Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less Read online

  “No,” said Robin. “I have my own anesthetist and staff, but I will require a tray of laparotomy instruments to be laid out every night. However, I will be able to give you at least an hour’s warning before you need make any final preparations.”

  “That’s plenty of time. Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “Yes, the special vehicle I ordered. Can it be ready for my driver at 12 P.M. tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Doctor Barker. It will be in the small car park behind the hospital and your driver can pick up the keys from the reception.”

  “Can you recommend an agency from which I can hire an experienced nurse for postoperative care?”

  “Bien sûr, the Auxiliaire Médical of Nice will be only too happy to oblige—at a certain price, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Robin. “And that reminds me to ask, have all your expenses been dealt with?”

  “Yes, Doctor. We received a check from California last Thursday for $7,000.”

  Robin had been very pleased with that touch. It had been so simple. Stephen had contacted his bank at Harvard and asked them to send a draft from the First National City Bank in San Francisco to the hospital secretary at Monte Carlo.

  “Thank you for all your help, Monsieur Bartise. You have been most obliging. Now you do understand that I am not quite sure which night I shall be bringing my patient in. He’s a sick man, although he doesn’t know it, and I have to prepare him for the operation.”

  “Of course, mon cher Docteur.”

  “Finally, I would appreciate it if you would tell as few people as possible that I am in Monte Carlo. I am trying to snatch a holiday at the same time as working.”

  “I understand, Doctor Barker. You can be assured of my discretion.”

  Robin and Stephen bade farewell to Monsieur Bartise and took a taxi back to the hotel.

  “I’m always slightly humiliated by how well the French speak our language compared with our grasp of theirs,” said Stephen.

  “It’s all the fault of you bloody Americans,” said Robin.

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

  Robin laughed. Neither of them spoke again until they reached room 217 for fear of being overheard. Stephen had no doubts about the responsibility and risk they were taking with Robin’s plan.

  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 6 ft. and 170 lbs. 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 with the words “I’m sexy.” If Miss Fish could see him now…

  At 11 A.M., as Harvey turned over and allowed the sun to see his massive stomach, James strolled into room 217 where the rest of the Team were 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 race through the city the night before and confirmed that he thought he could cover the distance in just under eleven minutes.

  “Perfect,” said Robin. “Stephen and I took 15 minutes by taxi from the hospital to the hotel so 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 will be going 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’ll take about two minutes to walk a stretcher from the front door to the theater, so from the moment James leaves the car park I should have at least 16 minutes to prepare myself. James, you’ll be able to pick up the vehicle from the hospital car park at 12 P.M. The keys have been left in reception in the name of Dr. Barker. Do a couple of practice runs and no more. I don’t want you causing interest by looking conspicuous. And could you leave 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’ve finished the two runs, put the vehicle back in the car park and return to your room until 11 P.M. From then through to 4 A.M. you’ll have to wait in the car park until you get the ‘action stations’ or ‘all clear’ signal from Jean-Pierre. Everybody buy new batteries for your transmitters. I don’t want the whole plan to collapse for the sake of a ten-penny battery. I’m afraid there’s nothing much for you to do, Jean-Pierre, until this evening, except relax. I hope you have some good books in your room.”

  “Can’t I go to the Princess Cinema and see François Truffaut’s La Nuit Américaine? 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 James mockingly.

  “But why not?” said Robin. “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 that suits you. Just make sure you’re wide 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 the details again. There’s more than money to lose if we get this one wrong. We’ll start from the top. What do you do if the nitrous oxide falls below five liters…”

  “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.”

  “Robin 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 Robin and James that Harvey had not arrived.

  Eventually, at 11:16, he did show up, 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 continued to play. 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, who backed away, not wanting to be remembered, cursing the deference with which the Monégasques 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 reservations the moment I knew Harvey had one.”

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

  “No one is to blame,” chipped in Stephen. “We still have three more nights, so no need to panic. We’ll just have to work out how to overcome the se
ating problem, but for now we’ll all get some sleep and meet again in this room at 10 A.M.”

  They left, a little depressed. Robin 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 color toward the end of the week. According to his copy of the New York Times, gold was still climbing and the Deutschmark and the Swiss franc remained firm, while the dollar was on the retreat against every currency except sterling. Sterling stood at $2.42. Harvey thought a more realistic price was $1.80 and the sooner it reached that the better.

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

  “Hi, Lloyd. Didn’t know you were in Monte…why don’t we get together?…8 P.M.?…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 whiskey on the rocks. He once again settled down happily 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 Amériques and wait for him to change games. We know both the seat numbers Harvey plays at and we’ll alter our own plans accordingly.”

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

  “Réservez-moi la deuxième place à la table 2 pour le vingt-et-un ce soir et demain soir, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Je pense que cette place est déjà réservée, Monsieur. Un instant, s’il vous plaît, je vais vérifier.”

  “Peut-être que 100 francs la rendra libre,” replied Jean-Pierre.

  “Mais certainement, Monsieur. Prèsentez-vous à moi dès votre arriveée, et le nécessaire sera fait.”

  “Merçi,” said Jean-Pierre and replaced the receiver. “That’s under control.”

  Jean-Pierre was visibly sweating, though had his call had no other outcome than to secure him a reserved seat, not a drop of perspiration would have appeared. They all returned to their rooms.

  When the clock in the town square struck twelve, Robin was waiting 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 Amériques toying with yet another tomato juice and Jean-Pierre was at seat No. 2 on table No. 2, 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 backyard. 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 entire exercise being carefully observed by a friend of Harvey’s.

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

  “Don’t be silly,” said Stephen. “We had two false alarms then, and the entire plan 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 go 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 11 P.M. 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 played 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 stalked into the Salon des Amériques, 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 No. 2 seat No. 3, on Jean-Pierre’s left. Jean-Pierre felt his adrenaline start pumping around and his heartbeat rise up to 120 again. Stephen left the Casino for a few minutes to warn James and Robin that Harvey had moved to the blackjack table and was now sitting next to Jean-Pierre. He then returned to the bar and waited.

  There were seven punters at the blackjack table. On box No. 1, a middle-aged lady smothered in diamonds, who looked as if she might be passing time while her husband played roulette or perhaps baccarat. On box No. 2, Jean-Pierre. On Box No. 3, Harvey. On Box No. 4, a dissipated young man with the world-weariness that usually goes with a large unearned income. On box No. 5, an Arab in full robes. On box No. 6, a not-unattractive actress who was clearly resting, Jean Pierre suspected, with the occupant of box No. 5; and on box No. 7, an elderly, straight-backed aristocratic Frenchman in evening dress.

  “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. In direct contrast to Las Vegas, the Casino’s business is gambling, not booze or women. 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 this particular Casino. Although at the No. 3 table only he, the aristocratic Frenchman and Jean-Pierre wore dinner jackets, it was frowned upon by the management to be dressed in any way that might be described as casual.

  A moment later, piping hot coffee in a large golden cup arrived at Harvey’s side. Jean-Pierre eyed it nervously while Harvey placed 100 francs on the table next to Jean-Pierre’s 3-franc chip, the minimum and maximum stake allowed. The dealer, a tall young man of not more than thirty, who was proud of the fact that he could deal a hundred hands in an hour, slipped the cards deftly out of the shoe. A king for Jean-Pierre, a four for Harvey, a five for the young man on Harvey’s left and a six for the dealer. Jean-Pierre’s second card was a seven. He stuck. Harvey drew a ten and also stuck. The young man on Harvey’s left also drew a ten and asked the dealer to twist again. It was an eight—bust.

  Harvey despised amateurs in any field and even fools know you don’t twist if you have twelve or more when the dealer’s card face up is a three, four, five or six. He grimaced slightly. The dealer dealt himself a ten and a six. Harvey and Jean-Pierre were winners. Jean-Pierre ignored the fate of the other players.

  The next round was unwinnable. Jean-Pierre stuck at eighteen, two nines which he chose not to split as the dealer had an ace. Harvey stuck on eighteen, an eight and a jack, and the young man on the left bust again. The bank drew a queen—“Black Jack”—and took the table.

  The next hand gave Jean-Pierre a three, Harvey a seven and the young man a ten. The dealer drew himself a seven. Jean-Pierre drew an eight and doubled his stake to 6 francs and then drew a ten—vingt-et-un. Jean-Pierre did not blink. He realized he was playin
g well and that he must not draw attention to himself, but let Harvey take it for granted. In fact Harvey hadn’t even noticed him: his attention was riveted on the young man on his left, who seemed anxious to make a gift to the management on every hand. The dealer continued, giving Harvey a ten and the young man an eight, leaving them both no choice but to stick. The dealer drew a ten, giving himself seventeen. He paid Jean-Pierre, left Harvey’s stake and paid the young man. The management was happy to pay the young man occasionally, if only to keep him sitting there all night.

  There were no more cards left in the shoe. The dealer made a great show of reshuffling the four packs and invited Harvey to cut the cards before replacing them in the shoe. They slipped out again: a ten for Jean-Pierre, a five for Harvey, a six for the young man and a four for the dealer. Jean-Pierre drew an eight. The cards were running well. Harvey drew a ten and stuck at fifteen. The young man drew a ten and asked for another card. Harvey could not believe his eyes and whistled through the gap in his front teeth. Sure enough, the next card was a king. The young man was bust. The dealer dealt himself a jack and then an eight, making twenty-two, but the young man had learned nothing from it. Harvey stared at him. When would he discover that, of the fifty-two cards in the pack, no less than sixteen have a face value of ten?

  Harvey’s distraction gave Jean-Pierre the opportunity he had been waiting for. He slipped his hand into his pocket and took the prostigmin tablet Robin had given him into the palm of his left hand. He sneezed, pulling his handkerchief from his breast pocket in a well-rehearsed gesture with his right hand. At the same time, he quickly and unobtrusively dropped the tablet into Harvey’s coffee. It would, Robin had assured him, be an hour before it took effect. To begin with Harvey would only feel a little sick; then he would get rapidly worse until the pain was too much to bear, before finally collapsing in absolute agony.

  Jean-Pierre turned to the bar, gripped his right-hand fist three times and then placed it in his pocket. Stephen left immediately and warned Robin and James from the steps of the Casino that the prostigmin tablet was in Metcalfe’s drink. It was now Robin’s turn to be tested under pressure. First he rang the hospital and asked the sister on duty to have the theater in full preparation. Then he rang the nursing agency and asked for the nurse he had booked to be waiting in the hospital reception in exactly ninety minutes’ time. He sat alone, nervously waiting for another call from the Casino.