“First game to Mrs. King. Mrs. King leads by one game to love in the first set.”
“Now, Harvey, I know you too well to expect this invitation to have been just for pleasure.”
“What an evil mind you have, Jörg.”
“In my profession I need it.”
“I just wanted to check how my three accounts stand and brief you on my plans for the next few months.”
“Game to Mrs. King. Mrs. King leads by two games to love in the first set.”
“Your No. 1 official account is a few thousand dollars in credit. Your numbered commodity account”—at this point Birrer unfolded a small piece of unidentifiable paper with a set of neat figures printed on it—“is short by $3,726,000, but you are holding 37,000 ounces of gold at today’s selling price of $135 an ounce.”
“What’s your advice on that?”
“Hold on, Harvey. I still think your President is either going to announce a new gold standard or allow your fellow countrymen to buy gold on the open market some time next year.”
“That’s my view too, but I’m still convinced we want to sell a few weeks before the masses come in. I have a theory about that.”
“I expect you’re right, as usual, Harvey.”
“Game to Mrs. King. Mrs. King leads by three games to love in the first set.”
“What are your charges on my overdraft?”
“1½ percent above interbank rate, which at present is 13.25, and therefore we’re charging you 14.75 percent per annum, while gold is rising in price at nearly 70 percent per annum. It can’t go on that way; but there are still a few months left in it.”
“O.K.,” said Harvey, “hold on until November 1st and we’ll review the position again then. Coded telex as usual. I don’t know what the world would do without the Swiss.”
“Just take care, Harvey. Do you know there are more specialists in our police force on fraud than there are for homicide?”
“You worry about your end, Jörg, and I’ll worry about mine. The day I get uptight about a few underpaid bureaucrats from Zürich who haven’t got any balls, I’ll let you know. Now, enjoy your lunch and watch the game. We’ll have a talk about the other account later.”
“Game to Mrs. King. Mrs. King leads by four games to love in the first set.”
“They’re very deep in conversation,” said Anne. “I can’t believe they’re enjoying the match.”
“He’s probably trying to buy Wimbledon at cost price,” laughed James. “The trouble with seeing the man every day is that one begins to have a certain respect for him. He’s the most organized man I’ve ever come across. If he’s like this on holiday, what the hell is he like at work?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Anne.
“Game to Miss May. Mrs. King leads by four games to one in the first set.”
“No wonder he’s so overweight. Just look at him stuffing that cake down.” James lifted his Zeiss binoculars. “Which reminds me to ask, darling, what have you brought for lunch?”
Anne dug into her hamper and unpacked a crisp salad in French bread for James. She contented herself with nibbling a stick of celery.
“Getting far too fat,” she explained. “I’ll never get into those winter clothes I’m supposed to be modeling next week.” She touched James’s knee and smiled. “It must be because I’m so happy.”
“Well, don’t get too happy. I prefer you thin.”
“Game to Mrs. King. Mrs. King leads by five games to one in the first set.”
“This is going to be a walkover,” said James. “It so often is in the opening match. People only come to see if the champion’s in good form, and I think she’ll be very hard to beat this year now she’s after Helen Moody’s record of eight Wimbledon championships.”
“Game and first set to Mrs. King by six games to one. Mrs. King leads one set to love. New balls, please. Miss May to serve.”
“Do we have to watch him all day?” asked Anne.
“No, we must make sure he returns to the hotel and doesn’t change his plans suddenly or anything silly like that. If we miss our chance when he walks past Jean-Pierre’s gallery, we may not get another one.”
“What do you do if he does decide to change his plans?”
“God knows, or to be more accurate, Stephen knows—he’s the mastermind.”
“Game to Mrs. King. Mrs. King leads by one game to love in the second set.”
“Poor Miss May, she’s about as successful as you are, James. How is the Jean-Pierre operation looking?”
“Awful. Metcalfe hasn’t been anywhere near the gallery. He was within 30 yards of the window today and marched off in the opposite direction. Poor Jean-Pierre nearly had heart failure. But we’re more hopeful of tomorrow. So far he seems to have covered Piccadilly and the top end of Bond Street, and the one thing we can be sure of with Harvey Metcalfe is that he’s thorough. So he’s almost bound to cover our bit of territory at one time or another.”
“You should all have taken out life insurance for $1 million, naming the other three as beneficiaries,” said Anne, “and then if one of you had a heart attack, the others would all get their money back.”
“It’s no laughing matter, Anne. It’s bloody nerveracking while you’re hanging around, especially when you have to wait for him to make all the moves.”
“Game to Mrs. King. Mrs. King leads by two games to love in the second set and by one set to love.”
“How about your own plan?”
“Nothing. Useless. And now we’ve started on the others I seem to have less time to concentrate on my own.”
“Why don’t I seduce him?”
“Not a bad idea, but you’d have to be pretty special to get £100,000 out of him, when he can hang around outside the Hilton or in Shepherd Market and get it for £30. If there’s one thing we’ve learned about that gentleman it’s that he expects value for money. At £30 a night it would take you just under fifteen years to repay my share, and I’m not sure the other three would be willing to wait that long. In fact, I’m not sure they’ll wait another fifteen days.”
“We’ll think of something, don’t worry,” said Anne.
“Game to Miss May. Mrs. King leads by two games to one and by one set to love.”
“Well, well. Miss May has managed another game. Excellent lunch, Harvey.”
“A Claridge’s special,” said Harvey, “so much better than getting caught up with the crowds in the restaurant where you can’t even watch the tennis.”
“Billie Jean is making mincemeat of the poor girl.”
“No more than I expected,” said Harvey. “Now, Jörg, to my second numbered account.”
Once again the unidentifiable piece of paper that bore a few numbers appeared. It is this discretion of the Swiss that leads half the world, from heads of state to Arab sheiks, to trust them with their money. In return the Swiss maintain one of the healthiest economies in the world. The system works, so why go elsewhere? Birrer spent a few seconds studying the figures.
“On April 1st—only you could have chosen that day, Harvey—you transferred $7,486,000 to your No. 2 account, which was already in credit $2,791,428. On April 2nd, on your instructions, we placed $1 million in the Banco do Minas Gerais in the names of Mr. Silverman and Mr. Elliott. We covered the bill with Reading & Bates for the hire of the rig for $420,000 and several other bills amounting to $104,112, leaving your present No. 2 account standing at $8,753,316.”
“Game to Mrs. King. Mrs. King leads three games to one in the second set and by one set to love.”
“Very good,” said Harvey.
“The tennis or the money?” said Birrer.
“Both. Now, Jörg, I anticipate needing about $2 million over the next six weeks. I want to purchase one or two pictures in London. I have seen a Klee that I quite like and there are still a few galleries I want to visit. If I’d known the Prospecta Oil venture was going to be such a success, I’d have outbid Armand Hammer at the Sotheby-Parke Bernet for t
hat Van Gogh last year. I shall also need some ready cash for some new horses at the Ascot Blood Stock Auctions. My stud’s running down and it’s still one of my greatest ambitions to win the King George and Elizabeth Stakes.” (James would have winced if he could have heard Harvey describe the race so inaccurately.) “My best result so far, as you know, was third place, and that’s not good enough. This year I’ve entered Rosalie, my best filly for years. If I lose I’ll have to build up the stud again, but I’m damn well going to win this year.”
“Game to Mrs. King. Mrs. King leads four games to one and by one set to love.”
“So is Mrs. King, it seems,” said Birrer. “I’ll brief my senior cashier that you’re likely to be drawing large amounts over the next few weeks.”
“Now I don’t wish the remainder to lie idle, so I want you to purchase more gold carefully over the next few months, with a view to off-loading it in the New Year. If the market does take a downward turn, I’ll phone you in Zürich. At the close of business each day you are to loan the outstanding balance on an overnight basis to first-class banks and triple ‘A’ commercial names.”
“What are you going to do with it all, Harvey, if those cigars don’t get you first?”
“Oh, lay off, Jörg. You sound like my doctor. I’ve told you a hundred times, next year I retire, I quit, finito.”
“I can’t see you dropping out of the rat race voluntarily, Harvey. It pains me to think how much you’re worth now.”
Harvey laughed.
“I can’t tell you that, Jörg. It’s like Aristotle Onassis said—if you can count it, you haven’t got any.”
“Game to Mrs. King. Mrs. King leads by five games to one and by one set to love.”
“How’s Rosalie? We still have your instructions to pass the accounts on to her in Boston if anything should happen to you.”
“She’s well. Phoned me this morning to tell me she won’t be able to join me at Wimbledon because she’s tied up with her work. I expect she’ll end up marrying some rich American and won’t need it. Enough of them have asked her. Can’t be easy for her to decide if they like her or my money. I’m afraid we had a row about that a couple of years back and she still hasn’t forgiven me.”
“Game, set and match to Mrs. King: 6–1, 6–1.”
Harvey, Jörg, James and Anne joined in the applause while the two women left the court, curtsying in front of the Royal Box to the President of the All England Club, His Royal Highness The Duke of Kent. Harvey and Jörg Birrer stayed for the next match, a doubles, and then returned to Claridge’s together for dinner.
James and Anne had enjoyed their afternoon at Wimbledon and when they had seen Harvey safely back to Claridge’s, accompanied by his mid-European friend, they returned to James’s flat.
“Stephen, I’m back. Metcalfe is settled in for the night. On parade at 8:30 tomorrow morning.”
“Well done, James. Maybe he’ll bite then.”
“Let’s hope so.”
The sound of running water led James to the kitchen in search of Anne. She was elbow-deep in suds, attacking a soufflé dish with a scourer. She turned and brandished it at him.
“Darling, I don’t want to be offensive about your daily, but this is the only kitchen I’ve ever been in where you have to do the washing up before you make the dinner.”
“I know. She only ever cleans the clean bits of the flat. Her work load’s getting lighter by the week.”
He sat on the kitchen table, admiring her slim body.
“Will you scrub my back like that if I go and have a bath before dinner?”
“Yes, with a scourer.”
The water was deep and comfortably hot. James lay back in it luxuriously, letting Anne wash him. Then he stepped dripping out of the bath.
“You’re a bit overdressed for a bathroom attendant, darling,” he said. “Why don’t we do something about it?”
Anne slipped out of her clothes while James dried himself. When he went into the bedroom, Anne was already huddled under the sheets.
“I’m cold,” she said.
“Fear not,” said James. “You’re about to be presented with your very own six-foot hot water bottle.”
She took him in her arms.
“Liar, you’re freezing.”
“And you’re lovely,” said James, trying to hold on to every part of her at once.
“How’s your plan going, James?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll tell you in about twenty minutes.”
She didn’t speak again for nearly half an hour, when she said:
“Out you get. The baked cheese will be ready by now and in any case I want to remake the bed.”
“No need to bother about that, you silly woman.”
“Yes, there is. Last night I didn’t sleep at all. You pulled all the blankets over to your side and I just watched you huddled up like a self-satisfied cat while I froze to death. Making love to you isn’t at all what Harold Robbins promised it would be.”
“When you’ve finished chattering, woman, set the alarm for 7 A.M.”
“7 A.M. You don’t have to be at Claridge’s until 8:30.”
“I know, but I want to go to work on an egg.”
“James, you really must give up your undergraduate sense of humor.”
“Oh, I thought it was rather funny.”
“Yes, darling. Why don’t you get dressed before the dinner is burned to a cinder?”
James arrived at Claridge’s at 8:29 A.M. Whatever his own inadequacies, he was determined not to fail the others in their plans. He tuned in to check that Stephen was in Berkeley Square and Robin in Bond Street.
“Morning,” said Stephen. “Had a good night?”
“Bloody good,” said James.
“Sleep well, did you?” asked Stephen.
“Hardly a wink.”
“Stop making us jealous,” said Robin, “and concentrate on Harvey Metcalfe.”
James stood in the doorway of Slater’s, the furriers watching the early morning cleaners leave for home and the first of the office staff arriving.
Harvey Metcalfe was going through his normal routine of breakfast and the papers. Just before he had gone to bed he had a telephone call from his wife it Boston and another from his daughter during breakfast the next morning, which started his day well. He decided to continue his pursuit of an Impressionist picture in some of the other galleries in Cork Street and Bond Street. Perhaps Sotheby’s would be able to help him.
He left the hotel at 9:47 A.M. at his usual brisk pace “Action stations.”
Stephen and Robin snapped out of their daydreaming.
“He’s just entered Bruton Street. Now he’s heading for Bond Street.”
Harvey walked briskly down Bond Street, past the territory he had already covered.
“Only 50 yards off now, Jean-Pierre,” said James. “40 yards, 30 yards, 20 yards…Oh no, damn it, he’s gone into Sotheby’s. There’s only a sale of medieval painted panels on there today. Hell, I didn’t know he was interested in them.”
He glanced up the road at Stephen, padded out and aged to the condition of a wealthy, middle-aged businessman for the third day in a row. The cut of the collar and the rimless glasses proclaimed him as West German. Stephen’s voice came over the speaker:
“I am going into Jean-Pierre’s gallery. James, you stay north of Sotheby’s on the far side of the street and report in every fifteen minutes. Robin, you go inside and dangle the bait under Harvey’s nose.”
“But that’s not in the plan, Stephen,” stammered Robin.
“Use your initiative and get on with it otherwise all you’ll be doing is taking care of Jean-Pierre’s heart condition and receiving no fees. Right?”
“Right,” said Robin nervously.
Robin walked into Sotheby’s and made a surreptitious beeline for the nearest mirror. Yes, he was still unrecognizable. Upstairs, he spotted Harvey near the back of the sale room, and planted himself on a nearby seat in the row behind
him.
The sale of medieval painted panels was well under way. Harvey knew he ought to like them, but could not bring himself to condone the Gothic partiality for jewelry and bright, gilded colors. Behind him, Robin hesitated but then struck up a quiet-voiced conversation with his neighbor.
“Looks all very fine to me, but I’ve no knowledge of the period. I’m so much happier with the modern era. Still, I must think of something appropriate to say for my readers.”
Robin’s neighbor smiled politely.
“Do you have to cover all the auctions?”
“Almost all—especially when there may be surprises. In any case, at Sotheby’s you can always find out what’s going on everywhere else. Only this morning one of the assistants gave me a tip that the Lamanns Gallery may have something special in the Impressionist field.”
Robin beamed the whispered information carefully at Harvey’s right ear and then sat back and waited to see if it had created any effect. Shortly afterward, he was rewarded by the sight of Harvey squeezing out of his row to leave. Robin waited for three more lots to be auctioned, then followed him, fingers crossed.
Outside, James had been keeping a patient vigil.
“10:30—no sign of him.”
“Roger.”
“10:45—still no sign of him.”
“Roger.”
“11:00—he’s still inside.”
“Roger.”
“11:12 action stations, action stations.”
James slipped quickly into the Lamanns Gallery as Jean-Pierre once again removed from his window the Sutherland watercolor of the Thames and the Boatman, and replaced it with an oil by Van Gogh, as magnificent an example of the master’s work as a London gallery had ever seen. Now came the acid test: the litmus paper was walking purposefully down Bond Street toward it.
The picture had been painted by David Stein, who had achieved notoriety in the art world for faking 300 paintings and drawings by well-known Impressionists, for which he had received a total of $864,000 and, later, four years. He was only exposed when he put on a Chagall exhibition at the Niveaie Gallery on Madison Avenue in 1969. Unknown to Stein, Chagall himself was in New York at the time for an exhibition at the museum in Lincoln Center where two of his most famous works were on display. On being informed of the Niveaie exhibition, Chagall furiously reported the pictures to the District Attorney’s office as fakes. Stein had already sold one of the imitation Chagalls to Louis D. Cohen at a price of nearly $100,000, and to this day there is a Stein Chagall and a Stein Picasso at the Galleria d’Arte Moderna in Milan. Jean-Pierre was confident that what Stein had achieved in the past in New York and Milan he could now repeat in London.
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