Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less Read online

  Jean-Pierre and Robin began to protest again, but it was James who stopped the proceedings, by simply saying:

  “I agree. What have we got to lose? On our own we’ve no chance at all: together we might just tweak the bastard.”

  Robin and Jean-Pierre looked at each other, shrugged and nodded.

  The four of them settled down to discuss in detail the material Stephen had acquired over the past few days. They left the college a little after midnight, each agreeing to have a plan ready for the Team’s consideration in fourteen days’ time. None of them was quite sure where it all might end, but each was relieved to know he was no longer on his own.

  Stephen decided that the first part of the Team versus Harvey Metcalfe had gone as well as he could have wished. He only hoped his conspirators would now get down to work. He sat in his armchair, stared at the ceiling and continued thinking.

  Chapter Six

  ROBIN RETRIEVED HIS car from the High Street, not for the first time in his life being thankful for the “Doctor on Call” sticker which always gave him an extra degree of freedom when parking. He headed back toward his home in Berkshire. There was no doubt about it, Stephen Bradley was a very impressive man; Robin was determined to come up with something that would ensure that he played his full part.

  Robin let his mind linger a little on the delightful prospect of recovering the money he had so ill-advisedly entrusted to Prospecta Oil and Harvey Metcalfe. It must be worth a try: after all, he might as well be struck off the register of the General Medical Council for attempted robbery as for bankruptcy. He wound the window of the car down a little way to dispel the last delicious effects of the claret and considered Stephen’s challenge more carefully.

  The journey between Oxford and his country house passed very quickly. His mind was so preoccupied with Harvey Metcalfe that when he arrived home to his wife there were large sections of the journey that he could not even remember. Robin had only one talent to offer, apart from his natural charm, and he hoped that he was right in thinking that particular talent was the strength in his armor and a weakness in Harvey Metcalfe’s. He began to repeat aloud something that was written on page 16 of Stephen’s dossier, “One of Harvey Metcalfe’s recurrent worries is…”

  “What was it all about, darling?”

  His wife’s voice brought Robin quickly to his senses and he locked the briefcase containing the green Metcalfe dossier.

  “You still awake, Mary?”

  “Well, I’m not talking in my sleep, love.”

  Robin had to think quickly. He had not yet steeled himself to tell Mary the details of his foolish investment, but he had let her know about the dinner in Oxford, not at that time realizing it was in any way connected with Prospecta Oil.

  “It was a tease, sweetheart. An old friend of mine from Cambridge has been appointed a lecturer at Oxford, so he dragged a few of his contemporaries down for dinner and we had a damn good evening. Jim and Fred from my old college were there, but I don’t expect you remember them.”

  A bit weak, thought Robin, but the best he could do at 1:15 in the morning.

  “Sure it wasn’t some beautiful girl?” said Mary.

  “I’m afraid Jim and Fred could hardly be described as beautiful, even by their loving wives.”

  “Do lower your voice, Robin, or you’ll wake the children.”

  “I’m going down again in two weeks’ time to…”

  “Oh, come to bed and tell me about it at breakfast.”

  Robin was relieved to be let off the hook until the morning. He clambered in beside his fragrant silk-clad wife and ran his finger hopefully down her vertebral column to her coccyx.

  “You’ll be lucky, at this time of night,” she mumbled.

  They both slept.

  Jean-Pierre had booked himself in at the Eastgate Hotel in the High. There was to be an undergraduate exhibition the next day at the Christ Church Art Gallery. Jean-Pierre was always on the lookout for new young talent which he could contract to the Lamanns Gallery. It was the Marlborough Gallery, a few doors away from him in Bond Street, that had taught the London art world the astuteness of buying up young artists and being closely identified with their careers. But for the moment, the artistic future of his gallery was not uppermost in Jean-Pierre’s mind: its very survival was threatened, and the quiet American don from Magdalen had offered him the chance of redress. He settled down in his comfortable hotel bedroom, oblivious of the late hour, reading his dossier and working out where he could fit into the jigsaw. He was not going to allow two Englishmen and a Yank to beat him. His father had been relieved at Rochefort by the British in 1918 and released from a prisoner-of-war camp near Frankfurt by the Americans in 1945. Nothing was going to stop him being a full participant in this operation. He read his yellow dossier late into the night: the germ of an idea was beginning to form in his mind.

  James made the last train from Oxford and looked for an empty carriage where he could settle down to study the blue dossier. He was a worried man: he was sure the other three would each come up with a brilliant plan and, as had always seemed to be the case in the past, he would be found lacking. He had never been under any real pressure before—everything had come to him so easily; now it had all gone just as easily. A foolproof scheme for relieving Harvey Metcalfe of some of his excess profits was not James’s idea of an amusing pastime. Still, the awful vision of his father discovering that the Hampshire farm was mortgaged up to the hilt was always there to keep his mind on the job. But fourteen days was such a short time: where on earth should he begin? He was not a professional man like the other three and had no particular skills to offer. He could only hope that his stage experience might come in useful at some point.

  He bumped into the ticket collector, who was not surprised to find James was the holder of a first-class ticket. The quest for an empty compartment was in vain. James concluded that Richard Marsh must be trying to run the railways at a profit. Whatever next? Still more aggravating, they would probably give him a knighthood for his pains.

  The next best thing to an empty compartment, James always thought, was one containing a beautiful girl—and this time his luck was in. One of the compartments was occupied by a truly stunning creature who looked as if she was alone. The only other person in the carriage was a middle-aged lady reading Vogue, who showed no signs of knowing her traveling companion. James settled down in the corner with his back to the engine, realizing he could not study the Metcalfe dossier on the train. They had all been sworn to total secrecy, and Stephen had cautioned them against reading the dossiers in anyone else’s company. James feared that of the four of them he was going to find it the most difficult to remain silent: a companionable man, he found secrets rather burdensome. He touched his overcoat pocket, the one holding the dossier in the envelope supplied by Stephen Bradley. What an efficient man he was, thought James. Alarmingly brainy, too. He was bound to have a dozen clever plans ready for consideration by the next meeting. James frowned and stared out of the window hoping some serendipitous idea would strike him. Instead he found himself studying the reflection of the profile of the girl sitting opposite him.

  She had a shiny nob of dark brown hair, a slim straight nose and her large hazel eyes seemed fixed on the book she held in her lap. James wondered if she was as entirely oblivious of his presence as she appeared to be, and reluctantly decided that she was. His eyes slipped down to the gentle curve of her breast, softly encased in angora. He craned his neck slightly to see what sort of legs the reflection had. Damn it, she was wearing boots. He looked back at the face again. It was now looking back at him, faintly amused. Embarrassed, he switched his attention to the third occupant of the carriage, the unofficial chaperone in front of whom James lacked the courage even to strike up a conversation with the beautiful profile.

  In desperation he stared at the cover of the middle-aged lady’s Vogue. Another beautiful girl. And then he looked more carefully. It wasn’t another girl, it was the same girl. T
o begin with, he could hardly believe his eyes, but a quick check against the genuine article left him in no doubt. As soon as Vogue was relinquished in favor of Queen, James leaned across and asked the chaperone if he might be allowed to read it.

  “Station bookstalls are closing earlier and earlier,” he said idiotically. “I couldn’t get anything to read.”

  The chaperone agreed reluctantly.

  He turned to the second page. “Cover: Picture yourself like this…black silk georgette dress with chiffon handkerchief points. Ostrich-feather boa. Turban with flower, matching dress. Made to measure by Zandra Rhodes. Anne’s hair by Jason at Vidal Sassoon. Photograph by Lichfield. Camera: Hasselblad.”

  James was quite unable to picture himself like that. But at least he now knew the girl’s name, Anne. The next time the real-life version looked up, he showed her by sign language that he had spotted the photograph. She smiled briefly at James and then returned to her book.

  At Reading station the middle-aged lady left, taking Vogue with her. Couldn’t be better, mused James. Anne looked up, faintly embarrassed, and smiled hopefully at the few passersby walking up and down the corridor looking for a seat. James glared at them as they passed. No one entered the carriage. James had won the first round. As the train gathered speed he tried his opening gambit, which was quite good by his normal standards:

  “What a super picture on the front of Vogue taken by my old friend Patrick Lichfield.”

  Anne Summerton looked up. She was even more beautiful than the picture James had referred to. Her dark hair, cut softly in the latest Vidal Sassoon style, her big hazel eyes and faultless skin gave her a gentle look that James found irresistible. She had that slim, graceful body that all leading models need to earn their living, but Anne also had a presence that most of them would never have. James was quite stunned and wished she would say something.

  Anne was used to men trying to pick her up but she was rather taken aback by the remark about Lord Lichfield. If he was a friend, it would be offhand not to be at least polite. On a second glance she found James’s diffidence rather charming. He had used the self-deprecating approach many times with great success, but this time it was perfectly genuine. He tried again.

  “It must be a hell of a job being a model.”

  What a bloody silly line, he thought. Why couldn’t he just say to her, I think you’re absolutely fantastic? Can we talk a little and if I still think you’re fantastic perhaps we can take it from there? But it never worked that way. He knew he would have to go through the usual routine.

  “It’s bearable if the contracts are good,” she replied, “but today’s been particularly tiring.” Her voice was gentle, and the faint transatlantic accent appealed to James. “I’ve been smiling my head off all day, modeling an advertisement for Close-Up toothpaste: the photographer never seemed to be satisfied. The only good thing about it was that it ended a day earlier than expected. How do you know Patrick?”

  “We were fags together at Harrow in our first year. He was rather better than me at getting out of work.”

  Anne laughed—a gentle, warm laugh. It was obvious he knew Lord Lichfield.

  “Do you see much of him now?”

  “Occasionally at dinner parties, but not regularly. Does he photograph you a lot?”

  “No,” said Anne, “the cover picture for Vogue was the only time.”

  As they chatted on, the thirty-five minute journey between Reading and London seemed to pass in a flash. Walking down the platform of Paddington Station with Anne, James ventured:

  “Can I give you a lift home? My car is parked around the corner in Craven Street.”

  Anne accepted, relieved not to have to search for a taxi at that late hour.

  James drove her home in his Alfa Romeo. He had already decided that he could not hold on to that particular luxury for much longer with petrol going up and cash flow going down. He chattered merrily all the way to her destination, which turned out to be a block of flats in Cheyne Row overlooking the Thames; much to Anne’s surprise he just dropped her off at the front door and said good night. He did not even ask for her telephone number and he only knew her Christian name. In fact, she did not have any idea what his name was. Pity, she thought as she closed the front door; he had been a rather pleasant change from the men who worked on the fringe of the advertising media, who imagined they had an automatic right to a girl’s compliance just because she posed in a bra.

  James knew exactly what he was doing. He had always found a girl was more flattered if he called her when she least expected it. His tactics were to leave the impression that she had seen the last of him, especially when the first meeting had gone well. He returned to his home in the King’s Road and considered the situation. Unlike Stephen, Robin and Jean-Pierre, with thirteen days to go, he still had no ideas for defeating Harvey Metcalfe. But he was hatching plans for Anne.

  On waking in the morning, Stephen began to do a little more research. He started with a close study of the way the university was administered. He visited the Vice-Chancellor’s office in the Clarendon Building, where he spent some time asking strange questions of his personal secretary, Miss Smallwood. She was most intrigued. He then left for the office of the University Registrar, where he was equally inquisitive. He ended the day by visiting the Bodleian Library, and copying out some of the University Statutes. Among other outings during the next fourteen days was a trip to the Oxford tailors, Shepherd and Woodward, and a full day at the Sheldonian Theatre to watch the brief ceremony as a batch of students took their Bachelor of Arts degrees. Stephen also studied the layout of the Randolph, the largest hotel in Oxford. This he took some considerable time over, so much so that the manager became inquisitive and Stephen had to leave before he became suspicious. His final trip was a return journey to the Clarendon to meet the Secretary of the University Chest, and to be taken on a guided tour of the building by the porter. Stephen warned him that he anticipated showing an American around the building on the day of Encaenia, but remained vague.

  “Well, that won’t be easy…” began the porter. Stephen carefully and deliberately folded a pound note and passed it to the porter “…though I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out, sir.”

  In between his trips all over the university city, Stephen did a lot of thinking in the big leather chair and a lot more writing at his desk. By the fourteenth day his plan was perfected and ready for presentation to the other three. He had put the show on the road, as Harvey Metcalfe might have said, and he intended to see it had a long run.

  Robin rose early on the morning after the Oxford dinner, and avoided awkward questions from his wife at breakfast about his experience the night before. He traveled up to London as soon as he could get away, and on arrival in Harley Street was greeted by his efficient secretary-cum-receptionist, Miss Meikle.

  Elspeth Meikle was a dedicated, dour Scot who looked upon her work as nothing less than a vocation. Her devotion to Robin, not that she ever called him that even in her own mind, was obvious for all to see.

  “I want as few appointments as possible over the next fourteen days, Miss Meikle.”

  “I understand, Dr. Oakley,” she said.

  “I have some research to carry out and I don’t want to be interrupted when I’m alone in my study.”

  Miss Meikle was somewhat surprised. She had always thought of Dr. Oakley as a good physician, but had never known him in the past to overindulge in research work. She padded off noiselessly in her white-shod feet to admit the first of a bunch of admirably healthy ladies to Dr. Oakley’s clinic.

  Robin disposed of his patients with less than dignified speed. He went without lunch and began the afternoon by making several telephone calls to the Boston Infirmary and several to a leading gastroenterologist for whom he had been a houseman at Cambridge. Then he pressed the buzzer to summon Miss Meikle.

  “Could you pop around to H. K. Lewis for me, Miss Meikle, and put two books on my account. I want the latest ed
ition of Polson and Tattersall’s Clinical Toxicology and Harding Rain’s book on the bladder and abdomen.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, quite unperturbed at the thought of interrupting her lunchtime sandwich to fetch them.

  They were on his desk before he had completed his calls, and he immediately started reading long sections of them carefully. The following day he canceled his morning clinic and went to St. Thomas’s Hospital to watch two of his old colleagues at work. His confidence in the plan he had formulated was growing. He returned to Harley Street and wrote some notes on the techniques he had observed that morning, much as he had done in his student days. He paused to remember the words Stephen had used:

  “Think as Harvey Metcalfe would. Think for the first time in your life, not as a cautious professional man, but as a risk taker, as an entrepreneur.”

  Robin was tuning in to Harvey Metcalfe’s wavelength, and when the time came he would be ready for the American, the Frenchman and the lord. But would they be willing to fall in with his plan? He looked forward to their meeting.

  Jean-Pierre returned from Oxford the next day. None of the youthful artists had greatly impressed him, though he had felt that Brian Davis’s still life showed considerable promise and had made a mental note to keep an eye on his future work. When he arrived back in London he started, like Robin and Stephen, on his research. A tentative idea that had come to him in the Eastgate Hotel was beginning to germinate. Through his numerous contacts in the art world he checked all the buying and selling of major Impressionist paintings over the previous twenty years and made a list of the pictures which were currently thought to be on the market. He then contacted the one person who held it in his power to set his plan in motion. Fortunately the man whose help he most needed, David Stein, was in England and free to visit him: but would he fall in with the plan?