Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less Read online

  Stein arrived late the following afternoon and spent two hours with Jeane-Pierre privately in his little room in the basement of the Lamanns Gallery. When he left Jean-Pierre was smiling to himself. A final afternoon spent at the German Embassy in Belgrave Square, followed by a call to Dr. Wormit of the Preussischer Kulturbesitz in Berlin and a further one to Mme. Tellegen at the Rijksbureau in The Hague, gave him all the information he required. Even Metcalfe would have praised him for the final touch. There would be no relieving the French this time. The American and the Englishman had better be up to scratch when he presented his plan.

  On waking in the morning the last thing James had on his mind was an idea for outwitting Harvey Metcalfe. His thoughts were fully occupied with more important things. He telephoned Patrick Lichfield at home.

  “Patrick?”

  “Yes,” mumbled a voice.

  “James Brigsley.”

  “Oh, hello, James. Haven’t seen you for some time. What are you doing waking a fellow up at this filthy hour?”

  “It’s 10 A.M., Patrick.”

  “Is it? It was the Berkeley Square Ball last night and I didn’t get to bed until four. What can I do for you?”

  “You took a picture for Vogue of a girl whose first name was Anne.”

  “Summerton,” said Patrick without hesitation. “Got her from the Stacpoole Agency.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “No idea,” said Patrick. “I thought she was awfully nice. She just thought I wasn’t her type.”

  “Obviously a woman of taste, Patrick. Now go back to sleep.” James put the phone down.

  Anne Summerton was not listed in the telephone directory—so that ploy had failed. James remained in bed, scratching the stubble on his chin, when a triumphant look came into his eye. A quick flip through the S-Z directory revealed the number he required. He dialed it.

  “The Stacpoole Agency.”

  “Can I speak to the manager?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Lord Brigsley.”

  “I’ll put you through, my lord.”

  James heard the phone click and the voice of the manager.

  “Good morning, my lord. Michael Stacpoole speaking. Can I help you?”

  “I hope so, Mr. Stacpoole. I have been let down at the last moment and I’m looking for a model for the opening of an antique shop and I’ll need a classy sort of a bird. You know the kind of girl.”

  James then described Anne as if he had never met her.

  “We have two models on our books who I think would suit you, my lord,” offered Stacpoole. “Pauline Stone and Anne Summerton. Unfortunately, Pauline is in Birmingham today for the launching of the new Allegro car and Anne is completing a toothpaste session in Oxford.”

  “I need a girl today,” James said. How he would have liked to have informed Stacpoole that Anne was back in town. “If you find either of them are free for any reason, perhaps you would ring me at 735–7227.”

  James rang off, a little disappointed. At least, he thought, if nothing comes of it today he could start planning his part in the Team versus Harvey Metcalfe. He was just resigning himself to that when the phone rang. A shrill, high-pitched voice announced:

  “This is the Stacpoole Agency. Mr. Stacpoole would like to speak to Lord Brigsley.”

  “Speaking,” said James.

  “I’ll put you through, my lord.”

  “Lord Brigsley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stacpoole here, my lord. It seems Anne Summerton is free today. When would you like her to come to your shop?”

  “Oh,” said James, taken aback for a second. “The shop is in Berkeley Street, next to the Empress Restaurant. It’s called Albemarle Antiques. Perhaps we could meet outside at 12:45?”

  “I’m sure that will be acceptable, my lord. If I don’t ring you back in the next ten minutes, you can assume the meeting is on. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to let us know if she’s suitable. We normally prefer you to come to the office, but I’m sure we can make an exception in your case.”

  “Thank you,” said James and put the phone down, pleased with himself.

  James stood on the west side of Berkeley Street in the doorway of the Mayfair Hotel so that he could watch Anne arriving. When it came to work, Anne was always on time, and at 12:40 P.M. she appeared from the Piccadilly end of the street. Her skirt was of the latest elegant length, but this time James could see that her legs were as slim and shapely as the rest of her. She stopped outside the Empress Restaurant and looked in bewilderment at the Brazilian Trade Centre on her right and the Rolls Royce showrooms of H. R. Owen on her left.

  James strode across the road, a large grin on his face.

  “Good morning,” he said casually.

  “Oh hello,” said Anne, “what a coincidence.”

  “What are you doing here all alone and looking lost?” said James.

  “I’m trying to find a shop called Albemarle Antiques. You don’t know it by any chance? I must have the wrong street. As you go in for knowing lords, you might know the owner, Lord Brigsley?”

  James smiled:

  “I am Lord Brigsley.”

  Anne looked surprised and then burst out laughing. She realized what James had done and was flattered by the compliment.

  They lunched together at the Empress, James’s favorite eating place in town. He explained to Anne why it had been Lord Clarendon’s favorite restaurant as well—“Ah,” he had once declared, “the millionaires are just a little fatter, and the mistresses are just a little thinner, than in any other restaurant in town.”

  The meal was a triumph and James had to admit that Anne was the best thing that had happened to him for a long time. After lunch she asked where the agency should send their account.

  “With what I have in mind for the future,” replied James, “they’d better be prepared for a large bad debt.”

  Chapter Seven

  STEPHEN WRUNG JAMES warmly by the hand the way the Americans will and presented him with a large whiskey on the rocks. Impressive memory, thought James, as he took a gulp to give himself a little Dutch courage, and then joined Robin and Jean-Pierre. By unspoken mutual consent, the name of Harvey Metcalfe was not mentioned. They chattered inconsequentially of nothing in particular, each clutching his own dossier, until Stephen summoned them to the table. Stephen had not, on this occasion, exercised the talents of the college chef and the butler to the Senior Common Room. Instead, sandwiches, beer and coffee were stacked neatly on the table, and the college servants were not in evidence.

  “This is a working supper,” said Stephen firmly, “and as Harvey Metcalfe will eventually be footing the bill, I’ve cut down considerably on the hospitality. We don’t want to make our task unnecessarily harder by eating our way through hundreds of dollars per meeting.”

  The other three sat down quietly as Stephen took out some closely typed sheets of paper.

  “I’ll begin,” he said, “with a general comment. I’ve been doing some further research into Harvey Metcalfe’s movements over the next few months. He seems to spend every summer doing the same round of social and sporting events. Most of the details are already well documented in your files. My latest findings are summarized on this separate sheet which should be added as page 38A of your dossiers. It reads:

  Harvey Metcalfe will arrive in England on the morning of June 21st on board the Q.E. 2, docking at Southampton. He has already reserved the Trafalgar Suite for his crossing and booked a Rolls Royce from Guy Salmon to take him to Claridge’s. He will stay there for two weeks in the Royal Suite and he has his own debenture tickets for every day of the Wimbledon Championships. When they are over he flies to Monte Carlo to stay on his yacht Messenger Boy for another two weeks. He then returns to London and Claridge’s to see his filly, Rosalie, run in the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes. He has a private box at Ascot for all five days of Ascot Week. He returns to America on a Pan American jumbo jet from London Heathrow on Ju
ly 29th, flight no. 009 at 11:15 to Logan International Airport, Boston.”

  The others attached page 38A to their dossiers, aware once again how much detailed research Stephen had undertaken. James was beginning to feel ill, and it certainly was not the excellent salmon sandwiches that were causing his discomfort.

  “The next decision to be taken,” said Stephen, “is to allocate the times during Metcalfe’s trip to Europe when each plan will be put into operation. Robin, which section would you prefer?”

  “Monte Carlo,” said Robin without hesitation. “I need to catch the bastard off his home ground.”

  “Anyone else want Monte Carlo?”

  Nobody spoke.

  “Which would you prefer, Jean-Pierre?”

  “I’d like Wimbledon fortnight.”

  “Any other takers?”

  Again, nobody spoke. Stephen continued:

  “I’m keen to have the Ascot slot myself and the short time before he returns to America. What about you, James?”

  “It won’t make any difference what period I have,” said James rather sheepishly.

  “Right,” said Stephen.

  Everybody, except James, seemed to be warming to the exercise.

  “Now expenses. Have all of you brought your checks for $10,000? I think it’s wise to think in dollars as that was the currency Harvey Metcalfe worked in.”

  Each member of the Team passed over a check to Stephen. At least, thought James, this is something I can do as well as the others.

  “Expenses to date?”

  Each passed a chit to Stephen again and he began to work out figures on his stylish little HP 65 calculator, the digits glowing red in the dimly lit room.

  “The shares cost us $1 million. Expenses to date are $142, so Mr. Metcalfe is in debt to us to the tune of $1,000,142. Not a penny more and not a penny less,” he repeated. “Now to our individual plans. We will take them in the order of execution.” Stephen was pleased with that word. “Jean-Pierre, Robin, myself and finally James. The floor is yours, Jean-Pierre.”

  Jean-Pierre opened a large envelope and took out four sets of documents. He was determined to show that he had the measure of Stephen as well as of Harvey Metcalfe. He handed around photographs and road maps of the West End and Mayfair. Each street was marked with a number, indicating how many minutes it took to walk. Jean-Pierre explained his plan in great detail, starting with the crucial meeting he had had with David Stein, and ending with the roles the others would have to carry out.

  “All of you will be needed on the day. Robin will be the journalist, James the representative from Sotheby’s, and Stephen, you will act as the purchaser. You must practice speaking English with a German accent. I shall also require two tickets for the whole of Wimbledon fortnight on the Centre Court opposite Harvey Metcalfe’s debenture box.”

  Jean-Pierre consulted his notes.

  “That is to say, opposite box No. 17. Can you arrange that, James?”

  “No problem. I’ll have a word with Mike Gibson, the Club referee, in the morning.”

  “Good. Finally, then, you must all learn to operate these little boxes of tricks. They are called Pye Pocketfones and don’t forget that the use and ownership of them are illegal.”

  Jean-Pierre produced four miniature sets and handed three to Stephen.

  “Any questions?”

  There was a general murmur of approval. There were going to be no loose ends in Jean-Pierre’s plan.

  “My congratulations,” said Stephen. “That should get us off to a good start. Now, how about you, Robin?”

  Robin relayed the story of his fourteen days. He reported on his meeting with the specialist, and explained the toxic effects of anticholinesterase drugs.

  “This one will be hard to pull off; we’ll have to be patient and wait for the right opportunity. But, we must stay prepared every moment Metcalfe is in Monte Carlo.”

  “Where will we be staying in Monte Carlo?” asked James. “I usually go to the Metropole. Better not make it there.”

  “No, it’s all right, James, I have provisional reservations at the Hôtel de Paris from June 29th to July 4th. However, before that you are all to attend several working sessions at St. Thomas’s Hospital.”

  Diaries were consulted, and a series of meetings agreed upon.

  “Here is a copy of Houston’s Short Textbook of Medicine for each of you. You must all read the chapter on severe cuts. I don’t want any of you to stick out like sore thumbs when we’re all dressed in white. You, Stephen, will come to Harley Street the week after next for an intensive medical course, as you must be totally convincing as a doctor.”

  Robin had chosen Stephen because he felt that with his academic mind he would pick up the most in the short time available.

  “Jean-Pierre, you must attend a gaming club every evening for the next month and learn exactly how baccarat and blackjack are played, and how to continue playing for several hours at a time without losing money. It’ll help if you get hold of Peter Arnold’s The Encyclopedia of Gambling from Hatchards. James, you will learn to drive a small van through heavily crowded streets, and you are also to report to Harley Street next week so that we can try a dry run together.”

  All eyes were wide open. If they pulled that one off they could do anything. Robin could see the anxiety in their faces.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “my profession has been carried on by witch doctors for a thousand years. People never argue when they’re confronted with a trained man, and you, Stephen, are going to be a trained man.”

  Stephen nodded. Academics could be equally naïve. Hadn’t that been exactly what had happened to all of them with Prospecta Oil?

  “Remember,” said Robin, “Stephen’s comment at the bottom of page 33 of the dossier… ‘At all times we must think like Harvey Metcalfe.’”

  Robin gave a few more details of how certain procedures were to be carried out. He then answered demanding questions for twenty-eight minutes. Finally, Jean-Pierre softened:

  “I thought none of you would beat me, but Robin’s plan is brilliant. If we get the timing right we’ll only need an ounce of luck.”

  James was beginning to feel distinctly uneasy as his time drew nearer. He rather wished he had never accepted the invitation to dinner in the first place and regretted being the one to urge the others to take up Stephen’s challenge. At least the duties he had been given in the first two operations were well within his scope.

  “Well, gentlemen,” said Stephen, “you’ve both risen admirably to the occasion, but my proposals will make more demands on you.”

  Stephen began to reveal the fruits of his research during the past two weeks and the substance of his plan. They all felt rather like students in the presence of a professor. Stephen’s lecturing tone was not intentional; it was a manner he had developed, and like so many academics, he was unable to switch it off in private company. He produced a calendar for Trinity Term and outlined how the university weeks worked, the role of its Chancellor, Vice-Chancellor, the Registrar and the Secretary of the University Chest. Like Jean-Pierre, he supplied maps to each member of the Team, this time of Oxford. He had carefully marked a route from the Sheldonian Theatre to Lincoln College, and from Lincoln to the Randolph Hotel, and had drawn up a contingency plan if Harvey Metcalfe insisted on using his car, despite the one-way system.

  “Robin, you must study what the Vice-Chancellor does at Encaenia. It won’t be like Cambridge; the two universities do everything the same but not identically. You must know the routes he’s likely to take on that day and his habits backward. I’ve arranged for a room at Lincoln to be at your disposal on the final day. Jean-Pierre, you will study and master the duties of the Registrar at Oxford and know the alternative route marked on your map so that you never come face to face with Robin. James, you must know how the Secretary of the University Chest goes about his work—the location of his office, which banks he deals with and how the checks are cashed. You must also know the routes he
’s likely to take on the day of Encaenia as if they were part of your father’s estate. I have the easiest role on the day, because I will be myself in everything but name. You must all learn how to address each other correctly and we’ll have a dress rehearsal in the ninth week of term, on a Tuesday when the university is fairly quiet. Any questions?”

  Silence reigned, but it was a silence of respect. All could see that Stephen’s operation would demand split-second timing and that they would have to run through it several times to cover all contingencies. But if they were convincing they could hardly fail.

  “Now, the Ascot part of my plan is simple. I will only want Jean-Pierre and James inside the Members’ Enclosure. I shall need two Enclosure tickets which I’m hoping you can acquire, James.”

  “You mean badges, Stephen,” corrected James.

  “Oh, do I?” said Stephen. “I also require someone in London to send the necessary telegram. That’ll have to be you, Robin.”

  “Agreed,” said Robin.

  For nearly an hour the others asked several questions of detail in order to be as familiar with the plan as Stephen was.

  James asked no questions and his mind began to drift, hoping the earth would swallow him up. He even began to wish that he had never met Anne, although she was hardly to blame. In fact, he could not wait to see her again. What was he going to say when they…

  “James, wake up,” said Stephen sharply. “We’re all waiting.”

  Six eyes were now fixed on him. They had produced the ace of hearts, diamonds and spades. But had he the ace of trumps? James was flustered and poured himself another drink.

  “You bloody upper-class twit,” said Jean-Pierre, “you haven’t got an idea, have you?”

  “Well, actually, I’ve given the problem a lot of thought, but nothing seemed to come.”