely left Harvey, he found it hard
not to show contempt, but this was the fifth invitation to Ascot and it seemed
Harvey would not take no for an answer.