Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less Read online

  Harvey was in a dream world. Flashbulbs popped and film cameras followed him as he walked toward the Queen. He bowed and received his trophy. The Queen, resplendent in a turquoise silk suit and matching turban that could only have been designed by Norman Hartnell, said a few words, but for the first time in his life Harvey was speechless. Taking a pace backward, he bowed again and returned to his place accompanied by loud applause.

  Back in his box the champagne flowed and everybody was Harvey’s friend. Stephen realized this was not the moment to try anything clever. He must bide his time and watch his quarry’s reaction to these changed circumstances. He stayed quietly in a corner, letting the excitement subside, and observed Harvey carefully.

  It took another race before Harvey was half back to normal and Stephen decided the time had now come to act. He made as if to leave.

  “Are you going already, Professor?”

  “Yes, Mr. Metcalfe. I must return to Oxford and mark some scripts before tomorrow morning.”

  “I always admire the work you boys put in. I hope you enjoyed yourself?” Stephen avoided Shaw’s famous riposte, “I had to, there was nothing else to enjoy.”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Metcalfe. An amazing achievement. You must be a very proud man.”

  “Well, I guess so. It’s been a long time coming, but it all seems worthwhile now…Rod, it’s too bad you have to leave us. Can’t you stay on a little longer and join my party at Claridge’s tonight?”

  “I should have liked that, Mr. Metcalfe, but you must visit me at my college at Oxford and allow me to show you the university.”

  “That’s swell. I have a couple of days after Ascot and I’ve always wanted to see Oxford, but I never seem to have found the time.”

  “It’s the university Garden Party next Wednesday. Why don’t you join me for dinner at my college on Tuesday evening and then we can spend the following day looking at the university and go on to the Garden Party?” Stephen scribbled a few directions on a card.

  “Fantastic. This is turning out to be the best vacation I’ve ever had in Europe. How are you getting back to Oxford, Professor?”

  “By train.”

  “No, no,” said Harvey. “My Rolls Royce will take you. It’ll be back well in time for the last race.”

  And before Stephen could protest, the chauffeur was called for.

  “Take Professor Porter back to Oxford and then return here. Have a good trip, Professor. I’ll look forward to seeing you next Tuesday at 8 P.M. Great meeting you.”

  “Thank you for a wonderful day, Mr. Metcalfe, and congratulations on your splendid victory.”

  Seated in the back of the white Rolls Royce on his way to Oxford, the car which Robin had boasted he and he alone would travel in, Stephen relaxed and smiled to himself. Taking a small notebook from his pocket he made an entry:

  “Deduct 98 pence from expenses, the price of a single second-class ticket from Ascot to Oxford.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “BRADLEY,” SAID THE senior tutor. “You’re going a bit gray at the edges, dear boy. Is the office of Junior Dean proving too much for you?”

  Stephen had wondered whether any of the Senior Common Room would think the change in the color of his hair worthy of comment. Dons are seldom surprised by anything their colleagues do.

  “My father went gray at an early age, Senior Tutor, and there seems to be no way of defying heredity…”

  “Ah well, dear boy, you’ll look all the more distinguished at next week’s Garden Party.”

  “Oh yes,” replied Stephen, who had been thinking of nothing else. “I’d quite forgotten about that.”

  He returned to his rooms where the rest of the Team were assembled and waiting for their next briefing.

  “Wednesday is the day of the Encaenia and the Garden Party,” began Stephen without as much as a “Good morning, gentlemen.” His students made no protest. “Now the one thing we’ve learned about our millionaire friend is that when we take him away from his own environment he still continues to assume he knows everything. We’ve now shown that his bluff can be called, as long as we know what’s going to happen next and he doesn’t. It’s only the same skill he used when promoting Prospecta Oil—always keeping one step ahead of us. Now, we’re going to keep two steps ahead of him by having a rehearsal today and a full dress rehearsal tomorrow.”

  “Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted,” muttered James. It was about the only sentiment he could recall from his Army Cadet days at Harrow.

  “Haven’t had to spend much time on reconnaissance for your plan, have we?” chipped in Jean-Pierre.

  Stephen ignored the interruptions.

  “Now, the whole process on the day will take about seven hours for me and four hours for you, which includes the time required for makeup; we’ll need an extra session on that from James the day before.”

  “How often will you need my two sons?” asked Robin.

  “Only once, on the Wednesday. Too many runs at it will make them look stiff and awkward.”

  “When do you imagine Harvey will want to return to London?” inquired Jean-Pierre.

  “I rang Guy Salmon to check their timetable and they’ve been instructed to have him back at Claridge’s by 7 P.M., so I’ve assumed we have only until 5:30.”

  “Clever,” said Robin.

  “It’s awful,” said Stephen. “I even think like the man now. Right, let’s go over the whole plan once again. We’ll take it from the red dossier, halfway down page 16. When I leave All Souls…”

  On Sunday and Monday they carried out full rehearsals. By the Tuesday they knew every route Harvey could take and where he would be at any given moment of the day from 9 A.M. to 5:30 P.M. Stephen hoped he had covered every eventuality. He had little choice. They were only going to be allowed one crack at this one. Any mistakes like Monte Carlo and there would be no second chance. The dress rehearsal went to a second.

  “I haven’t worn clothes like this since I was six years old and attending a fancy-dress party,” said Jean-Pierre. “We’re going to be anything but inconspicuous.”

  “There’ll be red and blue and black all around you on the day,” said Stephen. “It’s like a circus for peacocks. No one will give us a second look, not even you, Jean-Pierre.”

  They were all nervous again, waiting for the curtain to go up. Stephen was glad they were on edge: he had no doubt that the moment they relaxed with Harvey Metcalfe, they would be found out.

  The Team spent a quiet weekend. Stephen watched the College Dramatic Society’s annual effort in Magdalen gardens, Robin took his wife to Glyndebourne and was uncommonly attentive, Jean-Pierre read Goodbye Picasso by David Douglas Duncan, and James took Anne to Tathwell Hall in Lincolnshire, to meet his father, the fifth earl.

  Even Anne was nervous that weekend.

  “Harry?”

  “Doctor Bradley.”

  “I have an American guest dining with me in my rooms tonight. His name is Harvey Metcalfe. When he arrives will you see he is brought over to my rooms, please.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “And one small thing. He seems to have mistaken me for Professor Porter of Trinity College. Don’t correct the mistake, will you? Just humor him.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Harry retreated into the Porter’s Lodge shaking his head sadly. Of course, all academics went dotty in the end, but Dr. Bradley had been afflicted at an unusually tender age.

  Harvey arrived at eight. He was always on time in England. The head porter guided him through the cloisters and up the old stone staircase to Stephen’s rooms.

  “Mr. Metcalfe, sir.”

  “How are you, Professor?”

  “I’m well, Mr. Metcalfe. Good of you to be so punctual.”

  “Punctuality is the politeness of princes.”

  “I think you’ll find it is the politeness of kings, and, in this particular instance, of Louis XVIII.” For a moment Stephen forgot that Harvey wasn’t a pupil
.

  “I’m sure you’re right, Professor.”

  Stephen mixed him a large whiskey. His guest’s eyes took in the room and settled on the desk.

  “Gee—what a wonderful set of photographs. You with the late President Kennedy, another with the Queen and even the Pope.”

  That touch was due to Jean-Pierre, who had put Stephen in contact with a photographer who had been in jail with his artist friend David Stein. Stephen was already looking forward to burning the photographs and pretending they had never existed.

  “Let me give you another to add to your collection.”

  Harvey pulled out of his inside coat pocket a large photograph of himself receiving the trophy for the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes from the Queen.

  “I’ll sign it for you, if you like.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he scribbled an exuberant signature diagonally across the Queen.

  “Thank you,” said Stephen. “I can assure you I will treasure it with the same affection as I do my other photographs. I certainly appreciate you sparing the time to visit me here, Mr. Metcalfe.”

  “It’s an honor for me to come to Oxford, and this is such a lovely old college.”

  Stephen really believed he meant it, and he suppressed the inclination to tell Harvey the story of the late Lord Nuffield’s dinner at Magdalen. For all Nuffield’s munificence to the university, the two were never on entirely easy terms. When a manservant assisted the guest’s departure after a college feast, Nuffield took the proffered hat ungraciously. “Is this mine?” he said, disdainfully. “I wouldn’t know, my lord,” was the rejoinder, “but it’s the one you came with.”

  Harvey was gazing a little blankly at the books on Stephen’s shelves. The disparity between their subject matter, pure mathematics, and the putative Professor Porter’s discipline, biochemistry, happily failed to arrest him.

  “Do brief me on tomorrow.”

  “Surely,” said Stephen. Why not? He had briefed everyone else. “Let me first call for dinner and I’ll go through what I’ve planned for you and see if it meets with your approval.”

  “I’m game for anything. I feel ten years younger since this trip to Europe—it must’ve been the operation—and I’m thrilled about being here at Oxford University.”

  Stephen wondered if he really could stand seven hours of Harvey Metcalfe, but for another $250,000 and his reputation with the rest of the Team…

  The college servants brought in shrimp cocktail.

  “My favorite,” said Harvey. “How did you know?”

  Stephen would have liked to say, “There’s very little I don’t know about you,” but he satisfied himself with, “A fortunate guess. Now, if we meet up at 10 tomorrow morning we can take part in what is thought to be the most interesting day in the university calendar. It’s called Encaenia.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, once a year at the end of Trinity Term, which is the equivalent of the summer term in an American university, we celebrate the ending of the university year. There are several ceremonies followed by a magnificent Garden Party, which will be attended by the Chancellor and Vice-Chancellor of the University. The Chancellor is the former British Prime Minister, Harold Macmillan, and the Vice-Chancellor is Mr. Habakkuk. I’m hoping it will be possible for you to meet them both, and we should manage to cover everything in time for you to be back in London by 7 P.M.”

  “How did you know I had to be back by 7?”

  “You warned me at Ascot.” Stephen could lie very quickly now. He was afraid that if they did not get their million soon he would end up a hardened criminal.

  Harvey enjoyed his meal, which Stephen had planned almost too cleverly, each course featuring one of Harvey’s favorite dishes. After Harvey had drunk a good deal of after-dinner brandy (price £7.25 per bottle, thought Stephen) they strolled through the quiet Magdalen Cloisters past the Song School. The sound of the choristers rehearsing a Gabrieli mass hung gently in the air.

  “Gee, I’m surprised you allow record players on that loud,” said Harvey.

  Stephen escorted his guest to the Randolph Hotel, pointing out the iron cross set in Broad Street outside Balliol College, said to mark the spot on which Archbishop Cranmer was burned at the stake for heresy in 1556. Harvey forebore to say that he had never even heard of the reverend gentleman.

  Stephen and Harvey parted on the steps of the Randolph.

  “See you in the morning, Professor. Thanks for a great evening.”

  “My pleasure. I’ll pick you up at 10 A.M. Sleep well—you have a full day ahead of you tomorrow.”

  Stephen returned to Magdalen and immediately called Robin.

  “All’s well, but I nearly went too far. The meal was altogether too carefully chosen—I even had his favorite brandy. Still, it’ll keep me on my toes tomorrow. We must remember to avoid overkill. See you then, Robin.”

  Stephen reported the same message to Jean-Pierre and James before falling gratefully into bed. The same time tomorrow he would be a wiser man, but would he be a richer one?

  Chapter Sixteen

  AT 5 A.M. the sun rose over the Cherwell, and those few Oxonians who were about that early would have been left in no doubt as to why the connoisseurs consider Magdalen to be the most beautiful college at either Oxford or Cambridge. Nestling on the banks of the river, its perpendicular architecture is easy on the eye. King Edward VII, Prince Henry, Cardinal Wolsey, Edward Gibbon and Oscar Wilde had all passed through its portals. But the only thing that was passing through Stephen’s mind as he lay awake that morning was the education of Harvey Metcalfe.

  He could hear his own heartbeat, and for the first time he knew what Robin and Jean-Pierre had been through. It seemed a lifetime since their first meeting only three months before. He smiled to himself at the thought of how close they had all become in their common aim of defeating Harvey Metcalfe. Although Stephen, like James, was beginning to have a sneaking admiration for the man, he was now even more convinced that Metcalfe could be outmaneuvered when he was not on home ground. For over two hours Stephen lay motionless in bed, deep in thought, going over his plan again and again. When the sun had climbed over the tallest tree, he rose, showered, shaved and dressed slowly and deliberately, his mind still on the day ahead.

  He made his face up carefully to age himself by fifteen years. It took him a considerable time, and he wondered whether women had to struggle as long in front of the mirror to achieve the opposite effect. He donned his gown, a magnificent scarlet, proclaiming him a Doctor of Philosophy of the University of Oxford. It amused him that Oxford had to be different. Every other university abbreviated this universal award for research work to Ph.D. In Oxford, it was D.Phil. He studied himself in the mirror.

  “If that doesn’t impress Harvey Metcalfe, nothing ever will.”

  And what’s more, he had the right to wear it. He sat down to study his red dossier for the last time. He had read the closely typewritten pages so often that he practically knew them by heart.

  He avoided breakfast. Looking nearly fifty, he would undoubtedly have caused a stir among his colleagues, though probably the older dons would have failed to observe anything unusual in his appearance.

  Stephen headed out of the college into the High, unnoticed among the thousand or so other graduates all dressed like fourteenth-century archbishops. Anonymity on that particular day was going to be easy. That, and the fact that Harvey would be bemused by the strange traditions of the ancient university, were the two reasons why Stephen had chosen Encaenia for his day of battle.

  He arrived at the Randolph at 9:55 A.M. and informed one of the younger bellboys that his name was Professor Porter and that he had come to pick up Mr. Metcalfe. Stephen took a seat in the lounge. The young man scurried away and returned moments later with Harvey.

  “Mr. Metcalfe—Professor Porter.”

  “Thank you,” said Stephen. He made a mental note to return and tip the bellboy. That touch had been useful, even if
it was only part of his job.

  “Good morning, Professor,” said Harvey, taking a seat. “So tell me, what have I let myself in for?”

  “Well,” said Stephen, “Encaenia begins officially when all the notables of the university take a breakfast of champagne, strawberries and cream at Jesus College, which is known as Lord Nathaniel Crewe’s Benefaction.”

  “Who’s this Lord Crewe guy? Will he be at the breakfast?”

  “Only in spirit; the great man died some three hundred years ago. Lord Nathaniel Crewe was a Doctor of the university and the Bishop of Durham, and he left £200 a year to the university as a Benefaction to provide the breakfast and an oration which we shall hear later. Of course, the money he willed no longer covers expenses nowadays, with rising prices and inflation, so the university has to dip into its own pocket to continue the tradition. When breakfast is over there is a procession and parade to the Sheldonian Theatre.”

  “What happens then?”

  “The parade is followed by the most exciting event of the day. The presentation of the Honorands for degrees.”

  “The what?” said Harvey.

  “The Honorands,” said Stephen. “They are the distinguished men and women who have been chosen by the senior members of the university to be awarded Oxford honorary degrees.” Stephen looked at his watch. “In fact, we must leave now to be sure of having a good position on the route from which to watch the procession.”

  Stephen rose and guided his guest out of the Randolph Hotel. They strolled down the Broad and found an excellent spot just in front of the Sheldonian Theatre, where the police cleared a little space for Stephen because of his scarlet gown. A few minutes later the procession wound into sight around the corner from the Turl. The police held up all the traffic and kept the public on the pavement.

  “Who are the guys in front carrying those clubs?” inquired Harvey.

  “They are the University Marshal and the Bedels. They are carrying maces to safeguard the Chancellor’s procession.”