Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less (26 page)

The Kundas brothers, second-generation Greek
shipowners who adored racing almost as much as
ships,
could hardly be told apart, with their black hair, swarthy skins and heavy
eyebrows. It was difficult to guess how old they were, and nobody knew how much
they were worth. They probably did not know themselves. Harvey’s final guest,
Nick Lloyd of the
News of the World,
had come along to pick up any dirt he could about his host. He had come near to
exposing Metcalfe in the mid-sixties, but the Jack Profumo affair had kept less
juicy stories off the front page for several weeks, and by then Harvey had
escaped. Lloyd, hunched over the inevitable triple gin with a faint suggestion
of tonic, watched the motley bunch with interest.

“Telegram for you, sir.”

Harvey ripped it open. He was never neat
about anything.

“It’s from my daughter, Rosalie. That’s cute
of her to remember, but damn it all, I named the horse after her.”

They took their seats for lunch–cold
vichyssoise, pheasant and strawberries. Harvey was even more loquacious than
usual, but his guests dismissed it, knowing he was nervous about the race he
had always wanted to win. He would rather be the winner of this trophy than any
he could be offered in America. Harvey never could understand why he felt this
way. Perhaps it was the special atmosphere of Ascot which appealed to him so
strongly–a combination of lush green grass and gracious surroundings, of
elegant crowds and an efficiency of organisation which made Ascot the envy of
the racing world.

“You must have a better chance this year
than ever before, Harvey,” said the senior banker.

“Well, you know, Sir Howard, Lester Piggott
is riding the Duke of Devonshire’s horse, Crown Princess, and the Queen’s
horse, Highclere, is the joint favourite. When you have been third twice
before, even favourite and not placed, you begin to wonder when one of your
horses is going to make it.”

“Another telegram, sir.”

Once again Harvey’s fat little fingers
ripped it open.

“ ‘All
best wishes and good luck for King George
VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes.’ It’s from the staff of your bank, Sir Howard.
Jolly good show.”

Harvey’s Polish-American accent made the
English expression sound slightly grotesque.

“More champagne,
everybody.”

Another telegram arrived.

“At this rate, Harvey, you will need a
special room at the Post Office.” They all laughed at Sir Howard’s feeble joke.
Once again Harvey read it out loud:

“ ‘Regret
unable to join you Ascot.
Heading soonest California.
Grateful look
out for Professor Rodney Porter, Oxford Nobel Prize Winner.
Don’t let
English bookies stitch you up.
Wiley B. Heathrow Airport.’
It’s from Wiley Barker. He’s the guy who did stitch me up in Monte Carlo. He
saved my life. He took out a gallstone the size of that bread roll you’re
eating, Dr. Hogan. Now, how the hell am I supposed to find this Professor
Porter.” Harvey turned to the headwaiter. “Get my chauffeur.”

A few seconds later the smartly clad Guy
Salmon flunkey appeared.

“There’s a Professor Rodney Porter of Oxford
here today. Go find him.”

“What does he look like, sir?”

“How the hell do I know?” said Harvey. “Like
a professor.”

The chauffeur regretfully abandoned his
plans for an afternoon at the railings and departed.

Harvey’s guests were enjoying the
strawberries, the champagne and the string of telegrams that were arriving.

“You know, if you win, the cup will be
presented by the Queen,” said Nick Lloyd.

“You bet. It will be the crowning moment of
my life to win the King George and Elizabeth Stakes and meet Her Majesty the
Queen. If Rosalie wins, I will suggest my daughter marries Prince Charles–they’re
about the same age.”

“I don’t think even you will be able to fix
that, Harvey.”

“What will you do with the odd £81,000 prize
money, Mr. Metcalfe?” asked Jamie Clark.

“Give it to some charity,” said Harvey,
pleased with the impression the remark made on his guests.

“Very generous, Harvey.
Typical of your
reputation.”
Nick Lloyd gave Michael Hogan a knowing look. Even if the
others didn’t, they knew what was typical of his reputation.

The chauffeur returned to report that there
was no trace of a solitary professor anywhere in the champagne bar, balcony
luncheon room or the paddock buffet, and he’d been unable to gain access to the
Members’ Enclosure.

“Naturally not,” said Harvey in a rather
pompous manner. “I shall have to find him myself. Drink up and enjoy
yourselves.”

Harvey rose and walked to the door with the
chauffeur. Once he was out of earshot of his guests, he said:

“Get your ass out of here and don’t give me
any crap about not being able to find him.”

The chauffeur bolted. Harvey turned to his
guests and smiled.

“I am going to look at the runners and
riders for the two o’clock.”

“He’s leaving the box now,” said James.

“What’s that you’re saying?” asked the Duke
of Rutland. “Are you talking to yourself, James?”

James stared at the noble Duke, six foot one
and still able to stand his full height, an M.C. and a D.S.O. in the First World
War. Although the lines on liis face suggested that he had passed the age at
which the Maker had fulfilled his contract, he sail exuded enthusiastic energy.

“Oh hell.
No, sir, I was just... em... coughing.”

“What do you fancy in the King George VI and
Queen Elizabeth Stakes?” enquired the Duke.

“Well, I have put five pounds each way on
Rosalie, sir.”

“He seems to have cut himself off,” said
Stephen.

“Well, buzz him again,” said Adrian.

“What’s that noise, James? Have you got a
hearing aid or something?”

“No, Duke. It’s, it’s,
it’s
a transistor radio.”

“Ought to be banned,” said the Duke.
“Bloody invasion on one’s privacy.”

“Absolutely right, sir.”

“What’s he playing at, Stephen?”

“I don’t know–I think something must have
happened.”

“Oh my God, it’s Harvey heading straight for
us. You go into the Members’ Enclosure, Stephen, and I’ll follow you. Take a
deep breath and relax. He hasn’t seen us.”

Harvey marched up to the official blocking
the entrance to the Members’ Enclosure.

“I’m Harvey Metcalfe, the owner of Rosalie,
and this is my badge.”

The official let Harvey through. Thirty
years ago, he thought, they would not have let him in if he’d owned every horse
in the race. Times had changed. Then racing at Ascot was only on four days a
year, a jolly, social occasion. Now it was twenty-four days a year and big
business. Adrian followed closely, showing his pass without speaking to the
official.

A photographer broke away from stalking
outrageous hats, for which Ascot has such a reputation, to take a picture of
Harvey just in case Rosalie won the King George VI Stakes. As soon as his bulb
had flashed he rushed over to the other entrance. Linda Lovelace, the star of
Deep Throat,
the film running to packed
houses in New York but banned in England, was trying to enter the Members’
Enclosure. She was not succeeding, despite being accompanied by a well-known
London banker, Richard Szpiro. She wore a top hat and morning suit with nothing
under the topcoat. In moments she was surrounded by photographers. No one was
going to bother with Harvey while she was around. When she was quite certain
that every photographer had taken a picture of her attempting to enter the
Enclosure she left, swearing at the top of her voice, her publicity stunt
completed.

Harvey returned to studying the horses as
Stephen moved up to within a few feet of him.

“Here we go again,” said Adrian to himself,
and went smartly over to Stephen and, standing directly between the two of
them, shook Stephen’s hand warmly and declared in a voice intended to carry:

“How are you, Professor Porter? I didn’t
know you were interested in racing.”

“I’m not really, but I have just been to a
seminar in London and thought it a good opportunity to see how...”

“Professor Porter,” cried Harvey. “I am
honoured to make your acquaintance. Sir, my name is Harvey Metcalfe from
Boston, Massachusetts. My good friend, Dr. Wiley Barker, who saved my life,
told me you would be here today and I am going to make sure you have a
wonderful afternoon.”

Adrian slipped away. He could not believe
how easy it had been. The telegram had worked like a charm.

“Her Majesty the Queen; His Royal Highness
the Duke of Edinburgh; Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother; and
Her Royal Highness the Princess Anne are now entering the Royal Box.”

The massed bands of the Brigade of Guards
struck up the national anthem: “God Save the Queen.”

The crowd of 25,000 rose and sang loyally
out of tune.

“We should have someone like that in
America,” said Harvey to Stephen, “to take the place of Richard Nixon, then we
would not have any of our problems.” Stephen thought his fellow American was
being just a little unfair. Richard Nixon was almost a saint by Harvey Metcalfe’s
standards.

“Come and join me in my box, Professor, and
meet my other guests. The damned box cost me £750, we may as well fill it. Have
you had some lunch?”

“Yes, I had an excellent lunch,” Stephen
lied–something else Harvey had taught him. He had stood by the Members’
Enclosure for an hour, nervous and pensive, unable even to manage a sandwich,
and by now he was starving.

“Well, come and enjoy my champagne,” roared
Harvey.

On an empty stomach, thought Stephen. “Thank
you, Mr. Metcalfe. I am a little lost. This is my first Royal Ascot.”

“This isn’t Royal Ascot, Professor. It’s the
last day of Ascot Week, but the Royal Family always come to see the King George
and Elizabeth Stakes so everybody dresses up.”

“I see,” said Stephen timidly, pleased with
his deliberate error.

Harvey collared his find and took him back
to the box. “Everybody, I want you to meet my distinguished friend Rodney
Porter. He’s a Nobel Prize Winner, you know. By the way, what’s your subject,
Rod?”

“Biochemistry.”

Stephen was getting the measure of Harvey.
As long as he played it straight the bankers and shippers, and even the
journalist, were not going to realise that he was not the cleverest thing since
Einstein. He relaxed a little and even found time to fill himself with salmon
sandwiches when the others were not looking.

Lester Piggott won the two o’clock on
Olympic Casino and the two-thirty on Roussalka, achieving his three-thousandth
win. Harvey was getting steadily more nervous. He talked incessantly without making
much sense. He had sat through the two-thirty without showing any interest in
the result and consumed more and more champagne. At ten to three he called for
them all to join him in the Members’ Enclosure to look at his famous filly.
Stephen, like the others, trailed behind him in a little pseudo-royal
entourage.

Adrian and James watched the procession from
a distance.

“He’s too far in to back out now,” said
Adrian.

“He looks happy enough to me,” replied
James. “Let’s make ourselves scarce. We can only get under his feet now.”

They headed into the champagne bar, where a
considerable number of red-faced men looked as if they spent more time there
than they did watching the racing.

“Isn’t she beautiful, Professor?
Almost as beautiful as my daughter.
If she doesn’t win today
I am never going to make it.”

Harvey left his little crowd to have a word
with Pat Eddery, the jockey, to wish him luck. Peter Walwyn, the trainer, was
giving final instructions before the jockey mounted and left the Enclosure. The
ten horses were paraded in front of the stand before the race, a custom at
Ascot that is only carried out for the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth
Stakes. The gold, purple and scarlet colours of Her Majesty the Queen’s horse
Highclere led the procession, followed by Crown Princess, who was giving her
jockey a little trouble. Directly behind her came Rosalie, who was very relaxed
and looked fresh and ready to go. Buoy and Dankaro came behind Rosalie, with
the outsiders, Messipatania, Ropey and Minnow bringing up the rear. The crowd
rose to cheer the horses and Harvey beamed with as much pride as if he had
owned every horse in the race.

“... and I have with me today the
distinguished American owner, Harvey Metcalfe,” said Julian Wilson into the BBC
TV outside broadcast camera. “I’m going to ask him if he’d be kind enough to
give me his views on the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes, for which
he has the joint favourite, Rosalie. Welcome to England, Mr. Metcalfe. How do
you feel about the big race?”