Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less Page 5

  “He’s Lord Brigsley, the eldest son of the Earl of Louth, sir.”

  What do you know, thought David, lords look like anyone else, especially when they’ve had a few drinks. Lord Brigsley was tapping David’s glass.

  “Would you care for another?”

  “Thank you very much, my lord,” said David.

  “Don’t bother with all that nonsense. The name’s James. What are you doing in London?”

  “I work for an oil company. You probably know my Chairman, Lord Hunnisett. I’ve never met him myself, to tell you the truth.”

  “Sweet old buffer,” said James. “His son and I were at Harrow together. If you’re in oil, perhaps you can tell me what to do with my Shell and B.P. shares.”

  “Hold on to them,” said David. “It’s sensible to remain in any commodities, especially oil, as long as the British Government doesn’t get greedy and try to take control of the assets themselves.”

  Another double whiskey arrived. David was beginning to feel just slightly tipsy.

  “What about your own company?” inquired James.

  “We’re rather small,” said David. “But our shares have gone up more than any other oil company in the last three months. Even so, I suspect they’ve nowhere near reached their zenith.”

  “Why?” demanded James.

  David glanced round and lowered his voice to a confidential whisper.

  “Well, I expect you realize that if you make an oil strike in a big company it can only put the percentage of your profits up by a tiny amount. But if you make a strike in a small company, naturally that profit will be reflected as a considerably larger percentage of the whole.”

  “Are you telling me you’ve made a strike?”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that,” said David. “I’d be obliged if you’d treat that remark in confidence.”

  David could not remember how he arrived home or who put him to bed, and he appeared rather late in the office the next morning.

  “I am sorry, Bernie, I overslept after a very good evening with Richard at Annabel’s.”

  “Doesn’t matter a bit. Glad you enjoyed yourself.”

  “I hope I wasn’t indiscreet, but I told some lord, whose name I can’t even remember, that he ought to invest in the company. I may have been a little too enthusiastic.”

  “Don’t worry, David, we’re not going to let anyone down and you need the rest. You’ve been working your ass off.”

  James Brigsley left his London flat in Chelsea and took a taxi to his bank, Williams & Glyn’s. James was an extrovert by nature and at Harrow his only real love had been acting; but when he had left school, his father had refused to allow him to go on the stage and insisted that he complete his education at Christ Church, Oxford, where again he took a greater interest in the Dramatic Society than in gaining a degree in his chosen subject of Politics, Philosophy and Economics. James had never mentioned to anyone since leaving Oxford the class of degree he managed to secure, but for better or worse the fourth-class Honours degree was later abolished. After Oxford he joined the Grenadier Guards, which gave him considerable scope for his histrionic talents. This was indeed to be James’s introduction to society life in London, and he succeeded as well as a personable, rich young viscount might be expected to do in the circumstances.

  When he had completed his two years in the Guards, the earl gave him a 250-acre farm in Hampshire to occupy his time, but James did not care for the coarser country life. He left the running of the farm to a manager and once again concentrated on his social life in London. He would dearly have liked to go on the stage, but he knew the old man still considered Mrs. Worthington’s daughter’s ambition an improper one for a future peer of the realm. The fifth earl didn’t think a great deal of his eldest son one way and another, and James did not find it easy to persuade his father that he was shrewder than he was given credit for. Perhaps the inside information David Kesler had let slip after a few drinks would give him the opportunity to prove his old dad wrong.

  In Williams & Glyn’s fine old building in Birchin Lane, James was ushered into the manager’s office.

  “I should like to borrow some money against my farm in Hampshire,” said Lord Brigsley.

  Philip Izard, the manager, knew Lord Brigsley well and was also acquainted with his father. Although he had respect for the earl’s judgment, he did not have a great deal of time for the young lord. Nevertheless, it was not for him to query a customer’s request, especially when the customer’s family was one of the longest-standing in the bank’s history.

  “Yes, my lord, what sum do you have in mind?”

  “Well, it seems that farmland in Hampshire is worth about £1,000 an acre and is still climbing. Why don’t we say £150,000? I should then like to invest the money in shares.”

  “Will you agree to leave the deeds with the bank as security?” inquired Izard.

  “Yes, of course. What difference does it make to me where they are?”

  “Then I am sure we will find it acceptable to advance you a loan of £150,000 at 2 percent above base rate.”

  James was not at all sure what base rate was, but he knew that Williams & Glyn’s were as competitive as everyone else in such matters and that their reputation was beyond dispute.

  “Thank you,” said James. “Please acquire for me 35,000 shares in a company called Prospecta Oil.”

  “Have you checked carefully into this company, my lord?” inquired Izard.

  “Yes, of course I have,” said Lord Brigsley, very sharply. He was not in awe of the bank-managerial class.

  In Boston, Harvey Metcalfe was briefed over the telephone by Silverman of the meeting in Annabel’s between David Kesler and a nameless peer who seemed to have more money than sense. Harvey released 40,000 shares onto the market at £4.80. Williams & Glyn’s acquired 35,000 of them and, once again, the remainder was taken up by small investors. The shares rose a little. Harvey Metcalfe was now left with only 30,000 shares of his own, and over the next four days he was able to dispose of them all. It had taken him fourteen weeks to off-load his entire stock in Prospecta Oil at a profit of just over $6 million.

  On Friday morning, the shares stood at £4.90 and Kesler had, in all innocence, occasioned four large investments: Harvey Metcalfe studied them in detail before putting through a call to Jörg Birrer.

  Stephen Bradley had bought 40,000 shares at $6.10

  Dr. Robin Oakley had bought 35,000 shares at $7.23

  Jean-Pierre Lamanns had bought 25,000 shares at $7.80

  James Brigsley had bought 35,000 shares at $8.80

  David Kesler himself had bought 500 shares at $7.25.

  Among them they had purchased 135,500 shares at a cost of just over $1 million. They had also kept the price rising, giving Harvey the chance to off-load all his own stock onto a natural market.

  Harvey Metcalfe had done it again. His name was not on the letterhead and now he possessed no shares. Nobody would be able to place any blame on him. He had done nothing illegal; even the geologist’s report contained enough ifs and buts to pass in a court of law. As for David Kesler, Harvey could not be blamed for his youthful overenthusiasm. He had never even met the man. Harvey Metcalfe opened a bottle of Krug Privée Cuvée 1964, imported from Hedges and Butler of London. He sipped it slowly, then lit a Romeo y Julieta Churchill, and settled back for a mild celebration.

  David, Stephen, Robin, Jean-Pierre and James celebrated at the weekend as well. Why not? Their shares were at £4.90 and David had assured them all that they would reach £10. On Saturday morning David ordered his first bespoke suit from Aquascutum, Stephen tuttutted his way through the end-of-vacation examination papers he had set his freshmen students, Robin attended his sons’ prep school Sports Day, Jean-Pierre reframed a Renoir, and James Brigsley went shooting, convinced that at last he had one in the eye for his father.

  Chapter Three

  DAVID ARRIVED AT the office at 9 A.M. on Monday to find that the front door was locke
d. He could not understand it. The secretaries were supposed to be in by 8:45.

  After waiting around for over an hour, he walked to the nearest telephone box and dialed Bernie Silverman’s home number. There was no reply. He then rang Richard Elliott at home: the ringing tone continued. He rang the Aberdeen office with the same result. He decided to return to the office. There must be a simple explanation, he thought. Was he daydreaming? Or was it Sunday? No—the streets were jammed with people and cars.

  When he arrived back at the office a young man was nailing up a board. “2,500 sq. ft. to let. Apply Conrad Ritblat.”

  “What in hell’s name are you up to?” David demanded.

  “The old tenants have given notice and left. We’re looking for new ones. Are you interested in looking over the property?”

  “No,” said David, backing away in panic. “No, thank you.”

  He raced down the street, sweat beginning to show on his forehead, praying that the telephone box would still be empty.

  He flicked quickly through the L-R directory and looked up Bernie Silverman’s secretary, Judith Lampson. This time there was a reply.

  “Judith, in God’s name, what’s going on?” His voice could have left her in no doubt how anxious he was.

  “No idea,” replied Judith. “I was given my notice on Friday night with a month’s pay in advance and no explanation.”

  David dropped the telephone. The truth was slowly beginning to dawn on him although he still wanted to believe there was some simple explanation. Whom could he turn to? What should he do?

  He returned in a daze to his flat in the Barbican. The morning post had arrived in his absence. It included a letter from the landlords of his flat:

  Corporation of London,

  Barbican Estate Office,

  London EC2

  01-628-4341

  Dear Sir,

  We are sorry to learn you will be leaving at the end of the month, and would like to take this opportunity of thanking you for the payment of rent in advance.

  We should be pleased if you would kindly deposit the keys to this office at your earliest convenience.

  Yours faithfully,

  C.J. Caselton

  Estate Manager

  David stood frozen in the middle of the room, gazing at his new Underwood with sudden loathing.

  Finally, fearfully, he dialed his stockbrokers.

  “What price are Prospecta Oil this morning?”

  “They’ve dipped to £3.80,” replied the broker.

  “Why have they fallen?”

  “I’ve no idea, but I’ll make some inquiries and ring you back.”

  “Please put my 500 shares on the market immediately.”

  “500 Prospecta Oil at market price. Yes, sir.”

  David put the phone down. It rang a few minutes later. It was his broker.

  “They’ve only made £3.50—exactly what you paid for them.”

  “Would you credit the sum to my account at Lloyd’s Bank, Moorgate Branch?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  David did not leave the flat for the rest of the day or night. He lay on his bed chain-smoking, wondering what he ought to do next, sometimes looking out of his little window over a rain-drenched City of banks, insurance companies, stockbrokers and public companies—his own world, but for how much longer? In the morning, as soon as the market opened, he rang his broker again, in the hope that they would have some new information.

  “Can you give me any more news on Prospecta Oil?” His voice was tense and weary now.

  “The news is bad, sir. There’s been a spate of heavy selling and the shares have dropped to £2.80 on the opening of business this morning.”

  “Why? What the hell’s going on?” His voice rose with every word.

  “I’ve no idea, sir,” replied a calm voice that always made one percent, win or lose.

  David replaced the receiver. All those years at Harvard were about to be blown away in a puff of smoke. An hour passed, but he did not notice it.

  He ate lunch in an inconspicuous restaurant and read a disturbing report in the London Evening Standard by its City Editor, David Malbert, headlined “The Mystery of Prospecta Oil.” By the close of the Stock Exchange at 4 P.M. the shares had fallen to £1.60.

  David spent another restless night. He thought with pain and humiliation of how easily two months of good salary, a quick bonus and a good deal of smooth talk had bought his unquestioning belief in an enterprise that should have excited all business suspicion. He felt sick as he recalled his man-to-man tips on Prospecta Oil, whispered confidentially into willing ears.

  On Wednesday morning, dreading what he knew he was bound to hear, David once again rang the broker. The shares had collapsed to £1 and there was no longer a market for them. He left the flat and walked over to Lloyd’s bank where he closed his account and drew out the remaining £1,345. The cashier smiled at him as she passed over the notes, thinking what a successful young man he must be.

  David picked up the final edition of the Evening Standard (the one marked “7RR” in the right-hand corner). Prospecta Oil had dropped again, this time to 25 pence. Numbed, he returned to his flat. The housekeeper was on the stairs.

  “The police have been around inquiring after you, young man,” she said haughtily.

  David climbed the stairs, trying to look unperturbed.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pearson. I guess it’s another parking fine I forgot to pay.”

  Panic had now taken over completely: David never felt so small, so lonely and so sick in his life. He packed everything he owned into a suitcase, except the painting, which he left hanging on the wall, and booked a one-way ticket to New York.

  Chapter Four

  STEPHEN BRADLEY WAS delivering a lecture on group theory at the Mathematics Institute in Oxford to a class of third-year undergraduates the morning David left. Over breakfast he had read with horror in the Daily Telegraph of the collapse of Prospecta Oil. He had immediately rung his broker, who was still trying to find out the full facts for him. He then phoned David Kesler, who seemed to have vanished without trace.

  The lecture Stephen was delivering was not going well. He was preoccupied, to say the least. He could only hope that the undergraduates would misconstrue his absentmindedness as brilliance, rather than recognize it for what it was—total despair. He was at least thankful that it was his final lecture of the Hilary term.

  Stephen looked at the clock at the back of the lecture theater every few minutes, until at last it pointed to the hour and he was able to return to his rooms in Magdalen College. He sat in his old leather chair wondering where to start. Why the hell had he put everything into one basket? How could he, normally so logical, so calculating, have been so recklessly stupid and greedy? He had trusted David, and still found it hard to believe that his friend was in any way involved with the collapse. Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken for granted that someone he had befriended at Harvard must automatically be right. There had to be a simple explanation. Surely he must be able to get all his money back. The telephone rang. Perhaps it was his broker with more concrete news.

  As he picked up the phone, he realized for the first time that the palms of his hands were slippery with sweat.

  “Stephen Bradley.”

  “Good morning, sir. I am sorry to bother you. My name is Detective Inspector Clifford Smith of the Fraud Squad, Scotland Yard. I was wondering if you would be kind enough to see me this afternoon?”

  Stephen hesitated, thinking wildly for a minute that he might have done something criminal by investigating in Prospecta Oil.

  “Certainly, Inspector,” he replied uncertainly, “would you like me to travel to London?”

  “No, sir,” replied the Inspector, “we’ll come to you. We can be in Oxford by 4 P.M., if that’s convenient.”

  “I’ll expect you then. Good-bye, Inspector.”

  Stephen replaced the receiver. What could they want? He knew little of English law and hoped he was
not going to be involved with the police as well. All this just six months before he was due to return to Harvard as a professor. Stephen was even beginning to wonder if that would materialize.

  The Detective Inspector was about 5 ft. 11 in. in height, and somewhere between forty-five and fifty. His hair was turning gray at the sides, but brilliantine toned it in with the original black. His shabby suit, Stephen suspected, was more indicative of a policeman’s pay than of the Inspector’s personal taste. His heavy frame would have fooled most people into thinking he was rather slow. In fact, Stephen was in the presence of one of the few men in England who fully understood the criminal mind. Time and time again he had been the man behind the arrest of international defrauders. He had a tired look that came from years of putting men behind bars for major crimes, only to see them freed again shortly after and living comfortably off the spoils of their shady transactions. In his opinion, crime did pay. The department was so understaffed that some of the smaller fry even got away scot-free; often the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions would decide it would be too expensive to follow the case through to a proper conclusion. On other occasions, the Fraud Squad simply did not have the back-up staff to finish the job properly.

  The Detective Inspector was accompanied by Detective Sergeant Ryder, a considerably younger man—6 ft. 1 in., thin in body and face. His large brown eyes had a more innocent look against his sallow skin. He was at least a little better dressed than the Inspector, but then, thought Stephen, he probably wasn’t married.

  “I’m sorry about this intrusion, sir,” began the Inspector, after he had settled himself comfortably in the large armchair usually occupied by Stephen, “but I’m making inquiries into a company called Prospecta Oil. Now before you say anything, sir, we realize that you had no personal involvement in the running of this company or indeed its subsequent collapse. But we do need your help, and I would prefer to ask you a series of questions which will bring out the points I need answered, rather than have you just give me a general assessment. I must tell you, sir, you don’t have to answer any of my questions if you don’t want to.”