“Useless—worse than useless,” said Robin.
James was stammering helplessly. Stephen cut him short.
“Now listen, James, and listen carefully. We meet here again in twenty-one days’ time. By then we must know each other’s plans backward. One error could blow the whole thing. Do you understand?”
James nodded—he was determined not to let them down in that.
“And what’s more,” said Stephen firmly, “you must have your own plan ready for scrutiny. Is that also clear?”
“Yes,” mumbled James unhappily.
“Any other questions?” said Stephen.
There were none.
“Right. We go through the three individual operations again in full.”
Stephen ignored the muttered protests.
“Remember, we’re up against a man who isn’t used to being beaten. We won’t get a second chance.”
For an hour and a half they went through the details of each operation in the order of action. First, Jean-Pierre during Wimbledon fortnight; second, Robin in Monte Carlo; third, Stephen during and after Ascot.
It was late and they were all weary when they finally rose from the table. They departed sleepily, each with several tasks to carry out before their next meeting. Each went his separate way, but all were due to meet again the following Friday in the Jericho Theatre of St. Thomas’s Hospital.
Chapter Eight
THE NEXT TWENTY days turned out to be an exacting time for all four of them. Each had to master the other plans as well as organizing his own. Friday brought them all together for the first of many sessions at St. Thomas’s Hospital, which would have been entirely successful if James had managed to stay on his feet. It was not the sight of blood that daunted him—the sight of the knife was enough. The only virtue from James’s standpoint was that he once again avoided having to explain why he had not come up with any ideas of his own.
The next week was almost full time, with Stephen in Harley Street taking a potted course in one particular field of medicine at a fairly high level.
James spent several hours driving an old van through the heavy traffic from St. Thomas’s to Harley Street, preparing for his final test in Monte Carlo, which he felt could only be considerably easier. He also returned to Oxford for a week, learning how the Secretary of the University Chest’s office operated, and also studying the movements of the Secretary himself, Mr. Caston.
Jean-Pierre, at a cost to Mr. Metcalfe of $25 and a 48-hour wait, became an overseas member of The Claremont, London’s most distinguished gaming club, and passed his evenings watching the wealthy and lazy play baccarat and blackjack, their stakes often reaching £1,000. After three weeks of watching he ventured to join the Golden Nugget casino in Soho, where the stakes rarely exceeded £5. By the end of the month he had played for 56 hours, but so conservatively that he was only showing a small loss.
James’s overriding worry was still his personal contribution. The more he grappled with the problem, the less he came to grips with it. He turned it over and over in his mind, even when he was traveling through London at high speed. One night after returning the van to Carnie’s in Lots Road, Chelsea, he drove his Alfa Romeo over to Anne’s flat by the river, wondering if he dared confide in her.
Anne was preparing a special meal for James. She was aware that he not only appreciated good food, but had taken it for granted all his life. The homemade gazpacho was smelling good and the coq au vin was all but ready. Lately she had found herself avoiding modeling assignments out of London as she did not care to be away from James for any length of time. She was also conscious that he was the first man for some time that she would have been willing to go to bed with— and to date he had made no efforts to leave the dining room.
James arrived carrying a bottle of Beaune Montée Rouge 1971—even his wine cellar was fast diminishing. He only hoped it would last long enough for the plans to come to fruition. Not that he felt an automatic right to a part of the bounty while he failed to contribute his own plan.
Anne looked stunning. She was wearing a long black dress of some soft material that tantalized James with the reticence with which it outlined her shape. She wore no makeup or jewelry, and her heavy nob of hair gleamed in the candlelight. The meal was a triumph for Anne, and James started wanting her badly. She seemed nervous, spilling a little ground coffee as she filtered two strong tiny cups. What was in her mind? He did not want to blunder with unwanted attentions. James had had much more practice at being loved than at being in love. He was used to adulation, to ending up in bed with girls who made him shudder in the cold clear light of morning. Anne affected him in an entirely different way. He wanted to be close to her, to hold her and to love her. Above all, he wanted her to be there in the morning.
Anne cleared away the supper, avoiding James’s eye, and they settled down to brandy and Lena Horne singing. “I Get Along Without You Very Well.” She sat, hands clasped around her knees on the floor at James’s feet, staring into the fire. Tentatively, he put out a hand and stroked her hair. She sat unresponsive for a moment and then bent her head back and stretched out her arm to bring his face down to hers. He responded, leaning forward and stroking her cheek and nose with his mouth, holding her head in his hands, his fingers gently exploring her ears and neck. Her skin smelled faintly of jasmine and her open mouth glinted in the firelight as she smiled up at him. He kissed her and slid his hands down onto her body. She felt soft and slight under his hands. He caressed her breasts gently, and moved down beside her, his body pressing against hers. Wordlessly, he reached behind her and unzipped her dress and watched it fall to the ground. He stood up, his eyes never leaving hers, and undressed quickly. She glanced at his body and smiled shyly.
“Darling James,” she said softly.
After they had made love, like two people in love and not as lovers, Anne settled her head on James’s shoulder and stroked the hair on his chest with a fingertip.
“What’s the matter, James? I know I’m rather shy. But it will…”
“You were beautiful. God knows, you were perfect. That’s not the problem…Anne, I have to tell you something, so just lie back and listen.”
“You’re married.”
“No, it’s far worse than that.” James lay silent for a moment, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. There are occasions in life when revelation is made easier by circumstance; it all came out in an uncoordinated jumble. “Anne darling, I’ve made a bloody fool of myself by investing a vast sum of money with a bunch of crooks who’ve stolen it. I haven’t even told my family—they’d be terribly distressed if they ever found out. To make matters better or worse, I’ve got myself involved with three other chaps who found themselves in the same predicament, and now we’re all trying to get our money back. They’re nice fellows, full of bright ideas, but I haven’t a clue how to begin to keep my part of the bargain. What with the worry of being £150,000 down the drain and having to keep racking my brain for a good idea, I’m half frantic. You’re the only thing that’s kept me sane the last month.”
“James, start again, but slower this time,” said Anne.
Thus James revealed the entire history of Prospecta Oil; from his meeting with David Kesler at Annabel’s to his invitation to dine with Stephen Bradley at Magdalen, finally explaining why he had been driving a hired van like a maniac through the rush hour. The only detail James left out was the name of their intended victim, as he felt that by withholding that he was not completely violating his bond of secrecy with the rest of the Team.
Anne inhaled very deeply.
“I hardly know what to say. It’s incredible. It’s so unbelievable that I believe every word.”
“I feel better just for telling someone, but it would be terrible if the others ever found out.”
“James, you know I won’t say a word to anyone. I’m just so very sorry you’re in such a mess. You must let me see if I can come up with an idea. Why don’t we work together without letting the other
s know?”
James felt better already.
She began stroking the inside of his leg. Twenty minutes later, they sank into a blissful sleep, dreaming up plans to defeat Harvey Metcalfe.
Chapter Nine
IN LINCOLN, MASSACHUSETTS, Harvey Metcalfe began to prepare for his annual trip to England. He intended to enjoy himself thoroughly and expensively. He had plans for transferring some more money from his numbered accounts in Zurich to Barclays Bank, Lombard Street, ready to buy yet another stallion from one of the Irish stables to join his stud in Kentucky. Arlene had decided not to accompany him on this trip: she did not care too much for Ascot and even less for Monte Carlo. In any case, it gave her the chance to spend some time with her ailing mother in Vermont, who still had little respect for her prosperous son-in-law.
Harvey checked with his secretary that all the arrangements for the holiday had been completed. There was never any need to check up on Miss Fish, it was simply habit on Harvey’s part. Miss Fish had been with him for twenty-five years, from the days when he had first taken over the Lincoln Trust. Most of the respectable staff had walked out on Harvey’s arrival, or shortly afterward, but Miss Fish had remained, nursing in her unalluring bosom ever fainter hopes of eventual marriage to Harvey. By the time Arlene appeared on the scene, Miss Fish was an able and completely discreet accomplice without whom Harvey could hardly have operated. He paid her accordingly, so she swallowed her chagrin at the thought of another Mrs. Metcalfe, and stayed put.
Miss Fish had already booked the short flight to New York and the Trafalgar Suite on the Q.E. 2. The trip across the Atlantic was almost the only total break Harvey ever had from the telephone or telex. The bank staff were instructed to contact the great liner only in dire emergency. On arrival at Southampton it would be the usual Rolls Royce to London and the private suite at Claridge’s, which Harvey judged to be one of the last English hotels, along with the Connaught and Browns, where his money allowed him to mix with what he called “class.”
Harvey flew to New York in high good humor, relaxing and drinking a couple of Manhattans on the way. The arrangements on board ship were as impeccable as ever. The Captain, Peter Jackson, always invited the occupant of the Trafalgar Suite or the Queen Anne Suite to join him on the first night out at the Captain’s table. At $1,250 a day for the suites it could hardly be described as an extravagant gesture on Cunard’s part. On such occasions, Harvey was always on his best behavior, although even that struck most onlookers as somewhat brash.
One of the Italian stewards was detailed to arrange a little diversion for Harvey, preferably in the shape of a tall blonde with a large bosom. The going rate for the night was $200, but the Italian could charge Harvey $250 and still get away with it. At 5 ft. 7 in. and 227 lbs., Harvey’s chances of picking up a young thing in the discothèque were slender, and by the time he had lashed out on drinks and dinner, he could have spent almost as much money and achieved absolutely nothing. Men in Harvey’s position do not have time for that sort of failure and expect everything in life to have its price. As the voyage was only five nights, the steward was able to keep Harvey fully occupied, although he felt it was just as well that Harvey had not booked a three-week Mediterranean cruise.
Harvey spent his days catching up with the latest novels he had been told he must read and also taking a little exercise, a swim in the morning and a painful session in the gymnasium during the afternoon. He reckoned to lose 10 lbs. during the crossing, which was pleasing, but somehow Claridge’s always managed to put it back on again before he returned to the States. Fortunately, his suits were tailored by Bernard Weatherill of Dover Street, Mayfair, who by dint of near-genius and impeccable skill made him look wellbuilt rather than distinctly fat. At £300 per suit it was the least he could expect.
When the five days were drawing to a close, Harvey was more than ready for land again. The women, the exercise and the fresh air had quite revived him and he had lost all of 11 lbs. on the crossing. He felt a good deal of this must have come off the night before, which he had spent with a young Indian girl who had made the Kama Sutra look like a Boy Scouts’ handbook.
One of the advantages of real wealth is that menial tasks can always be left to someone else. Harvey could no longer remember when he last packed or unpacked a suitcase, and when the ship docked at the Ocean Terminal it came as no surprise to him to discover everything packed and ready for Customs—a $100 bill for the head steward seemed to bring men in little white coats from every direction.
Harvey always enjoyed disembarking at Southampton. The English were a race he liked, though he feared he would never understand them. He found them always so willing to be trodden on by the rest of the world. Since the Second World War, they had relinquished their colonial power in a way no American businessman would have ever considered for an exit from his own boardroom. Harvey had finally given up trying to understand the British way of business during the 1967 devaluation of the pound. Every jumped-up speculator on the face of the globe had taken advantage of the inside knowledge. Harvey knew on the Tuesday morning that Harold Wilson was going to devalue any time after Friday, 5 P.M. Greenwich Mean Time, when the Bank of England closed for the weekend. On the Thursday even the junior clerk at the Lincoln Trust knew. It was no wonder that the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street was raped and despoiled of an estimated £1½ billion over the next few days. Harvey had often thought that if only the British could liven up their boardrooms and get their tax structure right, they might end up being the richest nation in the world, instead of a nation which, as The Economist had stated, could now be taken over by the Arabs with ninety days of oil revenue. While the British flirted with socialism and still retained a folie de grandeur, they seemed doomed to sink into insignificance. But still Harvey adored them.
He strode down the gangplank like a man with a purpose. Harvey had never learned to relax completely, even when he was on vacation. He could spend just about four days away from the world, but if he had been left on the Q.E. 2 any longer he would have been negotiating to buy the Cunard Steamship Company. Harvey had once met the Chairman of Cunard, Vic Matthews, at Ascot and had been baffled to hear him harking on the prestige and reputation of the company. Harvey had expected him to brag about the balance sheet. Prestige interested Harvey, of course, but he always let people know how much he was worth first.
Customs clearance was given with the usual speed. Harvey never had anything of consequence to declare on his European trips, and after they had checked two of his Gucci suitcases, the other seven were allowed through without inspection. The chauffeur opened the door of the white Rolls Royce Corniche. The vehicle sped through Hampshire and into London in a little over two hours, which gave Harvey time for a rest before dinner.
Albert, the head doorman at Claridge’s, stood smartly to attention and saluted as the car drew up. He knew Harvey of old and was aware that he had come, as usual, for Wimbledon and Ascot. Albert would undoubtedly receive a 50 pence tip every time he opened the white Rolls door. Harvey didn’t know the difference between a 50 pence and 10 pence piece—a difference which Albert had welcomed since the introduction of decimalization in Britain. Moreover, Harvey always gave Albert £5 at the end of Wimbledon fortnight if an American won the singles title. An American invariably reached the finals, so Albert always placed a bet with Ladbrokes on the other finalist and won either way. Gambling appealed to both Harvey and Albert; only the sums involved were different.
Albert arranged for the luggage to be sent up to the Royal Suite, which during the year had already been occupied by King Constantine of Greece, Princess Grace of Monaco and Emperor Hailé Selassié of Ethiopia, all with considerably more conviction than Harvey. But Harvey still considered that his annual holiday at Claridge’s was more assured than theirs.
The Royal Suite is on the first floor at Claridge’s and can be reached by an elegant sweeping staircase from the ground floor, or by a commodious lift with its own seat. Harvey always took the lift up
and walked down. At least that way he convinced himself he was taking some exercise. The suite itself consists of four rooms: a small dressing room, a bedroom, a bathroom, and an elegant drawing room overlooking Brook Street. The furniture and pictures make it possible for you to believe that you are still in Victorian England. Only the telephone and television dispel the illusion. The room is large enough to be used for cocktail parties or by visiting heads of state to entertain large parties. Henry Kissinger had received Harold Wilson there only the week before. Harvey enjoyed the thought of that. It was about as close as he was going to get to either man.
After a shower and change of clothes, Harvey glanced through his waiting mail and telexes from the bank, which were all routine. He took a short nap before going down to dine in the main restaurant.
There in the large foyer was the usual string quartet, looking like out-of-work refugees from Hungary. Harvey even recognized the four musicians. He had reached that time in life when he did not like change; the management of Claridge’s, aware that the average age of their customers was over fifty, catered accordingly. François, the head waiter, showed Harvey to his usual table.
Harvey managed a little shrimp cocktail and a medium filet steak with a bottle of Mouton Cadet. As he leaned forward to study the sweets trolley, he did not notice the four young men eating in the alcove on the far side of the room.
Stephen, Robin, Jean-Pierre and James all had an excellent view of Harvey Metcalfe. He would have had to bend double and move slightly backward to have any sight of them.
“Not exactly what I expected,” commented Stephen.
“Put on a bit of weight since those photographs you supplied,” said Jean-Pierre.
“Hard to believe he’s real after all this preparation,” remarked Robin.
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