Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less
by
Jeffrey Archer


Prologue

"Joerg, expect seven million dollars from Credit Parisien in the Number
Two account by six o'clock tonight, Central European time, and place it
overnight with first-class banks and triple "A' commercial names.
Otherwise, invest it in the overnight Euro dollar market.
Understood?"

"Yes, Harvey."

"Place one million dollars in the Banco do Minas Gerais, Rio de
Janeiro, in the names of Silverstein and Elliott and cancel the call
loan at Barclays Bank, Lombard Street.  Understood?"

"Yes, Harvey."

"Buy gold on my commodity account until you reach ten million dollars
and then hold until you receive further instructions.  Try and buy in
the troughs and don't rush--be patient.  Understood?"

"Yes, Harvey."

Harvey Metcalfe realised the last comment was unnecessary.  Joerg
Birrer was one of the most conservative bankers in Zurich and, which
was more important to Harvey, had over the past twenty-five years
proved to be one of the shrewdest.  "Can you join me at Wimbledon on
Tuesday, June twenty-fifth, at two o'clock, Centre Court, my usual
debenture seat?"

"Yes, Harvey."

The telephone clicked into place.  Harvey never said good-bye.  He did
not understand the niceties of life and it was too late to start
learning now.  He picked up the phone and dialled the seven digits
which would give him The Lincoln Trust in Boston, and asked for his
secretary.

"Miss Fish?"

"Yes, sir."

"Look out the file on Discovery Oil and destroy it.  Destroy any
correspondence connected with it and leave absolutely no trace.
Understood?"  "Yes, sir."

The telephone clicked again.  Harvey Metcalfe had given similar orders
three times in the last twenty-five years and by now Miss Fish had
learnt not to question him.

Harvey breathed deeply, almost a sigh, a quiet exhalation of triumph.
He was now worth at least $25 million and nothing could stop him.  He
opened a bottle of Krug champagne 1964, imported by Hedges & Butler of
London.  He sipped it slowly and lit a Romeo y Julieta Churchill, which
were smuggled in for him in boxes of two hundred and fifty once a month
from Cuba by an Italian immigrant.  He settled back for a mild
celebration.  In Boston, Massachusetts, it was twelve-twenty--nearly
time for lunch.

In Harley Street, Bond Street, the King's Road and Magdalen College,
Oxford, it was six-twenty.  Four men, unknown to each other, checked
the market price of Discovery Oil in the final edition of the London
Evening Standard.  It was $8.20.  All four of them were rich men,
looking forward to consolidating their already successful careers.
Tomorrow they would be penniless.

Chapter 1

Making a million legally has always been difficult.  Making a million
illegally has always been a little easier.  Keeping a million when you
have made it is perhaps the most difficult of all.  Henryk Metelski was
one of those rare men who managed all three.  Even if the million he
had made legally came after the million he had made illegally, what put
him a yard ahead of the others was that he managed to keep it all.

Henryk Metelski was born on the Lower East Side of New York on May 17,
1909.  His parents were Polish and had emigrated to America at the turn
of the century.  Henryk's father was a baker by profession and had
easily found a job in New York, where the immigrant Poles speciali sed
in baking black rye bread and running small restaurants.  Both parents
would have liked Henryk to have been an academic success, but he was
not gifted in that direction and never became an outstanding pupil at
his high school.  He was a sly, smart little boy, unloved by the school
authorities for his indifference to stirring tales of the War of
Independence and the Liberty Bell, and for his control of the
underground school market in soft drugs and liquor.  Little Henryk did
not consider that the best things in life were free, and the pursuit of
money and power came to him as naturally as does the pursuit of a mouse
to a cat.

Of course, he joined the Polish gang, who were never as powerful as the
Irish or the Italians, but managed to hold their own on the East Side.
Despite his frail build and puny size, his natural cunning equipped him
to run the smaller operations while older and tougher boys fell in with
his plans.  The Polish gang were responsible for the numbers racket,
which they organised in their small neighbourhood, and because it was
exclusively a Polish area they had little interference from the other
big gangs, who were always at war amongst themselves.  It is only the
shrimps who survive among the sharks.  Henryk quickly became the brains
behind the Polish gang, never allowing himself to be caught red-handed,
never even picked up, although it was obvious to the police of the
Nineteenth Precinct that he was the one they should be trying to nail.
When Henryk was a pimply and nourishing fourteen-year-old his father
died of what we now know as cancer.  His mother survived her husband's
death by no more than a few months, leaving their only child to bring
himself up.  Henryk should have gone into the district orphanage for
destitute children, but in the early 1920s it was not hard for a boy to
disappear in New York--what was harder was to survive.  Henryk became a
master of survival, a schooling which was to prove very useful in later
life.

He knocked around the East Side of New York with his belt tightened and
his eyes open, shining shoes here, washing dishes there, looking always
for an entrance to the maze at the heart of which lie wealth and
prestige.  He discovered one when his roommate, Jan Pelnik, a messenger
boy on the New York Stock Exchange, put himself temporarily out of
action with a sausage garnished with salmonella.  Henryk, deputed to
report this mishap to the Chief Messenger, upgraded food poisoning to
tuberculosis, and talked himself into the ensuing job vacancy.  Then he
changed his room, donned his new uniform and started work.  Most of the
messages he delivered during the early twenties read "Buy."  Many of
them were quickly acted upon, for this was a boom era.  Henryk saw men
of little ability make fortunes while he was nothing but an observer.
His instincts directed him towards those individuals who made more
money in a week on the Exchange than he could in a lifetime on his
salary.

He set about learning to understand how the Stock Exchange operated, he
listened to conversations, read messages, found out which newspapers to
study and by the age of eighteen he had had four years' experience on
Wall Street.  Four years which to most messenger boys would have been
nothing more than walking across floors handing over bits of paper,
four years which to Henryk Metelski had been the equivalent of a
master's degree from Harvard Business School (not that he knew then
that one day he would lecture to that august body).  In July 1927 he
took a midmorning message to Halgarten & Co."  a well-established bro
king firm, making his usual detour via the washroom.  He had perfected
a system whereby he would lock himself into a cubicle, read the message
he was carrying, decide whether it was of any value to him and, if it
was, telephone Witold Gronowich, an older Pole who ran a small
insurance brokerage for his fellow countrymen.  Henryk reckoned to pick
up twenty to twenty-five dollars a week extra with the information he
supplied.  Gronowich, being unable to place large sums on the market,
never led any leaks back to his young informant. Sitting in the
washroom Henryk began to realise that he was reading a message of some
considerable significance.  The governor of Texas was going to grant
the Standard Oil Company permission to complete a pipeline from Chicago
to Mexico, all other public bodies involved having already agreed to
the proposal.  The market was aware that the company had been trying to
obtain this final permission for nearly a year.  The message was to be
passed direct to John D. Rockefeller, Jr.'s broker, Tucker Anthony,
immediately.  The granting of this pipeline would open up the entire
North to a ready access of oil, and that would mean increased profits. 
It was obvious to Henryk that Standard Oil shares would rise steadily
on the market once the news had broken, especially as Standard Oil
already controlled 90 per cent of the oil refineries in America.  In
normal circumstances Henryk would have sent this information
immediately to Mr.  Gronowich, and was about to do so when he noticed a
rather overweight man (who had obviously had too many Wall Street
lunches) also leaving the washroom, drop a piece of paper.  As there
was no one else about at the time Henryk picked it up and retreated
once again to his private cubicle, thinking at best it would be another
piece of information.  In fact, it was a cheque for $50,000 made out to
cash from a Mrs.  Rose Rennick.

Henryk thought quickly.  He quit the washroom at speed and was soon
standing on Wall Street itself.  He made his way to a small coffee shop
on Rector Street, where he carefully worked out his plan and then he
acted on it immediately.  First, he cashed the cheque at a branch of
the Morgan Bank on the southwest side of Wall Street, knowing that as
he was wearing the smart uniform of a messenger at the Exchange it
would be assumed that he was no more than a carrier for some
distinguished firm.  He then returned to the Exchange and acquired from
a floor broker 2,500 Standard Oil shares at $19.85, leaving himself
$126.61 change after brokerage charges.  He placed the $126.61 in a
deposit account at the Morgan Bank.  Then, sweating in tense
anticipation of an announcement from the governor's office, he put
himself through the motions of a normal day's work, too preoccupied
with Standard Oil even to make a detour via the washroom with the
messages he carried.

No announcement came.  Henryk was not to know that it was being held up
until the Exchange had officially closed at four o'clock because the
governor himself was buying shares anywhere and everywhere he could lay
his grubby hands on them, pushing the shares to $20.05 by the close of
business without any official announcement.  Henryk went home that
night petrified that he had made a disastrous mistake.  He had visions
of going to jail, losing his job and everything he had built up over
the past four years.

He was unable to sleep that night and became steadily more restless in
his small room.  At one o'clock he could stand it no longer, so he
rose, shaved, dressed and took a train to Grand Central Station.  From
there he walked to Times Square, where with trembling hands he bought
the first edition of the Wall Street Journal.  And there it was,
shrieking across the headlines-GOVERNOR GRANTS OIL PIPELINE RIGHTS TO

ROCKEFELLER

and a secondary headline Standard Oil Shares, Heavy Trading Expected.

Henryk walked dazed to the nearest all-night cafe, on East Forty-second
Street, where he ordered a large hamburger and french fries, which he
devoured like a man eating his last breakfast before facing the
electric chair, whereas in fact it was to be the first on his way to
fortune.  He read the full details on page one, which spread over to
page fourteen, and by four o'clock in the morning he had bought the
first three editions of the New York Times and the first two editions
of the Herald Tribune.  Henryk hurried home, giddy and elated, and
threw on his uniform.  He arrived at the Stock Exchange at eight
o'clock and imitated a day's work, thinking only of the second part of
his plan.

The interval between the messengers' arrival and the official opening
of the Exchange is only two hours, but on that day it seemed
interminable to Henryk.  He passed it by reading all the papers.  The
later editions gave a fuller story of the pipeline, the New York Times
carrying a detailed enquiry into the significance of the announcement
to the oil industry and an interview with John D. Rockefeller, Jr."
president of Standard Oil.

At last the Stock Exchange opened officially and Henryk went over to
the Morgan Bank to borrow $50,000 against the 2,500 Standard Oil
shares, which had opened that morning at $21.30.  He placed the $50,000
in his deposit account and instructed the bank to give him a draft for
$50,000 to be made out to Mrs.  Rose Rennick.  He left the building and
looked up the address and telephone number of his unknowing
benefactor.

Mrs.  Rennick (a widow who lived off the investments left by her late
husband) rented a small apartment on Park Avenue, one of the more
fashionable parts of New York.  She was somewhat surprised to receive a
call from a Henryk Metelski, asking to see her on an urgent private
matter.  A final mention of Halgarten & Co.  gave her a little more
confidence and she agreed to meet Henryk at the Waldorf-Astoria at four
o'clock.

Henryk had never been to the Waldorf-Astoria, but after four years on
the Stock Exchange there were few hotels or restaurants he had not
heard mentioned in other people's conversations.  He knew that Mrs.
Rennick was more likely to have tea with him there than agree to see a
man with a name like Henryk Metelski in her own apartment, especially
as over the telephone his Polish accent was more pronounced than on
meeting him face to face.

After lunch Henryk asked the Senior Messenger if he might have the
afternoon off, feigning influenza.  His boss did not object to the
request as Henryk had never missed as much as an hour in his four
years.  Henryk went home, had a bath and put on his best suit.

As Henryk stood in the softly carpeted foyer of the Waldorf-Astoria, he
blushed for his sartorial naivety.  Henryk imagined everybody to be
staring at him and he buried his short, amply covered frame in the
large leather chair.  Some of the other patrons of the Waldorf-Astoria
were amply covered too, though Henryk felt it was more likely to have
been Pommes de terre Maitre d'H tel that had caused their obesity than
french fries.  It was too late for him to wish he had put a little less
grease on his black, wavy hair and to regret that his shoes were so
down-at-heel.  He scratched at an irritating pustule on the side of his
mouth.  His suit, in which he felt so assured and prosperous among his
friends, was shiny, skimpy, cheap and loud.  He did not match up to the
decor, less still to the patrons, of the hotel, and, feeling inadequate
for the first time in his life, he edged gingerly into the Jefferson
Room, stationed himself behind a copy of The New Yorker, and prayed for
his guest to arrive quickly.  Waiters fluttered deferentially around
the well-provendered tables, ignoring Henryk with instinctive
superciliousness.  One did nothing but circle the tea room with
delicately proffered lump sugar from silver tongs in a white-gloved
hand: Henryk was enormously impressed.

Rose Rennick arrived a few minutes later with two small dogs and an
outrageous hat.  Henryk thought she looked over sixty, overweight,
over-made up and overdressed, but she had a warm smile and seemed to
know everyone, moving from table to table, chatting to the regular
Waldorf-Astoria tea set.  She eventually reached what she had rightly
guessed to be Henryk's table, and was rather startled by him, not just
because he was strangely dressed, but because he looked even younger
than his eighteen years.

Mrs.  Rennick ordered tea while Henryk told his story of how there had
been an unfortunate mistake with her cheque, which had been wrongly
made over to his firm at the Stock Exchange the day before.  His firm
had instructed him to return the cheque immediately and to say how
sorry they were.  Henryk then passed over the draft for $50,000 and
told her he would lose his job if she decided to take the matter any
further, as he had been entirely responsible for the mistake.  Mrs.
Rennick had, in fact, only been informed of the missing cheque that
morning and did not realise that it had been cashed, as it would have
taken a few days to go through her account.  Henryk's perfectly genuine
anxiety as he stumbled through his tale would have convinced a more
critical observer of human nature than Mrs.  Rennick.  Readily she
agreed to let the matter drop, only too pleased to have her money back,
and as it was in the form of a draft from the Morgan Bank, she had lost
nothing.  Henryk breathed a sigh of relief and for the first time began
to relax and enjoy himself.  He even called for the man with the sugar
and tongs.

After a respectable period of time had passed, Henryk explained that he
must return to work, thanked Mrs.  Rennick, paid the bill and left.
Outside in the street he whistled with relief.  His new shirt was
soaked in sweat (Mrs.  Rennick would have called it perspiration) but
he was out in the open and could breathe again.  His first major
operation had been a success.

He stood in Park Avenue, amused that the venue for his confrontation
with Mrs.  Rennick had been the Waldorf-Astoria, as it was the very
hotel where John D. Rockefeller, Jr.  (the president of Standard Oil)
had a suite.  Henryk had arrived on foot and used the main entrance,
while Mr.  Rockefeller had earlier arrived by subway and taken his
private lift to the Waldorf Towers.  Few New Yorkers were aware that
Rockefeller had his own private station built fifty feet below the
Waldorf-Astoria so that he did not have to travel eight blocks to Grand
Central Station, there being no stop between there and 125th Street.
(The station is still there today, but no Rockefellers live at the
Waldorf-Astoria and the train never stops there.) While Henryk was
discussing his $50,000 with Mrs.  Rennick, Rockefeller was discussing
an investment of $5,000,000 with President Coolidge's Secretary of the
Treasury, Andrew W. Mellon.

The next day Henryk returned to work as normal.  He knew he must cash
the shares before the end of five days to clear his debt with the
Morgan Bank and the stockbroker--the account on the New York Stock
Exchange runs for five business days or seven calendar days.  On the
last day of the account the shares were standing at $23.30.  He sold at
$23.15, clearing his overdraft of $49,625 and, after expenses, realised
a profit of $7,490, which he left deposited with the Morgan Bank.

Over the next three years, Henryk stopped ringing Mr.  Gronowich, and
started dealing for himself, in small amounts to begin with.  Times
were still good, and while he didn't always make a profit, he had
learnt to master the occasional bear market as well as the more common
boom.  His system in the bear market was to sell short--not a process
for the ethical in business, but he soon mastered the art of selling
shares he didn't own in expectation of a subsequent fall in price.  His
instinct for the market trends refined as rapidly as his taste in
suits, and the guile learnt in the back streets of the Lower East Side
stood him in good stead.  Henryk had discovered that the whole world
was a jungle--sometimes the lions and tigers wore suits.

When the market collapsed in 1929 he had turned his $7,490 into $51,000
in liquid assets, having sold on every share he possessed.  He had
moved to a smart flat in Brooklyn and was driving a rather ostentatious
Stutz.  Henryk had realised at an early age that he had entered upon
life with three main disadvantages--his name, background and
impecunity.  The money problem was solving itself, and so he decided to
expunge the others.  First, he made application to have a legal change
of name by court order to Harvey David Metcalfe.  Second, he cut off
all contact with his friends from the Polish community, and so in May
1930 he came of age with a new name and a new background.

It was later that year he met Roger Sharpley, a young man from Boston
who had inherited his father's import and export company.  Educated at
Choate and later at Dartmouth College, Sharpley had the assurance and
charm of the Boston set, so often envied by the rest of America.  He
was tall and fair and looked as if he had come from Viking stock, and
with the air of the gifted amateur, found most things came easily to
him, especially women.  He was in total contrast to Harvey.  It was
that contrast that brought them together.

Roger's only ambition was to join the Navy, but after graduating from
Dartmouth he had had to return to the family firm because of his
father's ill health.  He had only been with the firm a few months when
his father died.  Roger would have liked to have sold Sharpley & Son to
the first bidder, but his father, Henry, had made a codicil to his will
to the effect that if the firm were sold before Roger was forty years
old (that being the last day one can enlist for the U. S. Navy), the
money was to be divided between his relatives.

Roger found himself between the devil and the deep blue sea.  Business
life held no interest for him, and he felt miserably incompetent left
in charge of the family firm.  It gave him a steady income, but he knew
it could not long survive on its past reputation.  On the other hand,
he could not sell it and join the Navy without leaving himself
penniless.  Harvey and Roger met at the Exchange, and while neither
liked or understood the other, each thought there might be something in
the acquaintance to his own advantage.  Harvey was right.  Gradually,
in discussions well primed by late night Bourbon, Harvey learnt from
Roger that Sharpley & Son had been founded in 1833, though they did not
like to be reminded that their first successful trading had been in
slaves.  From there they had progressed to become experts in the import
of whisky and the export of furs.  Although only small in size, they
had a reputation for honesty and efficiency--a reputation which had
been built over nearly a hundred years.  Harvey gleaned from Roger that
the income from Sharpley & Son for the year 1929-30 was $30,000 on a
turnover of $420,000.  It had been as high as $82,000 in the halcyon
days of his father, but the firm was now being run by its ageing
vice-president and general manager, John Bodie, who was satisfied with
his position, realising that the gift God had given to every other
generation of Sharpleys had sadly missed Roger.  Bodie could well
remember Roger in his diapers, and was not much more impressed now.
Still, Roger left him a free hand to run the firm the way old Mr.
Sharpley had always run it, though sometimes even Bodie wondered if his
methods were appropriate for the times.  He was due to retire in five
months at the age of sixty, but knew that Roger would be lost without
him and would have to keep him on at least until the age of sixty-five.
Knowing the codicil to Henry Sharpley's will, he felt safe from any
thunderbolts.  Harvey gave the problem some considerable thought, and
after two lengthy sessions with a skilful New York lawyer, suggested
the following course of action to Roger: Harvey would buy 49 per cent
of Sharpley & Son for $100,000 and the first $20,000 profit each year.
At the age of forty Roger would relinquish the remaining 51 per cent
for a further $100,000.  There would be three Board members--Harvey,
Roger and one nominated by Harvey, giving him overall control.  As far
as Harvey was concerned, Roger could join the Navy and come to the
annual shareholders' meeting once a year.

Roger could not believe his luck and did not even consult John Bodie,
or anyone else at Sharpley & Son.  He realised only too well that they
would try to talk him out of it.  Harvey had counted on this and had
assessed his quarry accurately.  Roger only gave the proposition a few
days' consideration before he allowed the legal papers to be drawn up
in New York, far enough away from Boston to be sure the firm did not
learn what was going on.  Meanwhile, Harvey returned to the Morgan
Bank, where he was now looked upon as a reliable customer.  The manager
agreed to help him in his new enterprise with a loan of $50,000 to add
to his own $50,000, enabling Harvey to acquire 49 per cent of Sharpley
& Son, and become its fifth president.  The legal documents were signed
in New York on October 14, 1930.

Roger left speedily for Newport, Rhode Island, to commence his
Officers' Training Course in the U. S. Navy.  Harvey left for Grand
Central Station to catch the train for Boston.  His days as a messenger
boy on the New York Stock Exchange were over.  He was twenty-one years
of age and the president of his own company.

Sharpley & Son's seventeen staff in Boston did not know what was about
to hit them.  When Harvey arrived on Monday morning at six o'clock his
first move was to take over Mr.  Bodie's office, relegating him to a
storeroom at the back of the building.  John Bodie eventually arrived,
as he always did, at nine-thirty, and called the police, thinking his
office had been broken into--they left with red faces when Harvey
produced the legal documents.

Bodie, in unbelieving fury, called the company lawyers, who had also
drawn up the will for Henry Sharpley, to see if they could remove this
cancer that had appeared from nowhere.  When the documents signed by
Harvey and Roger Sharpley had been carefully checked, Bodie left within
the hour and never returned.  Harvey was on his way.  A respectable
company, established for nearly a hundred years, was to be his vehicle
for future dubious transactions.  What looked like disaster to most,
Harvey could always manage to turn into a triumph.  The American people
were still suffering from Prohibition, and although Harvey could export
furs, he could not import whisky.  This had been one of the reasons for
the fall in the company profits over the past few years.  But Harvey
found that with a little bribery, involving the mayor of Boston, the
chief of police and the customs officials on the Canadian border, plus
a payment to the Mafia to ensure his products reached the restaurants
and speakeasies, somehow the whisky imports went up rather than down.
Sharpley & Son lost its more respectable and long-serving staff, and
replaced them with the animals that suited Harvey Metcalfe's particular
jungle.

From 1930 to 1933, despite the Depression, people continued to drink,
and Harvey went from strength to strength, but when Prohibition was
finally lifted by President Roosevelt after overwhelming public demand,
the excitement went with it, and Harvey allowed the company to continue
to deal with whisky and furs while he branched into new fields.  In
1933 Sharpley & Son celebrated a hundred years in business.  In three
years Harvey had lost ninety-seven years of goodwill and still managed
to double the profit.  One of his new interests was the export of arms.
Harvey was never too fussy about the final destination of his
equipment; in fact, he was only too happy to supply both sides.  When
Britain declared war on Germany in September 1939, America was
horrified.  Harvey rubbed his hands and two years later, in December
1941, when America joined the Allies after Pearl Harbor, he never
stopped rubbing them.  He must have been one of the few people who was
not delighted by the 1945 Agreement signed in Potsdam by Truman,
Churchill and Stalin, which signalled the end of the Second World War.
However, the peace coincided with Roger Sharpley's fortieth birthday,
and as Harvey had amassed several million dollars and was becoming
bored, he decided it was time to part with Sharpley & Son.  He had in
fifteen years built the profits up from $30,000 in 1930 to $910,000 in
1945.  He sold the company for $7,100,000, paying $100,000 to the widow
of Captain Roger Sharpley of the U. S. Navy, and kept $7,000,000 for
himself.  Harvey celebrated his thirty-sixth birthday by buying at a
cost of $4 million a small, ailing bank in Boston called The Lincoln
Trust.  At the time it had an income of approximately $500,000 a year,
a prestigious building in the centre of Boston and an unblemished
reputation.  Harvey enjoyed being the president of a bank, but it did
nothing for his honesty.  Every strange deal in the Boston area seemed
to go through The Lincoln Trust, and although Harvey increased the
profits to $2 million per annum in a matter of five years, his personal
reputation could not have fallen lower.

One of the share transactions The Lincoln Trust had become involved in
as a backer turned sour for all the small investors.  Several of the
promoters, who had been holding out false prospects for the stock they
held, were arrested and tried for fraud.  Harvey, knowing the truth,
had sold at the top of the market and cleared a million for himself,
but he had panicked when the case came to court and it took nearly the
million in bribes to prevent his being implicated in the case.  When
the trial was concluded he came out without a charge being brought
against him, but few people in banking circles doubted his personal
involvement.

The problem for Harvey was simple: he was now worth more than $10
million, but he had been born a slippery customer, and though he knew
he ought to settle down and go straight, he could never resist a quick
killing.  From the days of Jan Pelnik, Rose Rennick, John Bodie and
Roger Sharpley, he had never minded who got killed.  Despite his
reputation he tried every way of acquiring society recognition.  He
bought a beautiful house and estate in Lincoln, the fashionable area a
few miles outside Boston.  He donated $1 million to Harvard University,
and a further $1 million to other charities.  He was also a strong
supporter of the Democratic Party, and of mayors of any political
complexion who captured power in Boston.  However, reputation in Boston
comes much more from family background than from the ability to make
money.  No less a man than Joseph Kennedy was finding that to be
true.

The next turning point in Harvey's life came when he met Arlene Hunter
in the spring of 1949.  She was the only daughter of the president of
the First City Bank of Boston.  Harvey had never taken any real
interest in women.  His driving force had been making money, and
although he considered the opposite sex a useful relaxation in his free
time, on balance he found them an inconvenience.  But having now
reached middle age and having no heir to leave his fortune to, he
calculated that it was time to get married and have a son.  As with
everything else he had done in his life, he studied the problem very
carefully.  Harvey met Arlene when she was thirty-one.  She could not
have been a greater contrast to Harvey.  She was nearly six foot, slim
and although not unattractive, she lacked confidence and was beginning
to feel marriage had passed her by.  Most of her school friends were
now on their second divorce and felt rather sorry for her.  Arlene fell
for Harvey's charm and enjoyed his extravagant ways after her father's
prudish discipline; she often thought that her father was to blame for
her never feeling at ease with men of her own age.  She had only had
one affair, and that had been a disastrous failure because of her total
innocence.  Arlene's father did not approve of Harvey, which only made
him more attractive to her.  Not that her father had approved of any of
the men she had associated with, but on this occasion he was right.
Harvey, on the other hand, realised that to marry the First City Bank
of Boston with The Lincoln Trust could only benefit him, and with that
in mind he set out, as he always did, to win.

Arlene and Harvey were married in 1951.  Mr.  and Mrs.  Hunter could
not hide their contempt, but went through the ceremony with some degree
of goodwill for Arlene's sake.  After the marriage came the honeymoon
in Europe.  It was the first holiday Harvey had had for twenty-seven
years, and his first visit to Europe.  On returning to America, they
settled in Harvey's Lincoln home and very shortly afterwards Arlene
became pregnant.  She gave Harvey a daughter almost a year to the day
of their marriage.

They christened her Rosalie.  She was the apple of Harvey's eye, and he
was very disappointed when a prolapse closely followed by a
hysterectomy ensured that Arlene would not be able to bear him any more
children.  He sent Rosalie to Bennetts, the best girls' school in
Washington, and from there she won a place at Vassar to major in
English.  This even pleased old man Hunter, who had grown to tolerate
Harvey and adore his granddaughter.  After gaining her degree, Rosalie
continued her education at the Sorbonne because of a fierce
disagreement with her father concerning the type of friends she was
keeping, particularly the ones with long hair who didn't want to go to
Vietnam.  The final crunch came when Rosalie suggested that morals were
not decided only by the length of one's hair or one's political
views.

Harvey began to slow down and did not work as many hours as he had done
in the early years, interesting himself only in the really large
transactions and leaving his staff to take care of the day-to-day
running of the bank.  He found he played almost as much tennis now as
he had when he first came to Boston, imagining it in those days to be a
way of breaking into society.  He watched his health, although he was
abundantly overweight, making regular visits to his doctor.  Having
amassed all that money he was going to make sure he lived long enough
to enjoy it.  He continued to give generously to Harvard, partly
because he enjoyed the recognition and partly because it gave him a
Robin Hood feeling: "Maybe I stole it, but I gave it away again, or at
least some of it."  He filled his home with beautiful antiques and
paintings, becoming a connoisseur of the Impressionist period and
finding a genuine love of the style, a love that had developed over
many years and had been kindled in the strangest way.  A client of
Sharpley & Son was about to go bankrupt while still owing a fairly
large sum of money to the company.  Harvey got wind of it and went
round to confront him, but the rot had set in and there was no hope of
securing any cash.  Harvey had no intention of leaving empty-handed and
took with him the man's only tangible asset, a Renoir valued at
$10,000.

It had been Harvey's intention to sell the picture before it could be
proved that he was not a preferred creditor, but he became entranced
with the delicate pastel shades and from this newly acquired prize came
a desire to own more.  When he realised that pictures were not only a
good investment, but he actually liked them as well, his collection and
his love grew hand in hand.  By the early 1970s Harvey had a Manet, two
Monets, a Renoir, two Picassos, a Pissaro, a Utrillo, a Cezanne and
most of the recognised lesser names.  His desire was to own a Van Gogh,
and only recently he had failed to acquire "L'H pit al de Saint-Paul a
Saint-Remy" at the Sotheby Parke-Bernet Gallery in New York, when Dr.
Armand Hammer of Occidental Petroleum had outbid him--$1,200,000 had
been just a little too much.  Earlier, in 1966, he had failed to
acquire Lot 49, "Mademoiselle Ravoux" by Van Gogh, from Christie Manson
& Woods, the London art dealers; the Reverend Theodore Pitcairn,
representing The Lord's New Church in Bryn Athyn, Pennsylvania, had
pushed him over the top and whetted his appetite further.  The Lord
giveth and on that occasion the Lord had taken away.  Although it was
not fully appreciated in Boston, it was recognised elsewhere that
Harvey had one of the finest Impressionist collections in the world,
almost as good as that of Walter Annenberg, President Nixon's
ambassador to London, who like Harvey had been one of the few people to
build up a major collection since the Second World War.  Harvey's other
love was a prize collection of orchids, and he had three times been
winner at the New England Spring Flower Show in Boston.  Harvey now
travelled to Europe once a year.  He had established a successful stud
in Kentucky and liked to see his horses run at Longchamp and Ascot.  He
also enjoyed watching Wimbledon, which he felt was still the
outstanding tennis tournament in the world.  It amused him to do a
little business in Europe, where he still had the opportunity to make
money for his Swiss bank account in Zurich.  He did not need a Swiss
bank account, but somehow he got a kick out of doing Uncle Sam.

Although Harvey had mellowed over the years and cut down on his more
dubious deals, he could never resist taking a risk if he thought the
reward was likely to be high enough.  Such a golden opportunity
presented itself in 1964, when the British Government invited
applications for exploration and production licences in the North Sea.
The then Minister of Power in Her Majesty's Government was Fred Erroll,
who had vast experience in engineering and construction, and a career
in politics which encompassed everything from the Board of Trade to the
Treasury.  Sir Alec Douglas-Home, the British Prime Minister, who had
taken over from Harold Macmillan after his sudden illness, gave Erroll
the job of allocating the new licences.  At that time neither the
British Government nor the civil servants involved had any idea of the
future significance of North Sea oil, or the role it would eventually
play in British politics.  If the government had known that in 1974 the
Arabs would be holding a pistol to the heads of the rest of the world,
and the British House of Commons would have eleven Scottish Nationalist
Members of Parliament, they surely would have acted in a totally
different way.

On May 13, 1964, the Secretary of State for Power laid before
Parliament "Statutory Instrument--No.  708--Continental
Shelf--Petroleum."  Harvey read this particular document with great
interest as he thought it might well be a means of making an
exceptional killing.  He was particularly fascinated by Paragraph 4 of
the statutory instrument:

"Persons who are citizens of the United Kingdom and Colonies are
resident in the United Kingdom or who are bodies corporate incorporated
in the United Kingdom may apply in accordance with these Regulations
for:

(a) a production licence; or

(b) an exploration licence.

When he had studied the regulations in their entirety, he had sat back
and thought hard.  Only a small amount of money was required to secure
a production and exploration licence.  As Paragraph 6 had it:

"(1) With every application for a production licence there shall be
paid a fee of two hundred pounds with an additional fee of five pounds
for every block after the first ten in respect whereof that application
is made.  (2) With every application for an exploration licence there
shall be paid a fee of twenty pounds."

How easily the possession of such a licence might, in Harvey's hands,
be used to create the impression of a vast enterprise.  He could be
alongside such names as Shell, BP, Total, Gulf, Occidental, and all the
other major oil companies.  He went over the regulations again and
again, hardly believing that the British Government would release such
potential for so small an investment.  Only Schedule I of the statutory
instrument seemed to stand in his way:

SCHEDULE I

FORM OF APPLICATION

FOR A PRODUCTION LICENCE

OR AN EXPLORATION LICENCE

Name of the applicant in full.

If application is by an individual Usual residential address

Evidence of nationality accompanying the application.

If the application is by a body corporate Place of incorporation

Principal place of business

Place of central management and control

Particulars of the members of the board if directors or other governing
body of the body corporate, as follows Full names

Usual Residential Address

Nationalities.

If the application is by a body corporate for a production
licence-Particulars of capital authorised and issued as follows-Class
of Capital

Amount authorised

Amount issued

Voting rights on each class.

Particulars of all holdings of not less than 5 per cent in number or
value if any class of capital which has been issued by the body
corporate as follows Name of holder, or names of joint holders in
full

Class of Holding

Amount

Nationality of Holder(s)

Particulars if all capital issued to bearer, as follows-Class of
Capital

Total amount issued

Amount issued to bearer.

Type of licence applied for, and if a production licence, reference
numbers) of the blocks) is respect whereof the application is made.

I/We hereby declare that the information given above or annexed to this
application is correct.

Signature of Applicant(s)

or in the case of a body corporate,

of a duly authorised officer whose capacity is to be stated.

To the Secretary, Ministry of Power, London, S. W. 1.

Harvey was not British, none of his companies was British and he knew
he would have presentation problems.  He decided that his application
must be backed by a British bank and that he must set up a company
whose directors would give confidence to the British Government.

With this in mind, early in 1964 he registered a company in England
called Discovery Oil, using Malcolm, Bottnick and Davis as his
solicitors and Barclays Bank as bankers, as they were already The
Lincoln Trust's representatives in Europe.  Lord Hunn isett became
chairman and several distinguished men joined the Board, including two
ex-Members of Parliament (who had lost their seats when the Labour
Party won the 1964 election).  When Harvey discovered how stringent the
rules were for setting up a public company in England, he decided to
launch the main company on the Canadian Stock Exchange and to use the
English company only as a subsidiary.  Discovery Oil issued 2,000,000
ten-cent shares at fifty cents, which were all acquired for Harvey by
nominees.  He also deposited $500,000 in the Lombard Street branch of
Barclays Bank.

Having thus created the front, Harvey then used Lord Hunnisett to apply
for the licence from the British Government.  The new Labour government
elected in October 1964 were no more aware of the significance of North
Sea oil than the earlier Conservative administration.  The government's
requirements for a licence were a rent of 12,000 a year for the first
six years, and 12 percent revenue tax with a further capital gains tax
on profits, but as Harvey's plan did not allow for any company profit,
that was not going to be a problem.  On the May 22, 1965, the Minister
of Power published in the London Gazette the name of Discovery Oil
among the fifty-two companies granted production licences.  On August
3, 1965, Statutory Instrument No.  1531 allocated the actual areas.
Discovery Oil was

51 50' 00" N : 2 30' 20" E,

a site adjacent to one of British Petroleum's holdings.

Hopefully, Harvey waited for one of the companies who had acquired
North Sea sites to strike oil.  It was a longish wait: not until June
1970 did British Petroleum make a big commercial strike in their
Forties Field.  Harvey was on to another winner, and set the second
part of his plan in motion.  Early in 1972 he hired an oil rig, which,
with much flourish and publicity, he had towed out to the Discovery Oil
site.  He hired the rig on the basis of being able to renew the
contract if he made a successful strike, and with the minimum number of
people allowed by the government regulations, they proceeded to drill
to 6,000 feet.  After this drilling had been completed, he released
from employment all those involved, but told Reading & Bates, from whom
he had rented the rig, that he would be requiring it again in the near
future and therefore would continue to pay the rental.

Harvey then bought Discovery Oil shares on the market at the rate of a
few thousand a day for the next two months from his own nominees, and
whenever the financial journalists of the British Press rang to ask why
these shares were steadily rising, the young public relations officer
at Discovery Oil's office said, as briefed, he had no comment to make
at present but they would be making a press statement in the near
future; some newspapers put two and two together and made about
fifteen.  The shares climbed steadily from fifty cents to nearly three
dollars.  At the same time Harvey's chief executive in Britain, Bernie
Silverstein, was only too aware of what the boss was up to--he had been
involved in past operations of this kind.  His main task was to ensure
that nobody could prove a direct connection between Metcalfe and
Discovery Oil.  In January 1974 the shares stood at six dollars.  It
was then that Harvey was ready to move on to the third part of his
plan, which was to use Discovery Oil's new recruit, a young Harvard
graduate called David Kesler, as the fall guy.  Chapter 2

David pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and read the
advertisement in the Business Section of the Boston Globe again to be
sure he was not dreaming.  It could have been tailor-made for him.

Oil Company based in Canada, carrying out extensive work in the North
Sea off Scotland, requires a young executive with experience in the
stock market and financial marketing.  Salary $20,000 a year.
Accommodation supplied.  Based in London.  Apply Box No.  217 A.
"Fantastic," said David to himself, "that sounds a challenge, and it
must lead to other openings in an industry that large."  He recalled
what his tutor in European affairs used to say:

"If you must work in Great Britain, better make it the North Sea.
Nothing else great about the country.  Lots of oil in lots of places
equals lots of business opportunities for those who have the guts to
invest with their balls."  David Kesler was a lean, clean-cut young
American with a crew cut which would have been better suited to a
lieutenant in the Marines, a fresh complexion and an unquenchable
earnestness, who wanted to succeed in business with all the fervour of
the new graduate from Harvard Business School.  He had spent five years
in all at Harvard, the first four studying mathematics, and the last
two over the river Charles, at the Business School.  He had just
graduated and, armed with an MA.  and an MBA."  he was looking round
for a job that would reward him for the exceptional capacity for hard
work he knew he possessed.  He had never been brilliant and envied the
natural academics among his classmates who found post-Keynesian
economic theories more fun than hard work.  David had worked
ferociously, only lifting his nose far enough from the grindstone for a
daily workout at the gymnasium, and the occasional weekend watching
Harvard jocks defending the honour of the university on the football
field or in the basketball court.  He would have enjoyed playing
himself, but that would have meant another distraction.

He read the advertisement again.

David's parents had not found him an easy child to bring up.  His
father, a Calvinist priest from Oregon, was almost as naive about the
real world as his homely, apron string mother.  Quite early on, they
had stopped loving and protecting him and contented themselves with
admiring his string of school and college successes.  "David must not
cry if he does not come in at the head of the class," said one report
of the ten year old arithmetician.  Later, he learnt not to cry at
failure, but it still cut him deep.  That was why at Harvard he had
shut himself up with textbooks and nothing more yielding than a bar and
some weights for relaxation.  He had seen quite a few Harvard men who
might have made it but for some dumb blonde.  That wasn't going to
happen to him.  He read the advertisement again.

For five years he had been as cloistered as a monk and as dull as a
celibate and now it was time to gather the honey.  He would apply for
the job.  He was young, of course, but that might count in his favour.
The integrity of his self-confidence was unbreached by failure: people
liked that.  He read the advertisement again, and typed a neat letter
to the box number.  A few days later, back came a questionnaire of a
sort familiar to him from Harvard days, which asked:

Name, age, address, marital status.

Brothers/sisters, age, address, list of schools, colleges, universities
attended with all dates.

List of high school, college, university, when attended, dates.  What
program did you specialize in at Business School?

Major field of study.

Major extracurricular activities in order of importance.  Distinctions,
honours and awards.

What did you get out of your academic and extracurricular life at
college?  Describe your avocations and hobbies.

On a full page, describe your three most substantial accomplishments
and explain why you view them as such.

What factors led you to decide an oil company would be helpful to your
career development?.

Discuss other vocations or professions that you have seriously
considered.  Give a candid evaluation of yourself.  Discuss those
characteristics you feel have become your strengths and those you feel
are your weaknesses.  Describe any situation or job in which you felt
you had responsibility and tell us what you learnt from that
experience.

Do you have any disabilities or illness which would necessitate special
treatment?  Yes/ No  If yes, explain.

List three references.

You can't succeed in business without proving you are a normal,
full-blooded member of the human race.  David filled in the form,
admitting to no weakness more ineradicable than inexperience.

A few more days passed before another letter summoned him to an
interview at a local hotel on the following Wednesday at three o'clock.
Talent scouts for big companies often used such a venue for interviews
in a university city.  David arrived at two forty-five at the Copley
Square Hotel in Huntington Avenue, the adrenaline pumping round his
body.  He repeated the Harvard Business School motto to himself as he
was ushered into a small private room: look British, think Yiddish.

Three men, who introduced themselves as Silverstein, Cooper and
Elliott, interviewed him.  Bernie Silverstein, a silver-haired,
check-tied New Yorker with a solid aura of success, was in charge.
Cooper and Elliott sat and watched David silently.  It didn't throw
him: he knew he looked keen and was coming over well.  Silverstein
spent considerable time giving David an enticing description of the
company's background and its future aims.  Harvey had trained
Silverstein well and he had all the glib expertise at his
well-manicured fingertips needed by the right-hand man in a Metcalfe
coup.

"So there you have it, Mr.  Kesler.  We're involved in one of the
biggest commercial opportunities in the world, looking for oil in the
North Sea off Scotland.  Our company, Discovery Oil, has the backing of
one of the largest banks in America.  We have been granted licences
from the British Government and we have the finance.  But companies are
made, Mr.  Kesler, by people, it's as simple as that.  We're looking
for a man who will work night and day to put Discovery Oil on the map,
and we'll pay the right man a top salary to do just that.  If you were
offered the position you would be working in our London office under
the immediate direction of our Number Two, Mr.  Elliott."  "Where are
the company headquarters?"

"Montreal, Canada, but we have offices in New York, San Francisco,
London, Aberdeen, Paris and Brussels."

"Is the company looking for oil anywhere else?"

"Not at the moment," answered Silverstein.  "We're sinking millions
into the North Sea after BP's successful strike, and at the moment the
fields around us have all had a one in five success rate, which is very
high in our business."  "When would you want the successful applicant
to start?"

"Some time in January, when he has completed a government training
course on management in oil," said Richard Elliott.  The slim, sallow
Number Two sounded as if he was from Georgia.  The government course
was a typical Harvey Metcalfe touch.

"And the company apartment," said David, "where's that?"

Cooper spoke: "You will have the small company flat in the Barbican, a
few hundred yards away from our London City office."

David had no more questions--Silverstein had covered everything and
seemed to know exactly what he wanted.

David Kesler left the hotel feeling quite pleased with the way the
interview had gone.  He had already been offered a job with a shipping
company call Sea Containers Inc."  but they were only offering $15,000
and he would have to be based in Chicago.  Chicago wasn't his kind of
town.  David liked the thought of living in London and acquiring a matt
British finish on his glossy American efficiency.  He promised himself
that if Discovery Oil offered him the position of their executive in
London he would take it.

Ten days later he received a telegram from Silverstein, inviting him to
lunch at the 21 Club in New York.  The plush air of the restaurant gave
David confidence that these people knew what they were about.  Their
table was in one of the small alcoves so liked by businessmen who
prefer their conversations to remain confidential.  He met Silverstein
in the bar at twelve fifty-five.  Silverstein was genial and relaxed.
He stretched the conversation out a little, discussing irrelevancies,
but finally, over a brandy, offered David the position in London. David
was delighted-- $20,000 a year and the chance to be involved with a
company which obviously had such exciting potential.  He did not
hesitate to agree to start working in London on January first.

A week later he flew to Santa Barbara on the West Coast of America for
a rare holiday with his uncle.  The offshore oil rigs rise there from
the limpid Pacific in a cluster.  Most tourists think they spoil the
view, and most locals detest them, recalling the disastrous Union Oil
of California blowup of January 1969, when 12,000 barrels had gone up
in a pillar of fire that burned and smoked for days and left an
800-mile oil slick to kill the wildlife and ruin the local tourist
industry.  But David liked the rigs.  That thrusting technology was
part of him now that he was an oil man  After three weeks of swimming
and sunbathing, he was ready for his new career, and looking forward to
starting his government training course.

David enjoyed his introduction to oil, which taught him an immense
amount about the industry, although he was a little disconcerted that
nobody else on the government course seemed to have heard of Discovery
Oil.  But after eight weeks he had educated most of them.  He spent
Christmas with his parents in Manhattan and was well ready to fly to
England on December 28 to take up his post in London.

David Kesler had never been to England: how green the grass was, how
narrow the roads, how closed in by hedges and fences the houses.  He
felt he was in Toy Town after the vast highways and large automobiles
of New York.  The small flat in the Barbican was clean and impersonal,
but, as Mr.  Cooper had said, convenient for his office a few hundred
yards away in Threadneedle Street.  David spent the weekend recovering
from the flight and change of circadian rhythm, and turned up briskly
for his first day at the offices of Discovery Oil on Tuesday, January
2.

The small building in Threadneedle Street consisted of seven rooms, of
which only Silverstein's had a prestigious air about it.  There was a
tiny reception area, a telex room, two rooms for secretaries, a room
for Mr.  Elliott and another for himself.  It seemed very pokey to
David, but as Silverstein was quick to point out, office rent in the
City of London was fifteen pounds a square foot compared with two
pounds in New York.

Bernie Silverstein's secretary, Judith Lampson, ushered him through to
the well-appointed office of the chief executive.  Silverstein sat in a
large black swivel chair behind a massive desk, which made him look
like a midget.  By his side were positioned the telephones--three white
and one red.  David was later to learn that the important-looking red
telephone was directly connected to a number in the States, but he was
never quite sure to whom.

"Good morning, Mr.  Silverstein.  Where would you like me to start?"
"Bernie, please call me Bernie.  Take a seat."  He pushed a telex
across the table.  "Read that.  They have just finished drilling in the
North Sea.  I want you to go to Aberdeen and write a full report on it.
Try and find out what the other companies are up to while you are
there.  You should find that course you did with the government very
useful.  I'm sorry to send you away when you have only just arrived in
London, before you have even had a chance to settle in."  "I don't
mind," replied David.  "Happy to get on with it."  He left
Silverstein's office and spent the rest of the day with his new
secretary, Rosemary Rentoul (whom he shared with Richard Elliott),
arranging his trip to Aberdeen and collecting some necessary background
material.

David flew by Trident to Aberdeen the next morning, booked in at the
Royal Hotel and then made contact with Mark Stewart, the Discovery Oil
man on site.  During the next ten days, he gathered all the information
that Silverstein had asked for, both from Discovery Oil and the other
companies involved in the area.  Discovery Oil had only a few
employees, and hardly any of them seemed to know in much detail what
the company was up to.  Mark Stewart explained that almost everybody
was on contract work, and they only needed a large work force when they
were involved in an actual drilling operation.

During David's stay in Aberdeen, they took a helicopter out to the rig,
which was equally deserted.  The grey waves lapped round it and the
bitter wind blew through it.  It seemed eerie to David, as if it had
rarely been occupied or used.  There was, however, a heavy smell of
sulphur and hydrocarbons in the air.  David liked that: he remembered
how they told them at the government course that when a strike had been
made the smell was worse than a garbage dump.  When he arrived in the
London office on the following Monday morning armed with his report, he
immediately took it to Silverstein.  David had spent considerable time
and trouble compiling an efficient brief for his new boss, was rather
pleased with the results and expected some appreciation.  But
Silverstein seemed to have other things on his mind, and invited David
to lunch with him at Le Poulbot.  It was there that David discovered
what was preoccupying him.  When they had settled at their table
downstairs in the Cheapside restaurant, Silverstein ventured, "Notice
the change in the price of the shares?"

"Oh yes," enthused David, "up fifty cents to nearly six dollars.  I
suppose it is because of our new bank backing and the other companies'
successful strikes?"  "No," said Silverstein in a low tone designed to
leave the impression that no one else must hear this part of the
conversation.  "The truth is that we have made a big strike ourselves,
but we have not yet decided when to announce it."  David whistled under
his breath: no wonder they were playing it so cool in Scotland.  No
wonder the air on the Discovery Oil rig was redolent with sulphur.
"What are the company's plans at the moment?"

"We will announce it," said Silverstein quietly, picking at his bread
roll as he talked, "in about three weeks' time, when we are certain of
the full extent and capacity of the hole.  We want to make some plans
for coping with the publicity and the sudden inflow of money.  The
shares will go through the roof, of course."  "Some people must already
know as the shares have climbed so steadily.  Is there any harm in
getting in on the act?"  asked David.

"No, as long as it doesn't harm the company in any way.  Just let me
know if anyone wants to invest.  We don't have the problems of inside
information in England--none of the restrictive laws we have in
America."  Back in the office, David carefully read the geologist's
report that Silverstein had given him: it certainly seemed as if
Discovery Oil had made a successful strike, although the extent of the
find was not as yet entirely certain.  When he had completed the
report, he glanced at his watch and cursed.  The geologist's file had
totally preoccupied him and now he feared he was going to be late for
his dinner in Oxford that night with an old classmate from Harvard.  He
threw the report into his brief case and took a taxi to Paddington
Station, only just making the six-fifteen.

On the train down to the university city he thought about Stephen
Bradley, who had been a close friend in his Harvard days and had helped
so many students, like David, in the mathematics class that year.
Stephen was now a visiting Fellow at Magdalen College and was
undoubtedly the most brilliant scholar of his generation.  He had won
the Kennedy Memorial Scholarship to Harvard and later, in 1970, the
Wister Prize for Mathematics, the most sought-after award in the
mathematical faculty.  Although in monetary terms this award was a
derisory eighty dollars and a medal, it was the reputation and offers
that came after that made the competition so keen.  Stephen had won it
with consummate ease and nobody was surprised when he was successful in
his application for a fellowship at Oxford.  He was now in his third
year at Magdalen.  Papers by Bradley on Boolean algebra appeared at
short intervals in the Proceedings of the London Mathematical Society.
He was prodigiously clever, and had just been appointed to a chair in
mathematics back at his alma mater, Harvard.

David was very fond of his brilliant friend and looked forward to
seeing Stephen again, to catch up with his latest work and successes,
although he realised he would have to prise the information out of him.
So often it is the truly brilliant who have a tendency to remain silent
because they know too much rather than too little.

The six-fifteen from Paddington arrived in Oxford at seven-fifteen, and
the short taxi ride from the station, past Worcester College and down
New College Lane, brought David to Magdalen at seven-thirty.  He was
sorry that the dark evening prevented him seeing more clearly the
magnificence of the individual colleges, which, in a group, make up the
university.

One of the college porters escorted David to Stephen's rooms, which
were spacious and ancient, and comfortably cluttered with books,
cushions and prints.  How unlike the antiseptic walls of Harvard,
thought David.  Stephen was there to greet him.  He didn't seem to have
changed an iota.  His tall, thin, ungainly body made any suit look as
if it was hanging on him; no tailor would ever have employed him to be
a dummy.  His heavy eyebrows protruded over his out-of-date
round-rimmed spectacles, which he almost seemed to hide behind in his
shyness.  He ambled up to David to welcome him, one minute an old man,
the next younger than his thirty years.  Stephen poured David a Jack
Daniels and they settled down to chat.  Although Stephen had never
looked upon David as a real friend at Harvard, he had enjoyed coaching
a fellow student so eager to learn and anyway, he always welcomed any
excuse to entertain Americans at Oxford.  "It has been a memorable
three years, David.  The only sad event has been the death of my father
last year," said Stephen.  "He took such an interest in my progress and
gave my academic work so much support.  I do miss him.  "He's left me
rather well off, actually ... David, you're the bright boy in business.
Whatever can I do with a bequest of $250,000, which is just sitting on
deposit with the bank?  I never seem to have the time to do anything
about it, and when it comes to investments I haven't a clue where to
begin."  That started David off about his exacting new job with
Discovery "Why don't you invest your money in my company, Stephen?
We've had a fantastic strike in the North Sea, and when we announce it
the shares are going to go through the roof.  The whole operation would
only take a month or so.  You will make the killing of a lifetime.  I
only wish I had money to put into it."  "Have you the full details of
the strike?"  enquired Stephen.  "No, but I have the geologist's
report, and that makes pretty good reading.  The problem is that the
shares are already going up fast and although I am convinced they will
reach twenty dollars, there is little time to waste."  Stephen glanced
at the geologist's report, thinking he would study it carefully
later.

"How does one go about an investment of this sort?"  he enquired.
"Well, you find yourself a respectable stockbroker, buy as many shares
as you can afford and then await the announcement of the strike.  I'll
keep you informed on how things are going and advise you when I feel
it's the best time to sell."  "That would be extremely thoughtful of
you, David."

"It's the least I can do after all the help you gave me with math at
Harvard."  "Oh, that was nothing.  Let's go and have some dinner."

Stephen led David to the college dining hall, an oblong, oak-panelled
room covered in pictures of past presidents of Magdalen, bishops and
academics.  The long wooden tables on which the undergraduates were
eating filled the body of the hall, but Stephen shuffled up to the High
Table and proffered David a comfortable seat.  The undergraduates were
a noisy, enthusiastic bunch--Stephen didn't notice them though David
was enjoying the new experience.  The meal was formidable and David
wondered how Stephen kept so thin with such daily temptations (seven
courses are not unusual at Magdalen High Table).  When they reached the
port Stephen suggested they return to his rooms rather than join the
crusty old dons in the Senior Common Room.

Late into the night, over the rubicund Magdalen port, they talked about
North Sea oil and Boolean algebra, each admiring the other for the
mastery of his subject.  Stephen, like most academics, was fairly
credulous outside the bounds of his own discipline.  He began to think
that an investment in Discovery Oil would be a very astute move on his
part.

In the morning, they strolled in the famous Addison's walk near
Magdalen, where the grass grows green and lush by the Cherwell.
Reluctantly, David caught the 11 A.M. train back to London.  He had
enjoyed his stay at Oxford and hoped he had been able to help his old
Harvard friend, who in the past had done so much for him.

"Good morning, David."

"Good morning, Bernie."

"I thought I ought to let you know I spent the evening with a friend at
Oxford, and he may invest some money in the company.  The sum could be
as high as $250,000."

"Well done, keep up the good work.  You're doing a great job, David."
Silverstein showed no surprise at David's news, but once back in his
office he picked up the red telephone.

"Harvey?"

"Yes."

"Kesler seems to have been the right choice.  He may have talked a
friend of his to invest $250,000 in the company."

"Good, now listen, brief my broker to put forty thousand shares on the
market at just over six dollars a share.  If Kesler's friend does
decide to invest in the company, mine will be the only shares
available."

After a further day's thought, Stephen noticed that the shares of
Discovery Oil had moved from $5.75 to $6.05 and decided the time had
come to invest in what he was now convinced was a winner.  He trusted
David, and had been impressed by the geologist's report.  He rang
Kitcat & Aitken, a distinguished firm of stockbrokers in the City of
London, and instructed them to buy $250,000 worth of shares in
Discovery Oil.  Harvey Metcalfe's broker released 40,000 shares when
Stephen's request came onto the floor of the market and the transaction
was quickly completed.  Stephen's purchase price of $6.10 included the
dollar premium.

Stephen had invested everything he had and over the next few days he
happily watched the shares climb to seven dollars, even before the
expected announcement.  Though Stephen didn't realise it, it was his
own investment that had caused the shares to rise.  He began to wonder
what he would spend his profit on even before he had made it.  He
decided he would not sell immediately, but hold on, as David thought
these shares would reach twenty dollars.  At the same time, Harvey
Metcalfe began to release a few more shares onto the market, because of
the interest created by Stephen's investment.  He was beginning to
agree with Silverstein that the choice of David Kesler, young, honest,
with all the enthusiasm of a man in his first appointment, had been a
good one.  It was not the first time Harvey had used this ploy, keeping
himself well away from the action and placing the responsibility on
innocent shoulders.  Meanwhile Richard Elliott, acting as the company
spokesman, leaked stories to the press about large buyers coming into
the market, which in itself occasioned a flood of small investors.

One lesson a man learns in the Harvard Business School is that an
executive is only as good as his health.  David didn't feel happy
without a regular medical checkup: he rather enjoyed being told he was
in good shape, but perhaps should take things a little easier.  Miss
Rentoul had therefore made an appointment for him with a Harley Street
doctor.

Dr.  Adrian Tryner was a very successful man.  Although thirty-seven,
he was tall and handsome, with a head of dark hair that looked as if it
would never go bald.  He had a classic strong face and a self assurance
that came from proven success.  He still played squash twice a week,
which made him look enviably younger than his contemporaries.  He had
remained fit since his Cambridge days, which had equipped him with a
Rugby Blue and an upper second-class degree.  He had completed his
medical training at St.  Thomas's, where once again his rugby football
rather than his medical skill brought him into prominence.  When he
qualified, he went to work as an assistant to a highly successful
Harley Street practitioner, Dr.  Eugene Moffat.  Dr.  Moffat was
successful not so much in curing the sick as in charming his patients,
especially middle-aged women, who came to see him again and again
however little was wrong with them.  At fifty guineas a time that had
to be regarded as success.

Moffat had chosen Adrian Tryner as his assistant for exactly the
qualities he had himself, which made him so sought after.  Adrian
Tryner was good-looking, personable, well educated and just clever
enough.  He settled in very well to Harley Street and the Moffat
system, and when the older man died suddenly in his early sixties, he
took over his mantle much as a crown prince would take over a throne.
He continued to build up the practice, losing none of Moffat's ladies,
except by natural causes, and by the age of thirty-seven had done
remarkably well for himself.  He had a comfortable country house just
outside Newbury in Berkshire, a wife and two sons, and considerable
savings in blue-chip securities.  He wasn't complaining at his good
fortune and he enjoyed his lifestyle, but he was a bored man.
Occasionally he found the bland role of a sympathetic doctor almost
intolerably cloying.  How would it be if he admitted that he neither
knew nor cared just what was causing the minute patches of dermatitis
on Lady Fiona Fisher's diamond-studded hands?  Would the heavens
descend if he told the dreaded Mrs.  Page-Stanley that she was a
malodorous old woman in need of nothing more medically taxing than a
new set of dentures?  And would he be struck off the list of the
General Medical Council if he personally administered to the nubile
Miss Lydia de Villiers a good dose of what she so clearly indicated
that she wanted?

David Kesler arrived on time for his appointment.  He had been warned
by Miss Rentoul that doctors and dentists cancel if you are late and
still charge you.  David stripped and lay on Adrian Tryner's couch. The
doctor took his blood pressure, listened to his heart, and made him put
out his tongue (an organ that seldom stands up well to public
scrutiny).  As he tapped and poked his way over David's body, they
chatted.

"What brings you to work in London, Mr.  Kesler?"

"I'm with an oil company in the City.  I expect you've heard of
us--Discovery Oil?"

"No," said Adrian.  "Can't say I have.  Bend your legs up, please."  He
hit David's kneecaps smartly, one after the other, with a patella
hammer.  The legs jumped wildly.

"Nothing wrong with those reflexes."

"You will, Dr.  Tryner, you will.  Things are going very well for us.
Look out for our name in the papers."

"Why," said Adrian, smiling, "struck oil have you?"

"Yes," said David quietly, pleased with the impression he was creating,
"we have done just that, as a matter of fact."

Adrian prodded David's abdomen for a few seconds.  Good muscular wall,
no fat, no sign of an enlarged liver.  The young American was in good
physical shape.  Adrian left him in the examination room to get dressed
and thoughtfully wrote out a brief report on Kesler for his records. An
oil strike.  Should he dig a little deeper?

Harley Street doctors, although they routinely keep private patients
waiting for three quarters of an hour in a gas-fired waiting room
equipped with one out-of-date copy of Punch, never let them feel rushed
once they are in the consulting room.  Adrian certainly didn't want to
rush David.  "There is very little wrong with you, Mr.  Kesler.  Some
signs of anaemia, which I suspect are caused by overwork and your
recent rushing about.  I am going to give you some iron tablets, which
should take care of that.  Take two a day, morning and night."  He
scribbled an illegible prescription for tablets, and handed it to
David.

"Many thanks.  It is kind of you to give me so much of your time." "Not
at all.  How do you like London?"  said Adrian.  "Very different from
America, I expect."

"Sure--the pace is much slower.  Once I have mastered how long it takes
to get something done here I will be halfway to victory."

"Do you have any friends in London?"

"No," replied David, "I have one or two buddies at Oxford from my
Harvard days, but I have not yet made contact with many people in
London."  Good, thought Adrian, here was a chance for him to find out a
bit more about this oil and to spend some time with someone who made
most of his patients look as if they had both feet in the grave.  It
might even shake him out of his present lethargy.  He continued, "Would
you care to join me for lunch later in the week?  You might like to see
one of our antique London clubs."  "How very kind of you."

"Excellent.  Will Friday suit you?"

"It certainly will."

"Then make it one o'clock at the Athenaeum Club in Pall Mall."  David
returned to his City desk, picking up his tablets on the way.  He took
one immediately for luck.  He was beginning to enjoy his stay in
London.  Silverstein seemed pleased with him, Discovery Oil was doing
well and he was already meeting some interesting people.  Yes, he felt
this was going to be a very happy period in his life.

He arrived at the Athenaeum on Friday at twelve forty-five, a massive
white building on the corner of Pall Mall, overlooked by a statue of
the Duke of Wellington.  David was amazed by the vast rooms and his
commercial mind could not help wondering what price they might fetch as
office space.  The place seemed to be full of moving waxworks, who
Adrian later assured him were distinguished generals and diplomats.

They lunched in the Coffee Room, dominated by a Rubens of Charles I,
and Adrian told David the famous Athenaeum story about the man who
walked into the club from the street and asked the head porter if he
could cash a cheque: "Are you a member of this club, sir?"  asked the
porter.  "No," said the visitor.  "Certainly, sir," was the reply.

Over coffee in the Members' Room, David readily told Adrian the details
of the geologist's findings on the Discovery Oil site.  The shares were
now at $7.15 on the Montreal Stock Exchange and were still going up.

"Sounds like a good investment," said Adrian, "and as it's your own
company, it might be worth a risk."

"I don't think there is much risk," said David, "as long as the oil is
actually there."

"Well, I will certainly consider it most seriously over the weekend."
They parted after lunch, David to a conference on the Energy Crisis
organised by the Financial Times, Adrian to his home in Berkshire.  His
two young sons were back from prep school for the weekend and he was
looking forward to seeing them again.  How quickly they had passed from
babies to toddlers to boys, and how reassuring to know their future was
secure.

One of the first calls David received on the Monday morning was from
Adrian.  "Did you read the article on "The North Sea Oil Boom' in The
Observer this weekend?"

"Yes," replied David, "I certainly did.  Closely."

"It did rather indicate that the smaller companies might head the field
in the search for oil.  After all, when the British government
allocated the sections of the North Sea they were bound to do it
totally indiscriminately, as they were not to know where the oil was
themselves."

"That's right," said David, "and I believe we are one of the lucky
ones.  The North Sea is going to do Britain a lot of good and I think
you would do well to invest in us."

"Yes," said Adrian.  "Well, I think it would be a fairly substantial
investment, but I will be pulling out long before they reach twenty
dollars.  No need to be greedy."

"Yes, I'm sure that's wise.  You must come and have lunch with me some
time."  "A very nice idea.  Keep in touch."

Bernie Silverstein was pleased to hear of the possibility of a further
investment.

"Congratulations, my boy.  We are going to need a lot of capital to
finance our pipe-laying operations, you know.  Pipe-laying can cost two
million dollars per mile.  Still, you are playing your part.  I have
just had word from the head office that we are to give you a five
thousand dollar bonus for your efforts.  Keep up the good work."

David smiled.  This was business in the proper Harvard way.  If you do
the work, you get the rewards.  No messing about.

"When is the announcement on the strike being made?"  he asked.  "Some
time in the next few days."

David left Silverstein's office with a glow of pride.

Silverstein immediately contacted Harvey Metcalfe, who set the routine
in motion again.  Metcalfe's brokers released onto the market 35,000
shares at $7.23 and approximately 5,000 each day onto the Open market,
always being able to feel when the market had taken enough so that the
price remained steady.  Once again, the shares climbed, because of Dr.
Tryner's substantial investment, this time to $7.40, keeping David,
Adrian and Stephen all happy.  They did not know that Harvey was
releasing more shares each day because of the interest they had caused,
which had created a market of its own.

David decided to spend some of his bonus on a painting for his little
flat in the Barbican, which he felt was rather grey.  About $2,000, he
thought, something that was going to appreciate.  David quite enjoyed
art for art's sake, but he liked it even better for business' sake.  He
spent the Friday afternoon tramping round Bond Street, Cork Street and
Bruton Street, the home of the London art galleries.  The Wildenstein
was too expensive for his pocket and the Marlborough too modern for his
taste.  The painting he finally picked out was at the Lamanns Gallery
in New Bond Street.

The gallery, just three doors away from Sotheby's, consisted of one
vast room with a worn grey carpet and red faded wallpaper.  The more
worn the carpet and the more faded the walls, the greater the success
and reputation of the gallery (or at least that is the theory).  There
was a staircase at the far end of the room, against which some un
regarded paintings were stacked, backs to the world.  David sorted
through them on a whim and found, to his surprise, the sort of painting
he was after.  It was an oil by Leon Underwood called "Venus in the
Park."  The large, rather sombre canvas contained about six men and
women sitting on metal chairs at circular tea tables.  Among them, in
the foreground, was a naked comely woman with generous breasts and long
hair.  Nobody was paying her the slightest attention and she sat gazing
out of the picture, face inscrutable, a symbol of warmth and love in
indifferent surroundings.  David found her utterly compelling.

The gallery proprietor, Jean Pierre Lamanns, wore an elegantly tailored
suit as befitted a man who rarely received cheques for less than a
thousand pounds.  At thirty-five, he could afford the little
extravagances of life and his Gucci shoes, Yves St.  Laurent tie,
Turnbull and Asser shirt and Piaget watch left no one in any doubt,
especially women, that he knew what he was about.  He was an
Englishman's vision of a Frenchman, slim and neat with longish dark,
wavy hair and deep brown eyes that hinted at being a little sharp.  He
could be pernickety and demanding, with a wit that was often as cruel
as it was amusing, which may have been one of the reasons he was still
a bachelor.  There certainly had not been any shortage of applicants.
When it came to customers only his charm was on display.  As David
wrote out his cheque, he rubbed his forefinger gently backwards and
forwards over his fashionable moustache, only too happy to discuss the
picture.

"Underwood is one of the greatest sculptors and artists in England
today.  He even tutored Henry Moore, you know.  I believe he is
underestimated because of his treatment of journalists and the press,
whom he will describe as drunken scribblers."

"Hardly the way to endear himself to the media," murmured David as he
handed over the cheque for 850, feeling agreeably prosperous.  Although
it was the most expensive purchase he had ever made, he felt it had
been a good investment and, more important, he liked the painting.

Jean Pierre took David downstairs to show him the Impressionist and
Modern collection he had built up over many years, and continued to
enthuse about Underwood.  They celebrated David's acquisition over a
whisky in Jean Pierre's office.

"I would like to see more of Underwood's work, Mr.  Lamanns."  "Then I
can only recommend you to travel down to his Brook Green studio to see
his workshop.  I'll go with you, if you like.  I haven't seen him for
some time."  "I would enjoy that immensely," said David.  He was
impressed by the Frenchman's depth of knowledge on art.  David always
admired experts.  They fixed their pilgrimage to Underwood for the
weekend.

On Saturday David travelled by car to Brook Green from the City, and
managed to get lost twice in Chiswick.  He wondered if he would ever
understand how the London road system worked.  When he eventually
arrived, Jean Pierre was standing on the pavement waiting for him and
took him straight in to see the great man, who was now very old and
going blind.  But his immense enthusiasm and skill came out with
everything he said.  His studio in the basement was covered in
paintings and sculptures.  In that room was fifty years of work, and
David spent two hours wishing he could afford it all.

He eventually ended up by buying a small maquette called "The Juggler"
and inviting them both for lunch.

"I rarely leave the house nowadays," said Leon Underwood, "but if you
would ever like to come and see me again, or bring a friend, you will
always be welcome at any time."  He bowed them gently out of the house
and pottered back to his unfinished canvas.  He picked up his brush and
thought a little sadly of his beautiful naked Venus on the wall of the
brisk young American.  David was not really sure where to take Jean
Pierre for lunch, and he made a bolt for the new Hilton in Shepherd's
Bush.  Like so many Americans in a strange city, he knew that not too
much could go wrong at a Hilton.  It was all so reassuringly like home.
Conrad Hilton must have made millions playing on this particular
characteristic in his countrymen.

Over lunch Jean Pierre told David in more detail how he had built up
his business over the past fifteen years from a small gallery into its
present size with quite an impressive stock of minor Impressionists.

"But," he continued, "one day I hope that my gallery will be as
respected as Agnew's or Tooth's."

"I'm sure it will," said David.  "There is so little enterprise or hard
work going on in this country, anyone with your sort of initiative will
undoubtedly succeed, but what made you leave France?"

"Ah, a fair question.  Let's just say that I nearly married the
daughter of the chairman of the Bernheim Jeune.  Also there are enough
Frenchmen trying to set up art galleries in Paris.  But that's enough
of me."  (Not that Jean Pierre ever really felt there was enough of
him.) "What line of business are you in?"  "I work with a small oil
company called Discovery Oil, who are exploring prospects in the North
Sea."

"Had any success?"  enquired Jean Pierre.

"Well, confidentially, we are rather excited about the future.  It is
no secret that the company shares have gone from three to seven dollars
in the last few weeks, but no one knows the real reason."

"Would it be a good investment for a little art dealer like myself?"
asked Jean Pierre.

"I'll tell you how good an investment I think it is," said David.  "I
am investing three thousand dollars in the company on Monday, which is
all I have in the world--now that I have captured Venus, that is.  We
are shortly to make a rather special announcement."

A twinkle came into Jean Pierre's eye.  A nod was as good as a wink to
one of his Gallic subtlety.  He did not pursue the line any longer.

The rest of the meal was spent in discussing their mutual interest,
sports.  They were so engrossed in their conversation, they didn't
notice the waiter hovering anxiously to clear their table; he wanted
some time off that afternoon.  Finally, they parted, both surprised
that it was nearly four o'clock.

"When is the strike going to be announced, Bernie?"

"We expect it to be early next week.  We've had a few problems. Nothing
we can't lick though."

That gave David some relief, as he had taken up 500 shares himself that
morning, investing the remaining $3,625 from his bonus.  Like the
others, he was hoping for a quick profit.

"Rowe Rudd."

"Frank Watts, please.  Jean Pierre Lamanns."

"Good morning, Jean Pierre.  What can we do for you?"

"I want to buy twenty-five thousand Discovery Oil."

"Never heard of them.  Hold on a minute ... Canadian company, very low
capital.  A bit risky, J.P. I wouldn't recommend it."

"It's all right, Frank, I only want them for two or three weeks; then
you can sell them.  I'm not going to hold on to them.  When did the
account start?"  "Yesterday."

"Right.  Buy them today and sell them by the end of the account, or
earlier.  I'm expecting an announcement next week, so when they go over
ten dollars you can get rid of them.  I'm not trying to be clever, but
buy them in my share company name, as I don't want the deal traced back
to me--it might embarrass the informant."

"Right, sir.  Buy twenty-five thousand Discovery Oil and sell during
the last few days of the account, or sooner if instructed."

"I will be in Paris all next week, so don't forget to sell if they go
over ten dollars."

"Right, J.P."  have a good trip."

The red telephone rang.

"Rowe Rudd are looking for shares.  Do you know anything about it?"
"No, Harvey.  It must be David Kesler again.  Do you want me to speak
to him?"  "No, say nothing.  I have released twenty-five thousand
shares at $7.80.  Kesler's only got to do one more big one and I'll be
out.  Prepare our plan for a week before the end of this account."

"Right, boss.  Quite a few people are also buying small amounts." "Yes,
just as before, they all have to tell their friends they're on to a
good thing.  Say nothing to Kesler."

"You know, David," said Richard Elliott, "you work too hard.  Relax.
We're going to be busy once the announcement's made."

"I guess so," said David.  "Work's just a habit with me now."  "Well,
take tonight off.  How about a spot of something at Annabel's?"  David
was flattered by the invitation to London's most exclusive nightclub
and accepted enthusiastically.

David's hired Ford Cortina looked out of place that evening in Berkeley
Square with so many Rolls Royces and Mercedeses double parked.  He made
his way down the little iron staircase into the basement, which must
have at one time been no more than the servants' quarters of the
elegant town house above.  Now it was a splendid club, with a
restaurant, discotheque and a small plush bar, the walls covered in
prints and pictures.  The main dining room was dimly lit and crowded
with small tables, most already occupied.  The decor was Regency and
extravagant.  Mark Birley, the owner, had in the short period of ten
years made Annabel's the most sought-after club in London with a
waiting list for membership of over a thousand.  The discotheque was
playing in the far corner, and the dance floor, on which you couldn't
have parked two Cadillacs, was crowded.  Most of the couples were
dancing very close to each other--they didn't have much choice.  David
was somewhat surprised to notice that most of the men on the floor were
about twenty years older than the girls.  The headwaiter, Louis, showed
David to Richard Elliott's table, realising it was David's first visit
to the club by the way he was staring at all the personalities of the
day.  Oh well, thought David, perhaps one day they will stare at me.

After an exceptional dinner Richard Elliott and his wife joined the
masses on the dance floor while David returned to the little bar
surrounded by comfortable red settees.  He struck up a conversation
with someone who introduced himself as James Brigsley.  Even if he did
not treat the whole world as such, certainly he treated Annabel's as a
stage.  Tall, blond and cool, his eyes were alight with good humour and
he seemed at ease with everyone around him.  David admired his socially
assured manner, something he had never acquired and feared he never
would.  His accent, even to David's unskilled ears, was resonantly
upper class.  David's new acquaintance talked of his visits to the
States, flattering him by remarking how much he had always liked the
Americans.  After some time, David was able quietly to ask the
headwaiter who the Englishman was.  "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 have 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 stupidity.  The name's James.  What are you
doing in London?"

"I work for an oil company.  You probably know my chairman, Lord
Hunnisett.  I have never met him myself, to tell you the truth."

"Sweet old buffer," said James.  "His son and I were at Harrow
together.  If you are in oil, you can tell me what to do with my Shell
and BP shares?"  "Hold onto them," said David.  "It's going to be very
safe to be in any commodities, especially oil as long as the British
government don't get greedy and try and take control of it
themselves."

Another double whisky arrived.  David was beginning to feel just
slightly tipsy.  "What about your own company?"  enquired James.

"We're only small," said David, "but our shares have gone up more than
any other oil company in the last three months, though I suspect they
have nowhere near reached their zenith."

"Why?"  demanded James.

David glanced round and lowered his voice to a confidential whisper.
"Well, I expect you realise 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 have made a strike?"

"Perhaps I shouldn't have said that," said David.  "I would be obliged
if you will treat that remark in confidence."

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

"I am sorry, Bernie, I overslept after a little celebration 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
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 needed
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 interest had been acting, but when he had left
school, his father would not 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 his
degree in politics, philosophy and economics.  In fact he had never
mentioned to anyone since leaving Oxford the class of degree he managed
to secure.  (The fourth class Honours degree, for which James was such
a natural, has since been abolished.) From Oxford he joined the
Grenadier Guards, which gave him considerable scope for his histrionic
talents.  This had been James's first introduction to society life in
London, and he succeeded as well as a personable 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
500-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 concentrated on his social life in London.  He would dearly
have liked to go on the stage, but he knew the old man thought Mrs.
Worthington's daughter's ambition an improper pursuit for a peer of the
realm.  The fifth Earl didn't think much of his eldest son, one way and
the other, 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 would provide him with the
opportunity.  In Williams & Glyn's fine old building in Birchin Lane,
James was shown into the bank 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 also his father.
Although he had respect for the earl's judgement, 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
father was one of the longest-standing customers the bank had.

"Yes, my lord, how much do you have in mind?"

"Well, it seems that farmland in Hampshire is worth about a thousand
pounds an acre and is still climbing.  Why don't we say one hundred and
fifty thousand pounds?  I should like to invest it in shares."

"Will you agree to leave the shares in the bank as security?"  enquired
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
at two per cent above base rate."

James was not at all sure of the going rate, but he realised that
Williams & Glyn's were as competitive as everyone else, and that their
reputation was beyond discussion.

"And will you acquire for me thirty-five thousand shares in a company
called Discovery Oil."

"Have you checked carefully into this company?"  enquired 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
Silverstein of the meeting in Annabel's between David Kesler and a
nameless contact who appeared to have more money than sense.  Harvey
released 40,000 shares onto the market at $8.80.  Williams & Glyn's
took up 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, and over the next four days he was able
to dispose of them all.  It had taken fourteen weeks to off load his
entire stock in Discovery Oil at a profit of just over $6 million.

On the Friday morning, the shares stood at $9.10 and Kesler had, in all
innocence, occasioned four large investments: Stephen Bradley had
bought 40,000 shares at $6.10.  Dr.  Adrian Tryner 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.  Between them they had
purchased 135,500 shares at an investment of just over $1 million. They
had also kept the interest alive by their investment, giving Harvey the
chance to off load all his shares in a natural market. Harvey Metcalfe
had done it again.  His name was not on the letter paper and now he
owned no shares.  Nobody was going to be able to fix any blame on him. 
He had done nothing illegal; even the geologist's report had enough ifs
and buts to get by a court of law.  As for David Kesler, Harvey could
not be blamed for his youthful enthusiasm.  He had never even met the
man.  Harvey Metcalfe opened a bottle of Krug 1964, imported by Hedges
& Butler of London.  He sipped it slowly and lit a Romeo y Julieta
Churchill.  Harvey settled back for a mild celebration. David, Stephen,
Adrian, Jean Pierre and James celebrated the weekend as well.  Why not?
The shares were at $9.10 and David had assured them they would reach
$20.  On Saturday morning, David ordered himself a custom-made suit
from Aquascutum, Stephen tut-tutted his way through the end-of-vacation
examination papers he had set his freshman pupils, Adrian went to his
sons' prep school to watch them taking part in their school Sports Day,
Jean Pierre reframed a Renoir and James Brigsley went shooting,
convinced at last he had one in the eye for his father.

Chapter 3

David arrived at the office at nine o'clock on the Monday morning to
find the front door locked, which he could not understand.  The
secretaries were supposed to be in by eight forty-five.

After waiting for over an hour, he went to the nearest telephone box
and dialled Bernie Silverstein's home number.  There was no reply.  He
then rang Richard Elliott at home--again, no reply.  He rang the
Aberdeen office.  As before, no reply.  He decided to return to the
office.  There must be some simple explanation, he thought.  Was he
daydreaming or was it Sunday?  No--the streets were jammed with people
and cars.

When he arrived at the office for a second time a young man was putting
up a board.

2,500 sq.  ft.  to let.  Apply Conrad Ritblat.

"What in hell's name are you up to?"

"The old tenants have given notice and left.  We shall be looking for
new ones.  Are you interested in seeing over the property?"

"No," said David, "no thank you," backing away in panic.  He raced down
the street, sweat beginning to show on his forehead, praying that the
telephone box would be empty.

He looked up Bernie Silverstein's secretary, Judith Lampson, in the
directory.  This time there was a reply.

"Judith, in God's name what's going on here?"  His voice could have
left 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 beginning to dawn on him.
Who 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, E. C. 2.

Telephone 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 month's
payment of rent in advance.

We should be pleased if you would kindly leave the flat in the
condition in which you found it.

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 rang his stockbrokers.

"What price are Discovery Oil this morning?"

"They have fallen to $7.40," the broker replied.

"Why have they fallen?"

"I have no idea, but I will make enquiries and ring you back."  "Please
put five hundred shares on the market for me immediately."  "Five
hundred Discovery Oil at market price, yes, sir."

David put the phone down.  It rang a few minutes later.  It was his
broker.  "They have only made $7.25--exactly what you paid for them."
"Would you credit the sum to my account at Lloyd's Bank, Moorgate?" "Of
course, sir."

David did not leave the flat for the rest of the day and night.  He lay
chain-smoking on his bed, wondering what he was going 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 news on Discovery Oil?"  His voice was now tense
and weary.  "The news is bad, sir.  There has been a spate of heavy
selling under way and the shares have dropped to $5.90 on the opening
of business this morning."  "Thank you."

He replaced the receiver.  All those years at Harvard were going to be
blown away in a puff of smoke.  An hour passed, but he did not notice
it.  Disaster had stepped in and made everything timeless.

He ate lunch in an insignificant restaurant and read a disturbing
report in the London Evening Standard by its City editor, David
Malbert, headlined "The Mystery of Discovery Oil."  By the close of the
Stock Exchange at four o'clock, the shares had fallen to $3.15.

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

On Wednesday morning David, dreading what he knew he must hear, once
again rang the broker.  The shares had fallen to two dollars and there
was no market.  He left the flat and went to Lloyd's Bank, where he
closed his account and drew out the remaining 1,345.  He was not sure
why.  He just felt he would rather have it with him than tied up in a
bank.  He had lost his faith in everything.  He picked up the final
edition of The Evening Standard (the one marked "7RR" in the right-hand
corner).  Discovery Oil had fallen to fifty cents.  Numbly, he returned
to his flat.  The housekeeper was on the stairs.

"The police have been round enquiring after you, young man."  David
climbed the stairs, trying to look unperturbed.

"Thank you, Mrs.  Pearson, I guess it's another parking fine."  Panic
had now taken over completely.  He packed everything in a suitcase,
except the painting, which he left, and booked the first flight back to
New York.  He had never felt so small, so lonely and so ill in his
life.

Chapter 4

Stephen Bradley was delivering a lecture on group theory at the
Mathematics Institute in Oxford to third-year undergraduates.  He had
read with horror that morning in The Daily Telegraph of the collapse of
Discovery Oil.  He had immediately rung his broker, who was still
trying to find out the full facts.  David Kesler seemed to have
vanished without trace.

The lecture Stephen was giving was not going well.  His mind was
preoccupied to say the least.  He only hoped that the undergraduates
would misconstrue his absent-mindedness for genius rather than
recognise it for what it was--total despair.  He was at least thankful
that it was his final lecture of the Hilary term.

At last it ended and he was able to return to his rooms in Magdalen
College, wondering where to start.  Why the hell did he put everything
into one basket?  How could he, the cool, calculating don, have been so
reckless and so greedy?  Mainly because he trusted David, and he still
found it hard to believe that his friend was in any way involved.
Perhaps he shouldn't have taken for granted someone he had helped at
Harvard would automatically be right.  Damn it all, he hadn't been a
brilliant mathematician.  There must be a simple explanation.  He must
be able to get his money back.  The telephone rang.  Perhaps it was his
broker at last?

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

"Stephen Bradley."

"Good morning, sir.  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 he had done something
criminal by his investment in Discovery Oil.

"Certainly, Inspector," he said uncertainly.  "Would you like me to
travel to London?"

"No, sir," replied the inspector.  "We will come down to you.  We'll be
with you at four o'clock."

"I'll expect you then.  Good-bye, Inspector."  Stephen replaced the
receiver.  What did 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.  Stephen was now
beginning to wonder if that would ever materialise.

It was an interminable wait until four o'clock and the knock on the
door made him jump.  The porter announced: "Mr.  Smith and Mr.  Ryder,
sir."  The detective inspector was about five feet eleven inches tall,
somewhere between forty-five and fifty.  His hair was turning grey at
the sides, but brilliantine toned it in with the original black.  He
was dressed in a shabby suit more indicative, Stephen thought, of a
policeman's pay than the inspector's personal choice.  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
behind the arrest of international defrauders.  He had a tired look
that had come from years of putting men behind bars for major crimes,
and seeing them freed again after only two or three years, living off
the spoils of their various shady transactions.  The force was so
understaffed that some of the smaller fry even got away scot free
because the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions had decided
it would be too expensive to follow the case through to a proper
conclusion.  On other occasions, the Fraud Squad just did not get the
backup staff to finish the job properly.  The detective inspector was
accompanied by Detective Sergeant Ryder, a considerably younger
man--six feet one inch, thin in body and face.  His large brown eyes
had a haunted look against his sallow skin.  He was at least dressed a
little better than the inspector, but then he probably wasn't married,
thought Stephen.

"I am 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 enquiries into a company called Discovery
Oil.  Now, before you say anything, sir, we realise that you had no
personal involvement in the running of this company.  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 you just giving
a general assessment."

Stephen nodded his agreement.

"First, sir, why did you invest such a large amount in Discovery Oil?"
The inspector had in front of him a sheet of paper with a list of all
the investments made in the company over the past four months.  "On the
advice of a friend," replied Stephen.

"Would the friend be a Mr.  David Kesler?"

"Yes."

"How do you know Mr.  Kesler?"

"We were students at Harvard together and when he took up his
appointment in England to work for an oil company I invited him down to
Oxford for old times' sake."

Stephen went on to explain the full background of his association with
David, and the reason he had been willing to invest such a large
amount.  He ended his explanation by asking if the inspector considered
David was criminally involved in the rise and fall of Discovery Oil.

"No, sir.  My own view is that Kesler, who incidentally has made a run
for it and left the country, is no more than a dupe of bigger men, but
we would like to question him, so if he contacts you, please let me
know immediately.  "Now, sir," he continued, "I'm going to read you a
list of names and I would be obliged if you could tell me whether you
have ever met, spoken to or heard of any of them ... Harvey
Metcalfe?"

"No," said Stephen.

"Bernie Silverstein?"

"I have never met or spoken to him, but David did mention his name in
conversation when he dined with me here in college."

The Detective Sergeant was writing down everything Stephen said, slowly
and methodically.

"Richard Elliott?"

"The same applies to him as Silverstein," murmured Stephen.  "Alvin
Cooper?"

"No," said Stephen.

"Have you had any contact with anyone else who invested in this
company?"  "No," said Stephen.

For well over an hour the inspector quizzed Stephen on minor points,
but he was unable to give very much help, although he had kept a copy
of the geologist's report.

"Yes, we have one of those, sir," said the inspector, "but it's
carefully worded and we won't be able to rely much on that for
evidence."

"Evidence against whom or for what, Inspector?"  Stephen leaned
forward.  "It's clear to me that I have been taken for a great big
ride.  I probably don't need to tell you what a fool I have been.  I
put my shirt on Discovery Oil because it sounded like a surefire
winner.  Now I have lost everything I had and I don't know where to
turn.  What in heaven's name has been going on in Discovery Oil?"  He
offered the two men some whisky and poured himself a donnish dry
sherry.  "Well, sir," said the inspector, "you'll appreciate there are
aspects of the case I can't discuss with you.  Indeed, there are
aspects that aren't very clear to us yet.  However, the game is an old
one, and this time it has been played by an old pro, a very cunning old
pro.  It works like this: a company is set up or taken over by a bunch
of villains who acquire most of the shares.  They make up a good story
about a new find or product that will send the shares up, whisper it in
a few ears, release their own shares onto the market, where they are
snapped up by the likes of you, sir, at a good price.  Then they clear
off with the profit they have made and the shares collapse.  As often
as not, it ends in dealings in the company's shares being suspended on
the stock market, and finally in the compulsory liquidation of the
company.  That has not yet happened in this case, and may not.  The
Montreal Stock Exchange is only just recovering from the Aquablast
fiasco and they don't want another scandal.  I'm sorry to say, we can
hardly ever recover the money, even if we get the evidence to nail the
villains.  They have it all stashed away halfway round the world before
you can say Dow Jones Index."

Stephen groaned.  "My God, you make it all sound so appallingly simple,
Inspector.  The geologist's report was a fake then?"

"No, very impressively set up, with plenty of ifs and buts; and one
thing is for certain, the DPP's office is not going to spend millions
finding out if there is oil in their part of the North Sea."

Stephen buried his head in his hands and mentally cursed the day he met
David Kesler.

"Tell me, Inspector, who put Kesler up to this?  Who was the brains
behind the nest of sharks?"

The inspector realised only too well the terrible predicament Stephen
was in.  He had during his career faced many men in the same position,
and he was grateful for the co-operation Stephen had shown.

"I can answer any questions I feel cannot harm my own enquiry," said
the inspector.  "The man we would like to nail is Harvey Metcalfe."
"Who's Harvey Metcalfe, for God's sake?"

"He's a first-generation American who's had his hands in more dubious
deals in Boston than you've had hot dinners.  Made himself a
multi-millionaire and a lot of other people bankrupt on the way.  His
style is now so professional and predictable we can smell the man a
mile off.  It won't amuse you to learn he is a great benefactor of
Harvard--does it to ease his conscience, I wonder?  We have never been
able to pin anything on him in the past, and I doubt if we will be able
to this time either.  He was never a director of Discovery Oil.  He
only bought and sold shares on the open market, and he never, as far as
we know, even met David Kesler.  He hired Silverstein, Cooper and
Elliott to do the dirty work, and they found a bright young man all
freshly washed behind the ears to sell their story for them.  Just a
bit unlucky for you, sir, wasn't it, that the young man in question was
your friend, David Kesler?"

"Never mind him, poor sod," said Stephen.  "What about Harvey Metcalfe?
Is he going to get away with it again?"

"I fear so," said the inspector.  "We have warrants out for
Silverstein, Elliott and Cooper.  They all beat it for South America.
After the Ronald Biggs fiasco I doubt if we will ever get an
extradition order to bring them back, despite the fact the American and
Canadian police also have warrants out for them.  They were fairly
cunning too.  They closed the London office of Discovery Oil,
surrendered the lease and returned it to Conrad Ritblat, the estate
agents, gave notice to both secretaries with one month's pay in
advance.  They cleared the bill on the oil rig with Reading & Bates.
They paid off their hired hand, Mark Stewart, in Aberdeen, and took the
Sunday morning flight to Rio de Janeiro, where there was a million in a
private account waiting for them.  Harvey Metcalfe rewarded them well
and left David Kesler holding the baby."

"Clever boys," said Stephen.

"Oh yes," said the inspector, "it was a neat little operation.  Worthy
of the talents of Harvey Metcalfe."

"Are you trying to arrest David Kesler?"

"No, but as I said, we would like to question him.  He bought and sold
five hundred shares, but we think that was only because he believed in
the oil strike story himself.  In fact, if he was wise he would return
to England and help the police with their enquiries, but I fear the
poor man has panicked under pressure and made a bolt for it.  The
American police are keeping an eye out for him."  "One last question,"
said Stephen.  "Are there any other people who have made such fools of
themselves as I have?"

The inspector gave this question long consideration.  He had not had as
much success with the other big investors as he had had with Stephen.
They had all been evasive about their involvement with Kesler and
Discovery Oil.  Perhaps if he released their names it might bring them
out in some way.  The police have many ways of gaining information.

"Yes, sir, but ... please understand that you never heard about them
from me."  Stephen nodded.

"For your own interest you could find out what you want to know if you
made some thorough enquiries at the Stock Exchange.  There were four
main punters, of which you were one.  Between you, you lost
approximately one million dollars.  The others were a Harley Street
doctor, Adrian Tryner, a London art dealer called Jean Pierre Lamanns,
and a farmer, who I feel the sorriest of all for, really.  He mortgaged
his farm to put up the money, as far as I can gather.  Titled young
man: Viscount Brigsley.  Metcalfe's snatched the silver spoon out of
his mouth all right."

"No other big investors?"

"Yes, two or three banks burnt their fingers badly, but there were no
other private investors above $25,000.  What you, the banks and the
other big investors did was to keep the market going long enough for
Metcalfe to off load his entire holding."

"I know, and I was foolish enough to advise friends to invest in the
company as well."

"Uhm, there are two or three small investors from Oxford," said the
inspector, looking down at the sheet of paper in front of him, "but
don't worry, sir, we won't be approaching them.  Well, that seems to be
all.  It only leaves me to thank you for your co-operation and say we
may be in touch again sometime in the future, but in any case, we will
keep you informed of developments, and hope you will do the same for
us."

"Of course, Inspector.  I do hope you have a safe journey back to
town."  The two policemen downed their drinks and left to catch their
train to London.  Stephen was not sure if it was sitting in his
armchair looking out at the cloisters, or later in bed that night, that
he decided to employ his academic mind to carry out a little research
on Harvey Metcalfe and his fellow dupes.  His grandfather's advice to
him, when as a small child he could seldom win their nightly game of
chess, floated through his mind: Stevie, don't get cross, get even.
When he finally fell asleep at three o'clock, that was his plan.  He
was pleased he had given his final lecture and finished work for the
term, and he slept soundly, almost relieved by knowing the truth.

Chapter 5

Stephen awoke at about 5:30 A.M. He seemed to have been heavily,
dreamlessly asleep, but as soon as he came to, his nightmare started
again.  He forced himself to use his mind constructively, to put the
past firmly behind him and see what he could do about the future.  He
washed, shaved, dressed and missed college breakfast, pedalling to
Oxford station on his ancient bicycle, the preferred mode of
transportation in a city blocked solid with juggernaut lorries in
one-way systems.  He left Ethelred the Unsteady padlocked to the
station railings.  There were as many bicycles standing in the ranks as
there are cars in any other station in England.

He caught the eight-seventeen, so favoured by those who commute from
Oxford to London every day.  All the people having breakfast seemed to
know each other and Stephen felt like an uninvited guest at someone
else's party.  The ticket collector bustled through the buffet car, and
clipped Stephen's first-class ticket.  The man opposite Stephen
produced a second-class ticket from behind his copy of the Financial
Times.  The collector clipped it grudgingly.  "Have to go back to a
second-class compartment when you've finished your breakfast, sir.  The
restaurant car is first-class, you know?"  Stephen considered the
implication of these remarks, watching the flat Berkshire countryside
jolt past as his coffee cup lurched un sampled in its saucer before he
turned to the morning papers.  The Times carried no news of Discovery
Oil that morning.  It was, he supposed, only a little story, even a
dull one.  Just another shady business enterprise collapsed in
double-quick order; not kidnap or arson or even rape: nothing there to
hold the attention of the front page for long.  Not a story he would
have given a second thought to but for his own involvement, which gave
it all the makings of a personal tragedy.

At Paddington he pushed through the ants rushing around the forecourt.
He was glad he had chosen the closeted life of Oxford, or more
accurately that it had chosen him.  He had never come to terms with
London, which he found large and impersonal, and he always took a taxi
everywhere for fear of getting lost on the buses or underground.  Why
ever didn't they number their streets so Americans would know where
they were?

"The Times office, Printing House Square."

The cabby nodded and moved his black Austin deftly down the Bayswater
Road, alongside a rain-sodden Hyde Park.  The crocuses at Marble Arch
looked sullen and battered, splayed wetly on the close grass.  Stephen
was impressed by London cabs: they never had a scrape or mark on them:
cab-drivers are not allowed to pick up fares unless their vehicles are
in perfect condition.  How different from New York's battered yellow
monsters, he thought.  The cabby swung down Park Lane to Hyde Park
Corner, past the House of Commons and along the Embankment.  The flags
were out in Parliament Square.  Stephen frowned to himself.  What was
the lead story he had read so in attentively in the train?  Ah yes, a
meeting of Commonwealth leaders.  He supposed he must allow the world
to go about its day's business as usual.

Stephen was unsure how to tackle the problem of checking Harvey
Metcalfe out.  Back in Harvard he would have had no trouble: he would
have made a beeline for the offices of the Herald Record American and
his father's old friend the business correspondent, Hank Swaltz, would
have given him the dope.  The diary correspondent of The Times, Richard
Compton-Miller, was by no means so appropriate a contact, but he was
the only British press man Stephen had ever met.  Compton-Miller had
visited Magdalen the previous spring to write a feature on the
time-honoured observance of May Day in Oxford.  The choristers on the
top of the college tower sang the Miltonian salute as the sun peeped
over the horizon at May first:

Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire

Mirth and youth and warm desire.

On the banks of the river beneath Magdalen bridge, where Compton-Miller
and Stephen had stood, several couples were clearly inspired.

Later, Stephen was more embarrassed than flattered by his appearance in
the resulting piece on May Day at Magdalen that Compton-Miller had
written for The Times Diary: academics are sparing with the world
brilliant, but journalists are not.  Indeed, it is an accolade they
will freely bestow on any person who, being between the ages of
eighteen and twenty-one, is additionally female and attractive, and in
possession of a couple of good exam results.  The more self-important
of Stephen's Senior Common Room colleagues were not amused to see him
described as the brightest star in a firmament of moderate
luminescence.  The taxi pulled into the forecourt and came to a stop by
the side of a massive hunk of modern sculpture by Henry Moore.  The
Times and The Observer shared a building with separate entrances, The
Times by far the more impressive.  Stephen enquired of the sergeant
behind the desk for Richard Compton-Miller, and was shown up to the
fifth floor and along to his little private cubicle at the end of the
corridor.

It was still only just after 10 A.M. when Stephen arrived and the
building was practically deserted.  A national newspaper does not begin
to wake up until eleven o'clock and generally indulges itself in a long
lunch hour until about 3 P.M. Between then and putting the paper to
bed, about 8:30 P.M. for all but the front page, the real work is done.
There is usually a change of staff staggered from 5 P.M. onwards, whose
job it is to watch for major new stories breaking during the night. 
The British papers always have to keep an eye on what is happening in
America, because if the President makes some important statement in the
afternoon in Washington it is already late in the evening in London. 
Sometimes the front page can change as often as five times during the
night and in a case like the assassination of President Kennedy, which
was first learned of in England at about 7 P.M. on the evening of
November 22, 1963, the whole existing front page is scrapped to make
way for the sensation.  "Richard, it was kind of you to come in early
for me.  I didn't realise that you start work so late.  I rather take
my daily paper for granted."  Richard laughed. "That's O.K. You must
think we're a lazy bunch, but this place will be buzzing at midnight
when you are in bed sound asleep.  How can I help you?"

"I'm trying to do some research on a fellow countryman of mine called
Harvey Metcalfe.  He's a substantial benefactor of Harvard, and I want
to flatter the old boy by knowing all about him when I return." Stephen
didn't care very much for the lie, but these were strange circumstances
he found himself in.  "Hang on here and I'll go and see if we have any
cuttings on him."  Stephen amused himself by reading the headlines
pinned up on Compton-Miller's board--obviously stories he had taken
some pride in:

Prime Minister to Conduct Orchestra at Royal Festival Hall Miss World
Loves Tom Jones

Muhammad Ali Says, "I will be Champion Again"

Richard Compton-Miller returned with a largish file for Stephen fifteen
minutes later.

"Have a go at that, Descartes.  I'll be back in an hour and we'll have
some coffee."

Stephen nodded and smiled thankfully.  Descartes never had the problems
he was facing.

Everything Harvey Metcalfe wanted the world to know was in that file,
and a little bit he didn't want the world to know.  Stephen learned of
his yearly trips to Europe to see Wimbledon, of the success of his
horses at Ascot and of the pursuit of pictures for his private art
collection.  William Hickey of the Daily Express had titillated his
readers with a plump Harvey clad in Bermuda shorts over the information
that he spent two or three weeks a year on his private yacht at Monte
Carlo, gambling at the Casino.  Hickey's tone was something less than
fulsome.  The Metcalfe fortune was too new to be respectable.  Stephen
wrote down all the facts he thought relevant and was studying the
photographs when Richard returned.

They went to have some coffee in the canteen on the same floor.  The
cigarette smoke swirled mistily round the girl at the cashier's desk at
the end of the self-service counter.

"Richard, I don't quite have all the information I need.  Harvard wants
to touch this man for quite a bit: I believe they are thinking in terms
of about a million dollars.  Where can I find out some more about him?"
"New York Times, I should think," said Compton-Miller.  "Come on, we'll
give Terry Robards a visit."

The New York Times office in London is also on the fifth floor of The
Times building in Printing House Square.  Stephen thought of the vast
New York Times building in Forty-third Street and wondered if the
London Times, on a reciprocal arrangement, was secreted in the basement
there.  Terry Robards was a wiry creature with a perpetual smile on his
face.  Stephen felt at ease with him immediately, a knack Terry had
developed almost subconsciously over the years and which was a great
asset to him when digging for stories.  Stephen repeated his piece
about Metcalfe.  Terry laughed.

"Harvard isn't too fussy where it gets its money from, is it?  That guy
knows more legal ways of stealing money than the Internal Revenue
Service."  "You don't say," said Stephen innocently.

The New York Times' file on Harvey was voluminous.  "Metcalfe's Rise
from Messenger Boy to Millionaire," as one headline had it, was
documented admirably.  Stephen took careful notes.  The details of
Sharpley & Son fascinated him, as did the arms dealing and the few
facts on his wife Arlene and their daughter Rosalie.  There was a
picture of both of them, but the daughter was only fifteen at the time.
There were also long reports of two court cases some twenty-five years
before in which Harvey had been charged but never convicted, and a more
recent one, in 1956, concerning a share transaction in Boston.  Again
Harvey has escaped the law, but the district attorney had left the jury
in little doubt of his views on Mr.  Metcalfe.  The most recent press
stories were in the gossip columns: Metcalfe's paintings, his horses,
his orchids, his daughter doing well at Vassar, and his trips to
Europe.  Of Discovery Oil there was not a word.  Stephen admired
Harvey's ability in later years to conceal from the press the more
dubious of his activities.

Terry invited his fellow expatriate to lunch.  Newsmen always like new
contacts and Terry thought Stephen looked a promising one.  He told the
cabby to go to Whitfield Street.  As they inched their way out of the
City into the West End, Stephen hoped that the meal would be worthy of
the journey.  He was not disappointed.

Lacy's restaurant was airy and bedecked with clean linen and young
daffodils.  Terry said it was greatly favoured by pressmen.  Margaret
Costa, the well-known cookery writer and her chef husband, Bill Lacy,
certainly knew their onions.  Over delicious watercress soup followed
by medallions de veau a la creme au calvados and a bottle of Chateau de
Peronne 1972, Terry became quite expansive on Harvey Metcalfe.  He had
interviewed him at Harvard on the occasion of the opening of Metcalfe
Hall, which included a gymnasium and four indoor tennis courts.

"Hoping to get an honorary degree one day," said Terry cynically, "but
not much hope, even if he gives a billion."

Stephen noted the words thoughtfully.

"I guess you could get some more facts on the guy at the American
Embassy," said Terry.  He glanced at his watch.  "Oh, hell, the library
closes at four o'clock.  Too late today.  Time I got back to the office
for an afternoon's work."  Stephen wondered if press men ate and drank
like that every day.  If they did, however did they manage to get a
paper out?

He fought his way onto the five-fifteen train back with the
Oxford-bound commuters and only when he was alone in his room did he
begin to study the material of his day's work.  He was exhausted, but
he forced himself to sit at his desk until the first neat draft of a
dossier on Harvey Metcalfe was prepared.

Next day Stephen again caught the eight-seventeen to London, this time
buying a second-class ticket.  The ticket collector repeated his piece
about leaving the restaurant car after he had finished his meal.

"Sure," said Stephen, but he toyed with the remains of his coffee cup
for the rest of the hour-long journey and never shifted from first
class.  He was pleased with himself: he had saved two pounds and that
was exactly how Harvey Metcalfe would have behaved.

At Paddington he followed Terry Robards' advice and took a taxi to the
American Embassy, a vast and monolithic building which sprawls over
250,000 square feet and is nine storeys high, stretching the entire
length of one side of Grosvenor Square.  Not as elegant as the American
ambassador's magnificent official residence in Regent's Park, where he
had been summoned to drinks last year, which was once the private home
of Barbara Hutton before it was sold to the American government in
1946.  Certainly either of them was large enough for seven husbands,
thought Stephen.

The entrance to the Embassy Reference Library on the ground floor was
firmly shut.  Stephen was reduced to a close study of the plaques on
the wall in the corridor outside, honouring recent ambassadors to the
Court of St.  James.  Reading backwards from Walter Annenberg, he had
got as far as Joseph Kennedy when the doors of the library swung open
rather like a bank.  The prim girl behind a sign marked "Enquiries" was
not immediately forthcoming on the subject of Harvey Metcalfe.

"Why do you want this information?"  she asked sharply.

This threw Stephen for a moment, but he quickly recovered.  "I am
returning to Harvard as a professor and I feel I should know more about
his involvement with the university.  I am at present a Visiting Fellow
at Oxford."

Stephen had never said anything quite so outrageous before in his life,
but then he had never been under the same pressure.  For the first time
he began to feel what it might be like for un gifted students who were
not good at examinations and were unsure of the right answers.  He knew
that if he was to catch up with Harvey Metcalfe he must think and react
as he would have done.  Stephen was aware that he had a lot to learn,
but he had always been a willing scholar.  Stephen's answer motivated
the girl into action and she produced a file within a few minutes.  It
was by no means as racy as the New York Times, but it did put figures
on the amount Harvey Metcalfe had donated to charity and gave exact
details of his gifts to the Democratic Party.  Most people do not
divulge the exact amount they give to political parties, but Harvey
only knew about lights--no one seemed to have told him about bushels.

Stephen returned the file to the stern young librarian.  She softened a
little and recommended that he should visit the library at University
College.  The taxi dropped him in Gower Street at the entrance of the
imposing neoclassical facade of University College London.

Stephen hurried through the entrance hall to the library, eyes averted
from the macabre box in which are seated the mortal remains of the
illustrious founder of the college, Jeremy Bentham, who left a vast
legacy to the college on condition that they put his body in the
cloisters.  The head has since had to be removed and placed in a
separate box, in order that students find it possible to work after a
heavy breakfast.

The college library, which is on the first floor under the glass dome,
has an extensive reference section on other universities and academic
institutions.  Stephen made for the Harvard Register and the American
Universities and Colleges Year Book, and scoured the indices for
Harvey's name.  More details of the Metcalfe munificence were listed,
and daughter Rosalie's success at Vassar was chronicled.  Stephen
learnt that she had been the winner of the Vassar May Queen Competition
in 1970.  He wondered if Harvey had paid for that as well.  Having a
little time to spare before catching his train, he amused himself by
looking up Bradley, S. C, in the index.  According to the register,
Bradley, S. C."  was on the road to success.  His election to a chair
of mathematics at the tender age of twenty-eight was gushingly
reported.  How Stephen wished he could see the next number of the
journal to find out whether he ever took the post up.  Stephen took a
taxi to the Cunard offices in St.  James's Square and from there went
on to Claridge's in Brook Street and spent a few minutes with the
manager.  A telephone call to Monte Carlo completed his research on
Harvey Metcalfe.  He returned to Oxford on the five-fifteen.

Stephen went immediately to his college rooms.  He felt he knew as much
about Harvey Metcalfe as anyone other than perhaps Arlene and Detective
Inspector Smith of the Fraud Squad.  Once again he stayed up into the
night completing his dossier, which now numbered over forty typewritten
pages.

Stephen had taken a typewriting course as a personal blow for Women's
Lib when he was at Harvard.  He had a theory that all boys should be
taught to type at school.  Once in business life, they would then be
able to type their own letters instead of mumbling haltingly at a
secretary or pouring out verbose torrents into a dictating machine.
That way, Stephen felt, the average length of the business letter would
decrease to a more proper size and a vast army of typists and
stenographers who might, who knows, have useful brains tucked away
somewhere, would be released for more creative employment.  When the
dossier was completed he went to bed and fell into a deep sleep.  He
rose again early in the morning, walked across the cloisters to a
Common Room breakfast and helped himself to eggs and bacon, coffee and
toast.  Then he took his dossier to the bursar's office, where he made
four copies of every document, ending up with five dossiers in all--one
master of the originals and four copies.  He strolled across Magdalen
Bridge, admiring, as he always did, the trim flower beds of the
University Botanic Gardens beneath him on his right, and called into
Maxwells Bookshop, just on the other side of the bridge.

He returned to his rooms with five smart files of different colours. He
then made up the five dossiers in the separate files and placed them in
a drawer of his desk which he kept locked.  He had a tidy and
methodical mind, as a mathematician must: a mind the like of which
Harvey Metcalfe had never yet come up against.

Stephen then referred to the notes he had written after his meeting
with Detective Inspector Smith and rang Directory Enquiries, asking for
the London addresses and telephone numbers of Dr.  Adrian Tryner, Jean
Pierre Lamanns and Lord Brigsley.  Directory Enquiries would not give
him more than two numbers at any one time.  Stephen wondered how, or
indeed if, the GPO made any money at all.  In the States the Bell
Telephone Company would happily have given him a dozen telephone
numbers and still ended with the invariable "You're welcome."  The two
he managed to wheedle out of his reluctant informant were Dr.  Adrian
Tryner at 122 Harley Street, London, W.1, and Jean Pierre Lamanns at
the Lamanns Gallery, 17 New Bond Street, W.1. Stephen then dialled
Directory Enquiries a second time and requested the number and address
of Lord Brigsley.  "No one under Brigsley in Central London," said the
operator.  "Maybe he's ex-Directory.  That is, if he really is a lord,"
she sniffed.  Stephen left his study for the Senior Common Room, where
he thumbed through the latest copy of Who's Who and found the noble
lord:

BRIGS LEY Viscount; James Clarence Spencer; b 11 Oct.  1942; Farmer; s
and heir of 5th Earl of Louth cr 1764 qv."  Educ: Harrow; Christ
Church, Oxford (B.A.); President of Oxford University Dramatic Society;
Lt.  Grenadier Guards 1966-68; Recreations: Polo (not water), Shooting;
Address: Tathwell Hall, Nr.  Louth, Lines.  Clubs: Garrick, The
Guards.

Stephen then strolled over to Christ Church and asked the secretary in
the treasurer's office if she had a London address for James Brigsley,
matriculated 1963, in the records.  It was duly supplied as 119 King's
Road, London, S.W. 3. Stephen was beginning to warm to the challenge of
Harvey Metcalfe  He left Christ Church by Peckwater and the Canterbury
Gate out into the High back to Magdalen, hands in pockets, composing a
brief letter in his mind.  Oxford's nocturnal slogan writers had been
at work on a college wall again, he saw.  "Deanz meanz feinz," said one
neatly painted graffito.  Stephen, the reluctant Junior Dean of
Magdalen, responsible for undergraduate discipline, smiled.  When back
at his desk he wrote down what had been in his mind.

Magdalen College,

Oxford.

April 15th

Dear Dr.  Tryner,

I am holding a small dinner party in my rooms next Thursday evening for
a few carefully selected people.

I would be very pleased if you could spare the time to join me, and I
think you would find it worth your while to come.

Yours sincerely,

Stephen Bradley.

Black Tie.  7:30 to 8 p.m.

Stephen changed the sheet of letter paper in his typewriter and
addressed similar letters to Jean Pierre Lamanns and Lord Brigsley.
Then he thought for a little and picked up the internal telephone.

"Harry?"  he said to the head porter, "if anyone rings the lodge to ask
if the college has a member called Stephen Bradley, I want you to say,
"Yes, sir, a new Mathematics Fellow already famous for his dinner
parties."  Got that?"  "Yes, sir," said the head porter, Harry Woodley.
He had never understood Americans and Dr.  Bradley was no exception.

All three men did ring and enquire as Stephen had anticipated they
would.  He himself would have done the same.  Harry remembered his
message and repeated it, although the callers seemed a little
baffled.

"No more than me, or is it I," muttered the head porter.

Stephen received acceptances from all three.  James Brigsley's arrived
last on the Monday.  The crest on his letter paper announced a
promising motto: Ex nihilo omnia.

The butler to the Senior Common Room and the college chef were
consulted, and a meal to loosen the tongues of the most taciturn was
planned: Coquilles Saint-Jacques Pouilly-Fuisse 1969

Carree d'agneau en crouteFeux St.  Jean 1970

Casserole d'artichauds et champignons

Pommes de terre boulangere

Griestorte with raspberriesBarsac Ch.  d'Yquem 1927

Camembert frappe Cafe Port Taylor 1947

Everything was now planned; all Stephen could do was wait for the
appointed hour.

On the stroke of 7:30 P.M. on Thursday Jean Pierre arrived.  Stephen
admired the elegant dinner jacket and floppy bow tie that his guest
wore, and fingered his own little clip on surprised that Jean Pierre
Lamanns, with such apparent savoir faire, could also have fallen victim
to Discovery Oil.  Stephen plunged into a monologue on the significance
of the isosceles triangle in modern art.  Not a subject he would
normally have chosen to speak without a break for five minutes on, but
he was saved from the inevitability of questions from Jean Pierre by
the arrival of Dr.  Adrian Tryner.  He had lost a few pounds in the
past days, but Stephen could see why his practice in Harley Street
would be a success.  He was, in the words of H. H. Munro, a man whose
looks made it possible for women to forgive any other little
inadequacies.  Adrian studied his shambling host and asked himself if
he dared to enquire immediately if they had ever met before.  No, he
would leave it a little and perhaps some clue would materialise during
the course of dinner.

Stephen introduced him to Jean Pierre and they chatted while the host
checked the dinner table.  Once again the door opened and with a little
more respect than previously displayed the porter announced: "Lord
Brigsley."  Stephen greeted him, suddenly unsure whether he should bow
or shake hands.  Although James did not know anyone present (a very
strange gathering, he thought) he showed no signs of discomfort and
entered easily into the conversation.  Even Stephen was struck by
James's relaxed line of small talk, but he couldn't help recalling his
academic results at Christ Church and he wondered whether the noble
lord would be an asset to his plans.

The meal worked the magic that had been intended.  No guest could
possibly have asked his host why the dinner party was taking place at
all while such delicately garlicky lamb, such tender almond pastry,
were to hand.  Finally, when the servants had cleared the table and the
port was on its way round for a second time, Adrian could stand it no
longer:

"If it's not a rude question, Dr.  Bradley."

"Do call me Stephen."

"Stephen, what in hell's name is the purpose of this select gathering?"
Six eyes bore into him asking the same question.

Stephen rose and surveyed his guests.  He started by recalling the
entire happenings of the past few weeks.  He told them of his meeting
with David Kesler, his investment in Discovery Oil and the visit of the
Fraud Squad.  He ended his carefully prepared speech with the words,
"Gentlemen, the truth is that the four of us are all in the same bloody
mess."

Jean Pierre reacted before Stephen could finish what he was saying.
"Count me out.  I would not be involved in anything quite so stupid as
that.  I am a humble art dealer not a speculator."

Adrian Tryner joined in even before Stephen was given the chance to
reply.  "Never heard anything so preposterous.  You must have got the
wrong man.  I am a Harley Street doctor--I know nothing about oil."

Stephen could see why the Fraud Squad had had trouble with those two
and why they had been so thankful for his co-operation.  They all
looked at Lord Brigsley, who raised his eyes and said very quietly:

"Absolutely right to the detail, Mr.  Bradley, and I am in more of a
pickle than you.  I borrowed a hundred and fifty thousand pounds to buy
the shares against the security of my small farm in Hampshire and I
don't think it will be long before the bank insist that I sell it, and
when they do and my dear old Pa, the fifth Earl, finds out, it's
curtains for me or I become the sixth Earl overnight."

"Thank you," said Stephen.  As he sat down, he turned to Adrian and
raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

"What the hell," said Adrian, "you are quite right about my
involvement.  I met David Kesler as a patient and in a rash moment
invested a hundred thousand pounds in Discovery Oil as a loan against
my securities.  God only knows what made me do it.  As the shares are
only worth fifty cents now, no one will buy them, and I have a
shortfall at my bank which they are beginning to fuss about.  I also
have a large mortgage on my country home in Berkshire and a heavy rent
on my Harley Street consulting room, a wife with expensive tastes and
two boys at the best private prep school in England.  I have hardly
slept a wink since Detective Inspector Smith visited me two weeks ago."
He looked up.  His face had drained of colour and the assured suavity
of Harley Street had gone.  Slowly, they turned and looked at Jean
Pierre.

"All right, all right," he admitted, "me too.  I was in Paris when the
damned thing folded under me and I got stuck with the useless shares.
Eighty thousand pounds borrowed against my stock at the gallery--stock
I cannot move at the moment because of the drop in values in the art
market.  The bank are asking me to consider selling my gallery.  And
what is worse, I told some of my friends to invest in the bloody
company."

Silence enveloped the room.  It was Jean Pierre who broke it again: "So
what do you suggest, Professor," he said sarcastically, "hold an annual
dinner to celebrate what fools we have been?"

"That was not my plan."  Stephen realised that what he was about to
suggest would shock, so he rose again to his feet, and quietly and
deliberately said: "We have had our money stolen by a very clever man
who is an expert in share fraud.  We are not knowledgeable about stocks
and shares, but we are all experts in our own fields.  Gentlemen, I
therefore suggest we steal it back.  NOT A PENNY MORE AND NOT A PENNY

LESS."

A few seconds' silence was followed by uproar.

"Just walk up and take it, I suppose?"  said Adrian.

"Kidnap him," mused James.

"Why don't we just kill him?"  said Jean Pierre.

Several minutes passed.  Stephen waited until he had complete silence
again and then he handed round the four dossiers marked "Harvey
Metcalfe" with each individual name below.  A green dossier for Adrian,
a blue one for James and the yellow for Jean Pierre.  The red master
Stephen kept for himself.  They were all impressed.  While they had
been wringing their hands in unproductive dismay, it was obvious that
Stephen Bradley had been hard at work

Stephen continued.

"Please read your dossier carefully.  It gives you full details of
everything that is known about Harvey Metcalfe.  Each of you must take
it away and study the information, and return with a plan of how we
are, between us, to extract one million dollars from him without his
ever becoming aware of it.  All four of us must come up with a separate
plan.  Each may involve the other three in his operation.  We will
return here in fourteen days' time and present our ideas.  Each member
of the team will put ten thousand dollars into the kitty as a float and
I will keep a running account as the mathematician.  All expenses
incurred in retrieving our money will be added to Mr.  Metcalfe's bill,
starting with your journey down here this evening and the cost of the
dinner tonight."  Jean Pierre and Adrian protested.  Again it was James
who stopped the proceedings by saying simply:

"I agree.  What else have we got to lose if we fail?  On our own we
have no chance: together we might just beat the bastard."

Adrian and Jean Pierre looked at each other, shrugged and nodded.  The
four of them settled down to a long discussion about the material
Stephen had acquired over the past few days.  They left the college
just before midnight, agreeing that they would each have a plan ready
in fourteen days' time.  None of them was quite sure where it was all
going to end, but each was relieved to find he was not on his own any
longer.

Stephen thought 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 get down to work.  He sat in his armchair, lit a
Winston and started thinking.  Chapter 6

Adrian retrieved his car from the High Street, thanking its "Doctor on
Call" sticker not for the first time in his life for the extra degree
of freedom it gave him in parking.  He drove back to his home in
Berkshire.  There was no doubt about it, he had been impressed by
Stephen Bradley and he was determined to come up with something that
would ensure he played his full part.  He let his mind play a little on
the delightful prospect of recovering the money he had so ill-advisedly
entrusted to Discovery Oil and Harvey Metcalfe.  It seemed 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 thought.

The journey between Oxford and his country house passed very quickly.
His mind was so preoccupied that when he arrived home to his wife there
were large sections of the route he could not even remember.  He had
only one card to play other than his natural charm and he hoped that he
was right in thinking that card was the strength in his armour and the
weakness in Harvey Metcalfe's.  He began to repeat out loud 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 Adrian quickly to his senses and he locked the
brief case which contained the green Metcalfe dossier.

"You still awake, Mary?"

"Well, I'm not talking in my sleep, love."

Adrian had to think quickly.  He had not yet steeled himself to tell
Mary of his foolish investment, but he had let her know about the
dinner in Oxford, not realising it was in any way connected with
Discovery Oil.

"It was a tease, sweetheart.  An old friend of mine from Cambridge has
become 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 Adrian, but the best he could do at one-fifteen 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, Adrian, or you'll wake the children."  "I'm going
down again in two weeks' time to ..."

"Oh, do come to bed and tell me about it at breakfast."

Adrian 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 said.

They both slept.

Jean Pierre had booked in at the Eastgate Hotel in the High.  There was
an undergraduate exhibition the next day at the Christ Church and
Gallery.  Jean Pierre hoped to find some 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 at Magdalen had
offered a chance of redress.  He settled down in his comfortable hotel
bedroom, oblivious to the late hour, to go over his dossier and work
out where he could fit into the jigsaw puzzle.  He was not going to
allow two Englishmen and a Yank to beat him.  His French 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.  There
was no way he was not going to play his part in this operation.  He
read the 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 come up with some brilliant plan
and, as had always seemed to happen to him in his life, he would be
found lacking.  He had never been under pressure before--everything had
come to him so easily.  A foolproof scheme for relieving Harvey
Metcalfe of some of his excess profits was not going to come anything
like so readily.  Still, the awful vision of his father finding out
that the Hampshire farm was mortgaged up to the hilt was there to keep
his mind on the job.  Fourteen days was not very long: where on earth
would 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 be of use in some way.  He bumped into the ticket
collector, who was not surprised to find James the holder of a
first-class ticket.  The quest for an unoccupied compartment ended in
failure.  James concluded that Richard Marsh, the chairman of British
Rail, was trying to run the railways at a profit.  Whatever would
happen in Britain next?  What was more aggravating, they would probably
put him in the Lords for his trouble.

The next best thing to an empty compartment, James always considered,
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 on her own.  The only other person in the carriage
was a middle-aged lady reading Vogue, who showed no signs of knowing
her travelling companion.  James settled down in the corner with his
back to the engine, realising 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
most difficult to keep silent: a companionable man, he found secrets
rather tedious.  He patted his overcoat pocket holding the dossier in
the envelope supplied by Stephen Bradley.  What an efficient man he
was, thought James.  Alarmingly brainy, too.  He would no doubt have a
dozen clever plans ready for the next meeting.  James frowned and
stared out of the window in hope of some serendipitous ideas.  Instead,
he found himself studying the reflection of the beautiful profile of
the girl sitting opposite him.

She had a shiny nob of dark brown hair, a slim, straight nose and her
long lashes lay demurely on her cheeks as she read 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 (and wrongly) 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 looking at him, faintly amused.
Embarrassed, he switched his attention to the third occupant of the
carriage, the unofficial chaperone, in front of whom James had not the
courage to strike up a conversation with the girl.

Suddenly he realised that the model on the front cover of the Vogue
magazine the middle-aged lady was reading was the exact image of the
girl he was sitting opposite.  To begin with, he could hardly believe
his eyes, but a quick check against the real McCoy left him in no
doubt.  As soon as Vogue was relinquished in favour of Queen, James
leant across and asked the chaperone if he might have a look.

"Left my brief case on the station by mistake," he said idiotically. "I
haven't got anything to read."

He turned to the second page.  "Cover," it said: "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 could not picture
himself like that with any degree of success.  At least he knew the
beautiful cover girl's name, Anne.  The next time the real-life version
looked up, he showed her by sign language that he had seen the
photograph.  She smiled briefly at James and then continued to read The
Odessa File, which she was enjoying almost as much as Frederick
Forsyth's first novel, The Day of the Jackal.

At Reading station the middle-aged lady left, bearing off Vogue with
her.  Couldn't be better, mused James.  Anne looked up, faintly
embarrassed, and smiled hopefully at the few passersby in 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 mate
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 a faultless skin gave her a
gentle look that James found irresistible.  She had that slim, graceful
body that all leading models need in order to earn their living, but
Anne 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 are absolutely fantastic?  Can we talk a little and if I
still think you are fantastic perhaps we'll take it from there?  But it
never was possible that way and he would have to go through the usual
routine.

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

"We were freshmen 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 did know 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 is the only occasion I
have been shot by him."

They chatted on and the thirty-five minutes' journey between Reading
and London seemed to pass in a flash for James.  As they walked down
the platform of Paddington Station together he ventured:

"Can I give you a lift home?  My car is parked in Craven Street."  Anne
accepted.  It was raining and it did not look as if she would get a
taxi easily at that late hour.

James drove her home in his Alfa Romeo.  He had already decided that he
could not hold on to that for much longer with petrol going up and the
cash flow going down.  He chattered merrily all the way to her
destination in a block of flats overlooking the Thames in Cheyne Row,
and much to Anne's surprise 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, 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 poses in a bra.

James knew exactly what he was doing.  He 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 thought for a while.  But unlike Stephen,
Adrian and Jean Pierre, with thirteen days to go, he had no ideas for
defeating Harvey Metcalfe: he was developing 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 the
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 a batch
of students take their B.A. degrees in a brief ceremony.  Stephen also
studied the layout of the Randolph, the largest hotel in Oxford.  This
he took considerable time over, so much that the manager became
inquisitive, but Stephen left before this turned to suspicion.  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 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 will be able to work something out, sir."  In
between the trips all over the university city, Stephen did a lot of
thinking in his 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.

Adrian 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 travelled to London as quickly 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 a vocation.  Her
devotion to Adrian, 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.  Tryner," she said.

"I have some research to do and do not want to be interrupted when I am
alone in my study."

Miss Meikle was a little surprised.  She had always thought that Dr.
Tryner was a good doctor, but had never known him in the past to
indulge in research work.  She padded off noiselessly in her white-shod
feet to let the first of a bunch of admirably healthy ladies in for Dr.
Tryner's clinic.

Adrian entered his consulting room.  He started the morning by making
several telephone calls, among them two overseas 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.  "Pop round to H. K. Lewis, would you, Miss Meikle, and
get two books on my account.  I want the latest edition of Polsen and
Tattersall's Clinical Toxicology and Harding Rain's book on the bladder
and abdomen."  "Yes, sir," she said imperturbably, and thought nothing
of missing her lunchtime sandwiches to fetch them in time for Adrian's
return from his habitual club lunch.

They were on his desk when he returned, and he started a careful
reading of them.  The following day he spent at St.  Thomas's Hospital,
not taking his morning clinic as usual, but closely watching two of his
colleagues at work.  His confidence in the plan he was formulating was
growing.  He returned to Harley Street and wrote some notes on the
techniques he had observed, as he had done in his student days.  He
remembered the words Stephen had used: "Think as Harvey Metcalfe would.
Think not as a cautious professional man, but as a risk taker, as an
entrepreneur."

Adrian was getting onto Harvey Metcalfe's wavelength and he would be
ready for the American, the Frenchman and the lord when his plan was
called for: he looked forward to their next meeting.

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

Stein arrived late the next afternoon and spent two hours with Jean
Pierre privately in his little room in the basement of the Lamanns
Gallery.  When he departed 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 Mrs.  Tellegen at the Rijks-bureau in The Hague, gave
him all the information he needed.  Even Metcalfe would have praised
him for that touch.  There would be no relieving the French this time.
The American and the Englishmen 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 a
plan for outwitting Harvey Metcalfe.  His thoughts were fully occupied
with Anne.  He telephone Patrick Lichfield at home.

"Patrick?"

"Yes."

"James Brigsley."

"Oh, hello, James.  Haven't seen you for some time.  What are you doing
waking me up at this filthy hour?"

"It's ten o'clock, Patrick."

"Is it?  I had a hell of a night last night.  What can I do for you?"
"You took a picture of a girl for Vogue 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 tried, but she wasn't wearing it from me."
"I can't say I blame her.  Go back to bed, Patrick.  See you soon."
Anne Summerton was not in the telephone directory, so that ploy had
failed.  James stayed 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.  "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, Michael
Stacpoole.  "Good morning, my lord, can I help you?"

"I hope so.  I'm looking for a model for the opening of an antique shop
and I want a classy sort of bird.  You do understand?"  James then
described Anne as if he had never met her.

"We have two models that I think would suit you, my lord," said
Stacpoole.  "Paulene Stone and Anne Summerton.  Unfortunately, Paulene
is in Birmingham today for the launching of the new Allegro car and
Anne is completing a toothpaste ad in Oxford."

"I need a girl today," James said.  How he would have liked to have
told Stacpoole that Anne was back in town.  "If you find either of them
is free, perhaps you would ring me at 352 2109, Mr.  Stacpoole."

James rang off, a little disappointed.  At least, he thought, if
nothing comes of it today I can start planning my part in the Team
versus Harvey Metcalfe.  He was just resigning himself to it 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.  "My shop is in Berkeley
Street, next to the Empress Restaurant.  It's called Albemarle
Antiques.  Perhaps we could meet outside at twelve forty-five?"

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

"Thank you," said James, and put the phone down, pleased with himself.
James stood in 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 twelve-forty 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 puzzlement at the Brazilian tourist office 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 all alone?"  said James.

"I'm trying to find a shop called Albemarle Antiques.  Do you know it?
I am supposed to be doing an assignment for them.  I'm waiting for the
owner, Lord Brigsley."

James smiled:

"I am Lord Brigsley."

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

They lunched together at the Empress, James's favourite eating place in
town.  He told Anne why it had been Lord Clarendon's favourite
restaurant as well--"ah," he declared, "the millionaires are just a
little fatter and the mistresses are just a little thinner than in any
other restaurant in London."

James invited her to go and see one of The Norman Conquests.  He had
chosen the Alan Ayckbourn plays as they formed a trilogy, so if they
enjoyed the first, he would be able to invite her to see the other
two.

The play was a resounding success and they agreed to see the others.
Anne was the first good thing that had happened to James for a long
time.  The next ten days shot by and James spent more time with Anne
than he had bargained for.  When Thursday came he had no plan to place
in front of the Team.  He only hoped they were in the same position and
the whole exercise would be abandoned.  He travelled to Oxford in his
Alfa Romeo and was again last to arrive at Magdalen.  Stephen, Adrian
and Jean Pierre greeted him with open arms.  Oh hell, he thought, they
all look very confident.

Chapter 7

Stephen shook James warmly by the hand the way the Americans will and
gave him a large whisky on the rocks.  James took a gulp to give
himself a bit of Dutch courage, and joined Adrian 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 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.  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 be eventually footing the bill, I have cut down a bit on
the hospitality.  We don't want to make our task unnecessarily hard by
eating our way through hundreds of dollars per meeting."

The other three sat down quietly as Stephen took out some papers.  "I
will start," he said, "with a general comment, I have 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 it is already in the file.  My latest
findings are summarised on this note, which should be added as page
thirty-eight of your dossiers.  It reads: Harvey Metcalfe will arrive
in England on June 21 on 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 debenture tickets for
every day of the Wimbledon Championships.  When they are over he flies
to Monte Carlo to his yacht Messenger Boy for just over 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 July 29,
Flight No.  009 at 11:15 to Logan International Airport, Boston."  The
others attached page 38 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 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.  Adrian, which section would you like?"

"Monte Carlo," said Adrian 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 would like Wimbledon fortnight."

"Any objections?"

Again, nobody spoke.  Stephen said:

"I am keen to have the Ascot shot 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.  "At the moment Jean Pierre goes
first, Adrian second and I am third.  James will fit in according to
how this discussion goes."  Everybody, except James, seemed to be
warming to the exercise.  "Now expenses.  Have all of you brought
cheques for ten thousand dollars?  I think it wise to work in dollars
as that was the currency Discovery Oil shares were purchased in."

Each member of the Team passed a cheque 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 70 calculator, the digits glowing red in the
dimly lit room.  "The shares cost us one million dollars.  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, Adrian, 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 round photographs and road maps of the West End
and Mayfair.  Each street was marked with a figure, 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 instructions to the others.  "All of you will be needed
on the day.  Adrian will be the journalist and James the representative
from Sotheby's.  Stephen, you will act as the purchaser.  You must
practise 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 Stephen's note.

"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 Pocket Phones and I had the devil of a
job getting a licence from the Home Office and a registered wavelength,
so treat them with respect."

Jean Pierre produced four miniature sets.

"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.  How about you, Adrian?"

Adrian relayed the story of his fourteen days.  He reported on his
meeting with the specialist, and explained the toxic effects of anti
cholinesterase drugs.  "This one will be hard to pull off because we
will have to wait for the right moment.  However, we must be prepared
at all times."

"Where will we stay 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
Hotel de Paris from June 29 to July 4. However, before that you are all
to attend several training sessions at St.  Thomas's Hospital."

Diaries were consulted, and a series of meetings arranged.  "Here is a
copy of Houston's Short Textbook of Medicine for each of you.  You must
all read the chapter on First Aid.  I don't want any of you to stick
out like sore thumbs when we are all dressed in white.  You, Stephen,
will be coming to Harley Street for an intensive course the week after
next as you must be totally convincing as a doctor."

Adrian had chosen Stephen because he felt with his academic mind that
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 be able to play for several hours at a time without losing a great
deal of money.  James, you will learn to drive a small van through
crowded streets, and you are also to come to Harley Street next week so
that we can do a dry run together."  All eyes were wide open.  If they
pulled that one off they could do anything.  Adrian could see the
anxiety in their faces.

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

Stephen nodded.  He commented that academics could be equally naive.
Had not that been exactly what had happened to all of them with
Discovery Oil?  "Remember," said Adrian, "Stephen's comment at the
bottom of page thirty-three of the dossier ... "At all times we must
think like Harvey Metcalfe."" Adrian gave a few more details of how
certain procedures were to be carried out.  He then answered questions
for twenty-eight minutes.  Finally, Jean Pierre softened: "I thought
none of you would beat me, but that is brilliant.  If we get the timing
right we will 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 the first
dinner and egged the others into taking 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 have both risen to the occasion,
but my proposals will make more demands on you."

He began to reveal the fruits of his research of the past two weeks and
the substance of his plan.  They all felt rather like students in the
presence of a professor.  Stephen did not lecture intentionally.  It
was a manner he had developed and, like so many academics, it was one
he was unable to switch off in private company.  He produced a calendar
for Trinity term and outlined how the university term worked, the role
of its chancellor, vice chancellor, the registrar and the secretary of
the University Chest.  Like Jean Pierre, he supplied maps, this time of
Oxford, to each member of the Team.  He had carefully marked a route
from the Sheldonian Theatre to Lincoln College, and from Lincoln to the
Randolph Hotel, with a contingency plan if Harvey Metcalfe insisted on
using his car, despite the one-way system.

"Adrian, you must find out what the vice chancellor does at Encaenia. I
know it can't be like Cambridge; the two universities do everything the
same but nothing identically.  You must know the routes he is likely to
take and his habits backwards.  I have arranged 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 that is marked on your map.  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 cheques are cashed. 
You must also know the routes he is likely to take on the day of
Encaenia as if they were part of your father's estate.  I have the
easiest role because I will be myself in all except name.  You must all
learn how to address each other correctly and we will have a dress
rehearsal in the ninth week of term on a Tuesday, when the university
is fairly quiet.  Any questions?"  Silence ruled the day, 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
two or three times, but if they were convincing they could hardly
fail.

"Now, the Ascot part of my plan is simpler.  I will only need Adrian
and James in the Members' Enclosure.  I shall need two Enclosure
tickets, which I am expecting you to acquire, James."

"You mean badges, Stephen," said James.

"Oh, do I?"  said Stephen.  "I also require someone in London to send
the necessary telegram.  That will be you, Jean Pierre."

"Understood," said Jean Pierre.

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

James's mind drifted again, hoping the earth would open 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."  All 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 took another drink.  "You bloody upper-class
twit," said Jean Pierre, "you haven't got an idea."  "Well, actually, I
have given it a lot of thought, but nothing came."  "Useless--worse
than useless," said Adrian.

James was stammering helplessly.  Stephen cut him short.

"Now listen, James, and listen carefully.  We meet again in twenty-one
days' time from tonight.  By then we must know everybody else's plans
by heart with no mistake.  One error could blow the whole thing.  Do
you understand?"  James nodded--he was determined not to let them down
in that.  "And what is more," said Stephen firmly, "you must have your
own plan ready for scrutiny.  Is that clear?"

"Yes," mumbled James unhappily.

"Any other questions?"  said Stephen.

There were none.

"Right.  We go through the three individual operations again detail by
detail."  Stephen ignored 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, Adrian in Monte Carlo: third, Stephen during and after Ascot.

It was late when they finally rose from the table.  They departed
wearily, each with several tasks to carry out before their next
meeting.  All went their separate ways, due to meet again the following
Friday in the Jericho Theatre of St.  Thomas's Hospital.

Chapter 8

The next twenty days turned out to be hard work for all four of them,
for each had to master the other plans as well as organise 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 even the sight of blood
that daunted him, just the sight of the knife was enough.  Its 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 medicine on a fairly high level in one particular
field.  James spent several hours driving an old van through heavy
traffic from St.  Thomas's to Harley Street, preparing for his final
test in Monte Carlo, which he felt ought to be considerably easier.  He
spent some days in Oxford, learning how the secretary of the University
Chest's office operated, and also watching the movements of the
secretary himself, Mr.  Caston.

Jean Pierre, at a cost to Mr.  Metcalfe of 5.25 and a 48-hour wait,
became an overseas member of Crockford's, London's most distinguished
gaming club, and spent his evenings watching the wealthy and lazy play
baccarat and blackjack, the stakes often reaching 1,000.  After three
weeks he ventured to join The Golden Nugget casino in Soho, where the
stakes rarely reached 5. At the end of the month he had played 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.  His
mind never left the problem, even when he was travelling through London
at sixty mph.  After returning the van to Carnies 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 found
herself avoiding modelling assignments out of London as she did not
care to be away from James for any period of time.  She was very
conscious that he was the first man for some time she would have been
willing to go to bed with and to date he had been no more than gentle
and attentive.

James arrived carrying a bottle of Beaune Montee Rouge 1971--even his
wine cellar was fast disappearing.  He only hoped it would last until
the plans came to fruition.  Not that he felt an automatic right to
success after his own efforts.  James thought Anne looked very
beautiful.  She was wearing a long black dress of some soft material
that tantalised him with the reticence with which it outlined her
shape.  She wore no make-up or jewellery, and her heavy nob of hair
gleamed in the candlelight.  The meal was a triumph for Anne and James
started wanting her very badly.  She seemed a little nervous, spilling
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 almost made him
shudder in the cold, clear light of morning.  Anne affected him in an
entirely new way.  He wanted to be close to her, to hold her and to
love her.  Above all, he did want to find her there in the morning.
Anne cleared away the supper, avoiding James's eye, and they settled
down to brandy and Billie Holliday singing, "I get along without you
very well."  She sat, hands clasped round 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 she
bent her head back and stretched out her arm to bring his face down to
hers.  He responded, leaning forward, and stroked 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.  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, Anne settled her head on James's shoulder and
stroked the hair on his chest with a fingertip.  She sensed that
something was wrong.  There are occasions in life when revelation is
made easier by circumstance.  "What's the matter, James darling?  I
know I'm rather shy.  Wasn't I very good?"  "You were fantastic.  God
knows you were fantastic.  That's not the problem ... Anne, I just have
to tell you something, so just lie there and listen."  "You're
married."

"No, it's much worse than that."  James thought for a moment, lit a
cigarette and inhaled deeply.  "Anne darling, I have made a bloody fool
of myself by investing all my money with a bunch of crooks.  I haven't
even told my family as they would be terribly distressed if they knew
the truth.  Now I've got myself involved with three other people in the
same predicament--we're all trying to get our money back.  Nice chaps,
full of bright ideas, but I haven't a clue where to begin and keep my
part of the bargain.  What with the worry of a hundred and fifty
thousand pounds down the drain and constantly racking my brain for a
good idea, I'm half frantic.  You're the only thing that's kept me
sane."

Thus James revealed the entire history of Discovery Oil, from his
meeting with David Kesler at Annabel's to his invitation to dine with
Stephen Bradley at Magdalen through to the reason he had been driving a
hired van in London's rush hour like a maniac.  The only detail James
left out was the name of their intended victim as he felt that by
withholding this fact he was not completely violating his bond of
secrecy with the rest of the Team.

Anne breathed very deeply.

"I hardly know what to say.  It's quite incredible.  It's so
unbelievable that I believe every word."

"I feel better just for telling you, but it would be terrible if it
ever got out."

"James, you know I won't say a word to anyone.  I'm so very sorry
you're in such a mess.  You must let me see if I can help in some way.
Why don't we work together without letting the others know?"

She began stroking the inside of his leg.  Twenty minutes later, they
sank into a blissful sleep.

Chapter 9

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 money from his
numbered accounts in Zurich to Barclays Bank, Lombard Street, ready for
the purchase of 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 time for her son-in-law.
Harvey checked with his secretary that all the arrangements for his
holiday had been made.  There never was 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 staff had walked out on Harvey's
arrival, or shortly thereafter, but Miss Fish had stayed, nursing in
her un alluring bosom ever fainter hopes of 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 creation of
Mrs.  Metcalfe, and remained 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 his private suite at Claridge's, one of the last hotels,
along with the Connaught and Brown's, that have a style money alone
cannot reproduce.

Harvey flew to New York in high good humour, drinking rather too many
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 was hardly an extravagant gesture on Cunard's part.  On such
occasions, Harvey was always on his best behaviour, although even that
struck most onlookers as a little brash.

One of the Italian stewards found it worthwhile 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 $100 but the Italian
could charge Harvey $150 and get away with it.  A 5 feet 7 inches and
227 pounds, Harvey's chances of picking up a young thing in the
discotheque were not very good and by the time he had lashed out on
drinks and dinner, he would have spent almost as much money to achieve
absolutely nothing.  Men in Harvey's position do not have time for that
sort of failure and expect that everything will have its price.  As the
voyage was only five nights the steward was able to keep Harvey fully
occupied, although he felt it just as well that Harvey had not booked a
three-week Mediterranean cruise.

Harvey spent his days catching up with the latest novels and taking a
little exercise, a swim in the morning and a painful session in the
gymnasium in the afternoon.  He could reckon to lose ten pounds during
the crossing, which was pleasing, but somehow Claridge's always managed
to put it on again before he returned to the States.  However, his
suits were tailored by Bernard Weatherill of Dover Street, Mayfair, who
managed by dint of near genius and impeccable skill to make him look
well built rather than distinctly fat.  At 250 a time 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 eleven pounds this time.  He felt a
good deal of this must have come off the night before.  She 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 it came as no surprise to him when
the ship docked at the Ocean Terminal to discover everything packed and
ready for Customs--a hundred-dollar 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 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 considered an exit from his own
Board room.  Harvey had finally given up trying to understand the
British way of business during the 1967 devaluation of the pound.  It
had been taken advantage of by every jumped-up speculator on the face
of the globe.  Harvey knew on the Tuesday morning that Harold Wilson
was going to devalue any time after Friday, five o'clock Greenwich Mean
Time.  On the Thursday even the junior clerk at The Lincoln Trust knew.
It was no wonder that the Bank of England lost an estimated $1.5
billion in four days.  Harvey had often thought that if only the
British could liven up their Board rooms and get their tax structure
right, they could be the richest nation in the world instead of a
nation which, as The Economist stated, could be bought by the Arabs
with sixty days of oil revenue.  While the British flirted with
socialism and still retained a folie de grandeur, they seemed doomed to
sink into insignificance.  Harvey strode down the gangplank like a man
with a purpose.  He had never learnt to relax completely, even when he
was on vacation.  He could just about spend 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, and with the
shares the way they were at that moment, it would have probably been a
good purchase.  Harvey had met the chairman of Cunard, Vie Matthews, at
Ascot on one occasion and he seemed to feel the prestige and reputation
of the company were as important as profits.  Harvey was interested in
prestige, but never at the expense of profits.

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.  It sped through Hampshire into London
in just over two hours, which gave Harvey the chance for a rest before
dinner.

Albert, the head doorman at Claridge's, stood smartly to attention and
saluted.  He knew Harvey of old and was aware that he had come, as
usual, for Wimbledon and Ascot.  Albert would undoubtedly receive a
fifty-pence tip every time he opened the Rolls door.  Harvey didn't
know the difference between a fifty-pence and a ten-pence piece--a
difference which many head doormen had welcomed since the introduction
of decimalisation in Britain.  Moreover, Harvey always gave Albert five
pounds at the end of Wimbledon fortnight if an American won the singles
title.  An American invariably reached the finals, so Albert would
place a bet with Ladbrokes, the London bookmaker, on the other finalist
so that he won either way.  There was not a great deal of difference
between Albert and Harvey: only the sums involved were different.

Albert arranged for the luggage to be sent to the Royal Suite, which
during the year had already been occupied by King Constantine of
Greece, Princess Grace of Monaco and Emperor Haile Selassie of
Ethiopia, all with considerably more conviction than Harvey.  Although,
as Harvey pointed out to Albert, it looked as if he had a better chance
of making it every year.

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 large,
commodious lift.  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 a drawing room, which is elegantly laid out and
overlooks 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 for
visiting heads of state to entertain visitors.  Henry Kissinger had
received Harold Wilson there only the week before.  Harvey enjoyed the
thought of that.

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 rest before going down to dine in the main restaurant.

There in the large foyer was the usual string quartet.  Harvey even
recognised the four players.  He had reached the time of life when he
did not like great change--the management of Claridge's knew that the
average age of their customers was over fifty and they catered
accordingly.  Francois, the head waiter, showed him to his usual
table.

Harvey managed a little shrimp cocktail and a medium fillet steak with
a bottle of Mouton Cadet, and continued reading The Billion Dollar Sure
Thing which read not unlike his autobiography.  He did not notice the
four young men eating in the alcove on the far side of the room.

Stephen, Adrian, Jean Pierre and James all had an excellent view of
Harvey Metcalfe.  He would have had to bend double and move slightly
backwards to have any view of them.

"Not exactly what I expected," commented Adrian.

"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 Stephen.  "He's real enough, the bastard, and a million
dollars richer because of our stupidity," said Jean Pierre.

James said nothing.  He was still in disgrace after his futile efforts
and excuses at the last full briefing, although the other three had to
admit that they did get good service wherever they went with him.
Claridge's was no exception.

"Wimbledon tomorrow," said Jean Pierre.  "I wonder who will win the
first round?"  "You will, of course," chipped in James, hoping to
soften Jean Pierre's acid comments about his own feeble efforts.

"We can only win your round, James, if we ever get an entry form."
James sank back in silence.

"I must say, looking at the size of him we ought to get away with your
plan, Adrian," said Stephen.

"If he doesn't die of cirrhosis of the liver before we get going,"
replied Adrian.  "How do you feel about Oxford, Stephen?"

"I don't know yet.  I'll feel better when I have belled the cat at
Ascot.  I want to hear him speak, watch him in his normal environment,
get the feel of the man, and you can't do all that from the other side
of a dining room."  "You may not have to wait too long.  This time
tomorrow we may know everything we need to know, or we may all be in
jail," said Adrian.

"I can't even afford bail," said Jean Pierre.

When Harvey had downed a large glass of Remy Martin V.S.O.P. he left
his table, slipping the head waiter a crisp new pound note.

"The bastard," said Jean Pierre with great feeling.  "It's bad enough
knowing he's stolen our money, but it's humiliating having to watch him
spend it."  The four of them prepared to leave, the object of their
outing achieved.  Stephen paid the bill and carefully added it to the
list of expenses against Harvey Metcalfe.  Then they left the hotel
separately and as inconspicuously as possible.  Only James found this
difficult, as all the waiters and porters would insist on saying to
him: "Good night, my lord."

Harvey took a stroll round Berkeley Square and did not even notice the
tall young man slip into the doorway of Moyses Stevens, the florists,
for fear of being spotted by him.

Harvey never could resist asking a policeman the way to Buckingham
Palace just to compare the reaction he would get with that of a New
York cop, leaning on a lamp post, chewing gum, holster on hip.  As
Lenny Bruce had said on being deported from England, "Your pigs is so
much better than our pigs."  Yes, Harvey liked England.

He arrived back at Claridge's at about eleven-fifteen, showered and
went to bed--a large double bed with that glorious feel of clean linen
sheets.  There would be no women for him at Claridge's or, if there
were, it would be the last time he would find the Royal Suite available
to him during Wimbledon or Ascot.  The room moved just a little, but
then after five days on an ocean liner it was unlikely to be still
until the following night.  He slept well despite it, without a worry
on his mind.

Chapter 10

Harvey rose at 7:30 A.M."  a habit he could not break, but he did allow
himself the holiday luxury of breakfast in bed.  Ten minutes after he
had called room service the waiter arrived with a trolley laden with a
half grapefruit, bacon and eggs, toast, steaming black coffee, a copy
of the previous day's Wall Street Journal, and the morning's edition of
The Times, Financial Times and International Herald Tribune.

Harvey was not sure how he would have survived on a European trip
without the International Herald Tribune, known in the trade as the
"Trib."  This unique paper, published in Paris, is jointly owned by the
New York Times and the Washington Post.  Although only one edition of
120,000 copies is printed, it does not go to press until the New York
Stock Exchange has closed.  Therefore, no American need wake up in
Europe out of touch.  When the New York Herald Tribune folded in 1966,
Harvey had been among those who advised John H. Whitney to keep the
International Herald Tribune going in Europe.  Once again, Harvey's
judgement had been proved sound.  The International Herald Tribune went
on to absorb its faltering rival, the New York Times, which had never
been a success in Europe.  From then the paper has gone from strength
to strength.

Harvey ran an experienced eye down the Stock Exchange lists in the Wall
Street Journal and the Financial Times.  His bank now held very few
shares as he, like Jim Slater in England, had suspected that the Dow
Jones Index would collapse and had therefore gone almost entirely
liquid, holding only some South African gold shares and a few
well-chosen stocks about which he had inside information.  The only
monetary transaction he cared to undertake with the market so shaky was
selling the dollar short and buying gold so that he caught the dollar
on the way down and gold on the way up.  There were already rumours in
Washington that the President of the United States had been advised by
his Secretary of the Treasury, George Shultz, to allow the American
people to buy gold on the open market some time in 1975.  Harvey had
been buying gold for fifteen years: all the President was going to do
was to stop him from breaking the law.  Harvey was of the opinion that
the moment the Americans were able to buy gold, the bubble would burst
and the price of gold would recede--the real money would be made while
the speculators anticipated the rise, and Harvey intended to be out of
gold well before it came onto the American market.

Harvey checked the commodity market in Chicago.  He had made a killing
in copper a year ago.  Inside information from an African ambassador
had made this possible--information the ambassador had imparted to too
many people.  Harvey was not surprised to read that he had subsequently
been recalled to his homeland and later shot.

He could not resist checking the price of Discovery Oil, now at an
all-time low of eighteen cents: naturally there would be no trading in
the stock simply because there would be only sellers and no buyers. The
shares were virtually worthless.  He smiled sardonically and turned to
the sports pages of The Times.  Rex Bellamy's article on the
forthcoming Wimbledon Championships tipped John Newcombe as favourite
and Jim Connors, the new American star who had just won the Italian
Open, as the best outside bet.  The British press wanted Ken Rosewall
to win in his thirty-ninth year.  Harvey could well remember the epic
final between Rosewall and Drobny in 1954, which had run to fifty-eight
games.  Like most of the crowd, he had then supported the
thirty-three-year-old Drobny, who had finally won after three hours of
play, 13-11, 4-6, 6-2, 9-7.  This time, Harvey wanted history to repeat
itself after a fashion, and Rosewall to win, though he felt the popular
Australian's chance had slipped by during the ten years when
professionals did not compete at Wimbledon.  Still he saw no reason why
the fortnight should not be a pleasant break, and perhaps there would
be an American victor if Rosewall couldn't manage it.

A quick glance at the art reviews and Harvey finished his breakfast,
leaving the paper strewn over the floor.  The quiet Regency furniture,
the elegant service and the Royal Suite did nothing for Harvey's
manners.  He padded into the bathroom for a shave and shower.  Arlene
told him that most people did it the other way round--showered and then
ate breakfast.  But, as Harvey pointed out to her, most people did
things the other way round from him, and look where it got them.

Harvey habitually spent the first morning of Wimbledon fortnight
visiting the Summer Exhibition at The Royal Academy in Piccadilly.  He
would then follow this with visits to most of the West End's major
galleries--Agnew's, Tooth's, the Marlborough, O'Hana--all within easy
walking distance of Claridge's.  This morning would be no exception. If
Harvey was anything he was a creature of habit, which was something the
Team were quickly learning.

After he had dressed and bawled out room service for not leaving enough
whisky in his cabinet, he headed down the staircase and emerged through
the swing door of the Davies Street entrance and headed towards
Berkeley Square.  Harvey did not notice a studious young man with a
two-way radio on the other side of the road.  "He has left the hotel,"
said Stephen quietly to his little Pye Pocket Phone, "and he's heading
towards you, James."

"I'll pick him up as he comes into Berkeley Square, Stephen.  Adrian,
can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"I'll let you know when I spot him.  You stay at the Royal Academy."
"Right you are," said Adrian.

Harvey strolled round Berkeley Square down into Piccadilly and through
the Palladian arches of Burlington House.  With a bad grace, he stood
and queued with the assorted humanity in the forecourt, shuffling past
the Astronomical Society and the Society of Antiquaries.  He did not
see the young man opposite in the entrance of the Chemical Society,
deep in a copy of Chemistry in Britain.  Adrian was a thorough man.
Finally, Harvey made it up the red-carpeted ramp into The Royal Academy
itself.  He handed the cashier 3.50 for a season ticket, realising that
he would probably come at least three or four times.  He spent the
entire morning studying the 1,182 pictures, none of which had been
exhibited anywhere else in the world before the opening day, in
accordance with the stringent rules of the Academy.  Despite the rule,
the Hanging Committee still had to choose from over 5,000 pictures.

On the opening day of the exhibition the month before, Harvey had
acquired, through his agent, a water colour by Alfred Daniels of the
House of Commons for 250 and two oils by Bernard Dunstan of English
provincial scenes for 75 each.  The Summer Exhibition was still the
best value in the world.  Even if he did not want to keep all the
pictures himself, they made wonderful presents when he returned to the
States.  The Daniels reminded him of a Lowry he had bought some twenty
years before at the Academy for 80: that had turned out to be a shrewd
piece of judgement on his part.

Harvey made a special point of looking at the Bernard Dunstans in the
exhibition.  Of course, they were all sold.  Dunstan was one of the
artists whose pictures always sold in the opening minutes of the
opening day.  Harvey had not been in London on that day, however, he
had had no difficulty in buying what he wanted.  He had planted a man
at the front of the queue, who obtained a catalogue and marked those
artists he knew Harvey could resell easily if he had made a mistake and
keep if his judgement were right.  When the exhibition opened on the
dot of ten o'clock the agent had gone straight to the purchasing desk
and acquired the five or six pictures he had marked in the catalogue
before he had even seen them, or anyone else had seen them other than
the Academicians.  Harvey studied his vicarious purchases with care. On
this occasion he was happy to keep them all.  If there had been one
that did not quite fit in with his collection, he could have returned
it for resale, undertaking to purchase it if nobody else showed
interest.  In twenty years he had acquired over a hundred pictures by
this method and returned a mere dozen, never having to pay for ones he
later decided he did not require.  Harvey had a system for
everything.

At one o'clock after a thoroughly satisfactory morning he left The
Royal Academy.  The white Rolls Royce was waiting for him in the
forecourt.  "Wimbledon."

"Shit."

"What did you say?"  queried Stephen.

"S-H-I-T.  He's gone to Wimbledon, so today's down the drain," said
Adrian.  That meant Harvey would not return to Claridge's until at
least seven or eight that evening.  A rota had been fixed for watching
him and Adrian accordingly picked up his Rover 3500 V8 from St. James's
Square and headed for Wimbledon.  James had obtained two tickets for
every day of the championships opposite Harvey Metcalfe's debenture
box.  Adrian arrived at Wimbledon a few minutes after Harvey and took
his seat in the Centre Court far enough back in the sea of faces to be
inconspicuous.  The atmosphere was already building up for the opening
match.  Wimbledon seems to be getting more popular every year and the
Centre Court was packed to capacity.  Princess Alexandra and the Prime
Minister, Harold Wilson, were in the Royal Box awaiting the entrance of
the gladiators.  The little green scoreboards at the southern end of
the court were flashing up the names of Kodes and Stewart, as the
umpire took his seat on the high chair in the middle of the court
directly overlooking the net.  The crowd began to applaud as the two
athletes, both dressed in white, entered the court carrying four
rackets each.  Wimbledon does not allow its competitors to dress in any
colour other than white, although they have relaxed a little by
permitting the trimmings of the ladies' dresses to be coloured.

Adrian enjoyed the opening match between the 1973 champion, Kodes, and
Stewart, the un seeded player from the United States, who gave the
Czechoslovakian a hard time, Kodes winning 6-3,6-4, 9-7.  Adrian was
sorry when Harvey decided to leave in the middle of an exciting
doubles.  Back to duty, he told himself, and followed the Rolls at a
safe distance to Claridge's.  On arriving, he telephoned James's flat,
which was being used as the Team's headquarters in London, and briefed
Stephen.

"May as well call it a day," said Stephen.  "We'll try again tomorrow.
Poor old Jean Pierre's heartbeat reached a hundred and fifty this
morning.  He may not last many days of false alarms."

When Harvey left Claridge's the following morning he went through
Berkeley Square into Bruton Street and on into Bond Street, only fifty
yards from Jean Pierre's gallery.  But then he slipped into Agnew's,
where he had an appointment with Sir Geoffrey Agnew, the head of the
family firm, to see if he had any news of Impressionist pictures on the
market.  Sir Geoffrey was anxious to get away to another appointment
and could only spend a few minutes with Harvey and had to disappoint
him.

Harvey left Agnew's soon afterwards clutching a small consolation prize
of a brace of tooled silver pheasants, a mere bagatelle at 400.  "He's
coming out," said Adrian, "and heading in the right direction."  But
again Harvey stopped, this time at the Marlborough Gallery to study
their latest exhibition of Barbara Hepworth.  He spent over an hour
appreciating her beautiful work, but decided the prices were now mad.
He had purchased two Hepworths only ten years ago for 800.  The
Marlborough was now asking between 7,000 and 10,000 for her work.  So
he left and continued up Bond Street.  "Jean Pierre?"

"Yes," replied a nervous voice.

"He's reached the corner of Conduit Street and is about fifty yards
away from you."

Jean Pierre prepared his window, removing the Graham Sutherland water
colour of the Thames and the boatman.

"He's turned left, the bastard," said James, who was stationed opposite
the gallery.  "He's walking down Bruton Street on the right-hand side."
Jean Pierre put the Sutherland back on the easel in the window and
retired to the lavatory, muttering to himself:

"I can't cope with two shits at once."

Harvey meanwhile stepped into a little entrance in Bruton Street and
climbed the stairs to Tooth's.  He was more hopeful of finding
something in a gallery which had become so famous for its
Impressionists.  A Klee, a Picasso and two Salvador Dalis--not what
Harvey was looking for.  The Klee was very well executed, but not as
good as the one in his dining room in Lincoln, Massachusetts.  In any
case, it might not fit in with any of Arlene's decorative schemes.
Nicholas Tooth, the managing director, promised to keep his eyes open
and ring Harvey at Claridge's should anything of interest crop up.

"He's on the move again, but I think it's back to Claridge's."  James
willed him to turn round and return in the direction of Jean Pierre's
gallery, but Harvey strode towards Berkeley Square, only making a
detour to the O'Hana gallery.  Albert, the head doorman, had told him
there was a Renoir in the window, and indeed there was.  But it was
only a half-finished canvas which Renoir had obviously used for a
practice run or had disliked and left unfinished.  Harvey was curious
as to the price and entered the gallery.

"Thirty thousand pounds," said the assistant, as if it was three and a
snip at that.  Harvey whistled through the gap between his front teeth.
It never ceased to amaze him that an inferior picture by a first-rank
name could fetch 30,000 and an outstanding picture by an artist with no
particular reputation could only make a few hundred dollars.  He
thanked the assistant and left.  "A pleasure, Mr.  Metcalfe."

Harvey was always flattered by people who remembered his name, but,
hell, they ought to remember, he had bought a Monet from them last year
for $125,000.  "He's definitely on his way back to the hotel," said
James.  Harvey spent only a few minutes in Claridge's, picking up one
of their famous specially prepared luncheon hampers of caviar, beef,
ham and cheese sandwiches, and chocolate cake for later consumption at
Wimbledon.

James was next on the rota for Wimbledon and decided to take Anne with
him.  Why not?--she knew the truth.  It was Ladies Day and the turn of
Billie Jean King, the vivacious American champion, to take the court.
She was up against the un seeded American, Kathy May, who looked as if
she was in for a rough time.  The applause Billie Jean received was not
worthy of her reputation, but somehow she had never become a Wimbledon
favourite.  Harvey had a guest with him whom James thought had a
faintly mid-European look.

"Which one is your victim?"

"He's almost exactly opposite us with the man in the grey suit who
looks like a government official from Brussels."

"The short, fat one?"  enquired Anne.

"Yes," said James.

Whatever comments Anne might have made were interrupted by the umpire's
call of "Service" and everyone's attention was focussed on Billie Jean.
It was exactly two o'clock.

"Kind of you to invite me to Wimbledon, Harvey," said Joerg Birrer.  "I
never seem to have the chance for much pleasure nowadays.  You can't
leave the market for more than a few hours without some panic or
other."

"If you feel that way it's time for you to retire," said Harvey.  "No
one to take my place," said Birrer.  "I've been chairman of the Swiss
Union Bank for ten years now and finding a successor is turning out to
be my hardest task."

"First game to Mrs.  King.  Mrs.  King leads one game to love in the
first set."  "I know you too well, Harvey, to expect this invitation to
have been just for pleasure."

"What an evil mind you have, Joerg."

"You have to have in my profession."

"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 two games to love in the first
set."  "Your Number One 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 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 think we want to sell a few weeks before the
masses come in.  I have a theory about that."

"I expect you are 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?"

"One and a half per cent above interbank rate, which at present is
13.25 and therefore we are charging you 14.75 per cent annum, while
gold is rising in price at nearly 70 per cent annum.  It can't go on,
but there is still a few months left in it."

"O.K.," said Harvey, "hold on until November first and we'll discuss it
again.  Coded telex as usual.  I don't know what the rest of 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 on murder?"

"You worry about your end, Joerg, and I'll worry about mine.  The day I
get uptight about bureaucrats from Zurich 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 are very deep in conversation," said Anne.  "I
cannot believe they are enjoying the game."

"He's probably trying to buy Wimbledon at cost price," laughed James.
"The trouble with seeing the man every day is that I begin to have a
certain admiration for him.  He's the most organised man I have 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 my 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 the
swim-wear I'm supposed to be modelling 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, "which it so
often is in the opening match.  People only come to see if the
champion's in good form, but I think she'll be very hard to beat this
year.  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 just 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 won't get another one."

"What do you do if he does change his plans?"

"God knows, 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.  How is
the Jean Pierre operation going?"

"Awful, he just won't go anywhere near the gallery.  He was within
thirty yards of it today.  Poor Jean Pierre nearly had heart failure.
But we are more hopeful tomorrow.  He seems to have covered Piccadilly
and the top end of Bond Street and the one thing we can be sure of
about 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 insurances for a million dollars, naming the other
three as beneficiaries," said Anne, "and then when one of you had a
heart attack you could have got your money back."

"It's not a laughing matter, Anne.  It's bloody nerve-wracking while
you are waiting, especially when you have to allow him to make all the
moves."  "Game to Mrs.  King.  Mrs.  King leads by two games to love in
the second set and one set to love."

"How about your own plan?"

"Nothing.  Useless and now we have started with the other I seem to
have less time to concentrate on it."

"Why don't I seduce him?"

"Not a bad idea, but it would have to be some night to get a hundred
thousand pounds out of him when he can stand outside the Hilton or in
Shepherd Market and get it for twenty pounds.  If there's one thing we
have learnt about that gentleman it's that he expects value for money.
At twenty pounds a night it would take you just under fifteen years to
repay my share, and I'm not sure the other three will be willing to
wait that long.  In fact, I'm not sure they will wait fifteen days."

"We'll think of something," 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 everybody in the restaurant, where you
can't even watch the tennis."  "Billie Jean is making mincemeat of her
fellow American."

"Much as I expected," said Harvey.  "Now, Joerg, 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 most healthy economies
in the world because the system works.  So why go anywhere else? Birrer
spent a few seconds studying the figures.  "On April first--only you
could have chosen that day, Harvey--you transferred $7,486,000 to your
Number Two account, which was already in credit $2,791,428.  On April
second, on your instructions, we placed $1 million in the Banco do
Minas Gerais in the names of Mr.  Silverstein 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,"2, leaving your
present Number Two 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, Joerg, I anticipate needing about two million dollars 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 I still have a few galleries
to visit.  If I had known that the Discovery Oil venture was going to
be such a success, I would have outbid Armand Hammer at the Sotheby
Parke-Bernet for that Van Gogh last year.  I shall also need ready cash
for the purchase of some new horses at the Ascot Blood Stock Auctions.
My stud is 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 such a famous race so inaccurately.
"My best result to date, as I think you know, was third place and that
is not good enough.  My entry this year is Rosalie, my best chance for
some considerable time.  If I lose I must build up the stud again, but
I am determined to win this year."

"Game to Mrs.  King.  Mrs.  King leads four games to one and one set to
love."  "So is Mrs.  King, it seems," said Birrer.  "I will brief my
senior cashier that you are likely to be drawing large amounts over the
next few weeks."  "Now, I don't want the remainder to lie idle, so I
want you to purchase more gold carefully over the next few months, with
a view to offloading in the New Year.  If the market does take a turn,
I'll phone you in Zurich.  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, Joerg.  You are sounding like my doctor.  I have told you
a hundred times, next year I retire, I quit, finite."

"I can't see you dropping out of the rat race voluntarily, Harvey.  It
pains me to wonder how much you are worth now."

Harvey laughed.

"I can't tell you that, Joerg.  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 that daughter of yours, Rosalie?  We still have instructions to
pass the accounts on to her if anything should happen to you."

"She's well.  Phoned me this morning to tell me she was unable to join
me at Wimbledon because she's tied up with her work.  I expect she'll
marry some rich American in any case and then she 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--six-one, six-one."

Harvey, Joerg, James and Anne joined in the applause while the two
girls left the court, curtseying in front of the Royal Box to the
president of the All England Club, His Royal Highness The Duke of Kent.
Harvey and Joerg 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 eight-thirty in the morning."

"Well done, James.  Maybe he will bite tomorrow."

"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 souffle 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 one has to do the washing up
before one makes the dinner."

"I know.  She only cleans the clean bits of the flat.  As a result, her
work load is getting lighter by the week."  He sat on the kitchen
table, admiring the slenderness of her arms and body.

"Will you scrub my back like that if I go and have a bath before
dinner?"  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.  "I think you ought to do something about it."

Anne slipped out of her clothes while James dried himself.  Later, he
smiled down at her.

"You know, you're getting quite good."

"With such a fine teacher, how can I do other than improve?  Out you
get.  The baked cheese will be ready and 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 is not
at all like Harold Robbins promised it was going to be."

"When you have finished chattering, set the alarm for seven o'clock."
"Seven o'clock?  You don't have to be at Claridge's until
eight-thirty."  "I know, but I want to go to work on an egg."

"James, you really must get rid of your undergraduate sense of humour."
"Oh, I thought it was rather funny."

"Yes, darling.  Why don't you get dressed before the dinner is burnt to
a cinder?"

James arrived at Claridge's at eight twenty-nine.  He was determined,
despite his own inadequacies, not to fail the others in their plans. He
tuned in to check that Stephen was in Berkeley Square and Adrian in
Bond Street.  "Morning," said Stephen.  "Had a good night?"

"Bloody good," said James.

"Sleep well, did you?"  said Stephen.

"Hardly a wink."

"Stop making us jealous," said Adrian, "and concentrate on Harvey
Metcalfe."  James stood in the doorway of Slaters Antique Shop 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.  He had had a telephone call from his wife
in Boston the night before and another from his daughter during
breakfast, which started his day well.  He decided to pursue the hunt
for 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 nine forty-seven at his usual brisk pace.  "Action
stations."

Stephen and Adrian snapped out of their day-dreaming.

"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 fifty yards off now," said James.  "Forty yards, thirty yards,
twenty yards ... Oh no, damn it, he's gone into Sotheby's.  There's a
sale of medieval painted panels.  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.  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 upstream from Sotheby's on the far side of the street and report
every fifteen minutes.  Adrian, you go inside and dangle the bait under
Harvey's nose."

"But that's not in the plan, Stephen," stammered Adrian.

"Use your initiative and get on with it; otherwise all you will be
doing is taking care of Jean Pierre's heart condition.  O.K.?"

"O.K."  said Adrian nervously.

Adrian went into Sotheby's and made a surreptitious beeline for the
nearest mirror.  Yes, he was still unrecognisable.  Upstairs, he
located Harvey near the back of the sale room, and inserted himself in
a nearby seat in the row behind.  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 jewellery and
bright, gilded colours.  Behind him, Adrian thought quickly, then
struck up a quiet-voiced conversation with his neighbour.

"Looks very fine to me, but I've no knowledge.  I am happier with the
modern era.  Still, I must think of something polite to say for my
paper."  Adrian's neighbour smiled politely.

"Do you cover all the auctions?"

"Almost all--especially where there may be surprises.  Actually, I'm
really on my way to the Lamanns Gallery up the road.  One of the
assistants here gave me a tip that they may have something special in
the Impressionist field."  Adrian beamed the whispered information
carefully at Harvey's right ear.  Shortly afterwards, he was rewarded
by the sight of Harvey squeezing out of his row to leave.  Adrian
waited for three more lots to be auctioned, then followed him. Outside,
James had been keeping a patient vigil.

"Ten-thirty--no sign of him."

"Roger."

"Ten forty-five--still no sign of him."

"Roger."

"Eleven--he's still inside."

"Roger."

"Eleven-twelve--action stations, action stations."

James slipped quickly into the Lamanns Gallery as Jean Pierre once
again removed the Sutherland water colour of the Thames and the
boatman, and placed in the window a picture by Van Gogh, as magnificent
an example of the master's work as a London gallery had ever seen.  Now
came its acid test: the litmus paper walked purposefully down Bond
Street towards it.

The picture had been painted by David Stein, who was notorious in the
art world for faking 300 paintings and drawings by well-known artists,
for which he had received a total of $864,000 and later four years.  He
was exposed when he put on a Chagall exhibition at the Niveaie Gallery
in Madison Avenue in 1969.  Unknown to Stein, Chagall was in New York
at the time for a visit to the new Metropolitan Opera at the Lincoln
Center where two new works of his were on display.  When Chagall was
informed of the Niveaie exhibition he furiously reported the pictures
as fakes to the district attorney's office.  Stein had 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 Picasso at the Galeria d'Arte
Moderna in Milan.  Jean Pierre was confident that what Stein had
achieved in the past in New York he could repeat in London.

Stein continued to paint in the style of famous artists, but signed
them himself and because of his un dubitable talent he was still making
a handsome living.  He had known and admired Jean Pierre for several
years and when he heard the story of Metcalfe and Discovery Oil, he
agreed to produce the Van Gogh for $10,000 and to sign the painting
with the master's famous "Vincent."

Jean Pierre had gone to great trouble to identify a Van Gogh, vanished
in mysterious circumstances, that Stein could resurrect to tempt
Harvey.  He started with De la Faille's comprehensive oeuvres
catalogue, "The Works of Vincent Van Gogh," and selected from it three
pictures that had hung in the National Gallery in Berlin prior to the
Second World War.  In De la Faille, they were entered under numbers 485
"Les Amoureux" (The Lovers), 628 "La Moisson" (The Harvest), and 776
"Le Jardin de Daubigny" (The Garden of Daubigny).  The last two had
been bought in 1929 by the Berlin Gallery, and "The Lovers" probably
around the same time.  At the start of the war, they had all three
disappeared.  Jean Pierre contacted Professor Wormit of the
Preussischer Kulturbesitz.  The professor, a world authority on missing
works of art, ruled out one of the possibilities.  "Le Jardin de
Daubigny" had after the war apparently reappeared in the collection of
Siegfried Kramarsky in New York, though how it got there was a mystery.
Kramarsky had subsequently sold it to the Nichido Gallery in Tokyo,
where it now hangs.  Of the fate of the other two Van Goghs, the
professor had no knowledge.

Next, Jean Pierre turned to Madame Tellegen-Hoogendoorm of the Dutch
Rijksbureau voor Kunsthistorische Documentatie.  Madame Tellegen was
the acknowledged authority on Van Gogh and gradually, with her expert
help, Jean Pierre pieced together the story of the missing paintings.
They had been removed, with many others, from the Berlin National
Gallery in 1937 by the Nazis, despite vigorous protests from the
director, Dr.  Hanfstaengl, and the keeper of paintings, Dr.  Hentzen.
The paintings, stigmatised by the philistinism of the National
Socialists as degenerate art, were stored in a depot in the
Koepernickerstrasse in Berlin.  Hitler himself visited the depot in
January 1938, after which these illegal proceedings had been legalised
by an official confiscation.  What happened to the two Van Goghs is
simply not known.  Many of the confiscated works were quietly sold
abroad by Joseph Angerer, an agent of Hermann Goering, to obtain
much-needed foreign currency.  Some were disposed of in a sale
organised by the Fischer Art Gallery of Lucerne on June 30, 1939.  But
many of the works in the depot in Koepernickerstrasse were simply
burned or stolen.  Jean Pierre managed to obtain black-and-white
reproductions of "Les Amoureux" and "La Moisson": no colour positives
survive, even if they were ever made.  It seemed to Jean Pierre
unlikely that any colour reproductions of two paintings last seen in
1938 would exist anywhere.  He therefore settled down to choose between
the two.

"Les Amoureux" was the larger of the two, at 76 x 91 cm.  However, Van
Gogh did not seem to have been satisfied with it.  On October 1889
(letter no.  556) he referred to "a very poor sketch of my last
canvas."  Moreover, it was impossible to guess the colour of the
background.  "La Moisson," in contrast, had pleased Van Gogh.  He had
painted it in September 1889 and written of it, "I feel very much
inclined to do the reaper once more for my mother" (letter no.  604).
He had in fact already painted three other very similar pictures of a
reaper at harvest time.  Jean Pierre obtained colour transparencies of
two of them from the Louvre and the Rijks-museum, where they now hang,
and studied the sequence.  The position of the sun, and the play of
light on the scene, were practically the only points of difference.
Jean Pierre saw in his mind's eye what "La Moisson" had looked like in
colour.

Stein agreed with Jean Pierre's final choice and he studied the
black-and-white reproduction of "La Moisson" and the colour
transparencies of its sister paintings long and minutely before he set
to work.  Then he found an insignificant late nineteenth-century French
work, and removed the paint from it, leaving a clean canvas.  He marked
upon it the exact size of the picture, 48.5 x 57 cm."  and selected a
palette knife and brushes of the type that Van Gogh had favoured.  Six
weeks later "La Moisson" was finished.  Stein varnished it, and baked
it for four days in an oven at a gentle 85 F. to age it.  Jean Pierre
provided a heavy gilt Impressionist frame and finally he showed the
picture to Vincent, Van Gogh's grandson and a connoisseur of his
illustrious forebear's work.  Vincent was not willing to say it wasn't
the original, which gave Jean Pierre confidence that the picture would
pass Harvey Metcalfe's scrutiny.

Harvey, acting on his overheard tip, could see no harm in dropping into
the Lamanns Gallery.  When he was about five paces away, he caught
sight of the picture being taken out of the window and could not
believe his eyes.  A Van Gogh, without a doubt, and a superlative one
at that.  It had actually been on display for only two minutes.

Harvey walked into the gallery to discover Jean Pierre deep in
conversation with Stephen and James.  None of them took any notice of
him.  Stephen was addressing Jean Pierre in a guttural accent.

"A hundred and seventy thousand guineas is high, but it is a fine
example.  Can you be sure it is the picture that disappeared from
Berlin in 1937?"  "You can never be sure of anything, but you can see
on the back of the canvas the stamp of the Berlin National Gallery, and
the Bernheim Jeune have confirmed they sold it to the Germans in 1927.
The rest of its history is chronicled back to 1890.  It seems certain
that it was looted from the museum in the upheaval of the war."

"How did you obtain it?"

"From the collection of a member of the British aristocracy who wishes
it to be sold privately."

"Excellent," said Stephen.  "I would like to reserve it until four
o'clock this afternoon, when I will bring round my cheque for 170,000
guineas from the Dresdner Bank, A.G. Will that be acceptable?"

"Of course, sir," replied Jean Pierre.  "I will put a green dot on it."
James, in the sharpest of suits and a dashing trilby, hovered
knowledgeably behind Stephen.

"It certainly is a marvelous example of the master's work," he remarked
ingratiatingly.

"Yes.  I took it round to Julian Barren at Sotheby's and he seemed to
like it."  James retreated mincingly to the end of the gallery,
relishing his role as a connoisseur.  At that moment, Adrian walked in,
a copy of The Guardian sticking out of his pocket.

"Hello, Mr.  Lamanns.  I heard a rumour about a Van Gogh, which I
thought was in Russia, and I would like to write a few paragraphs about
it for tomorrow's paper.  Is that O.K. by you?"

"I should be delighted," said Jean Pierre, "although actually I have
just reserved the picture for Herr Drosser, a distinguished German
dealer, at 170,000 guineas."

"Very reasonable," said James knowingly from the end of the gallery. "I
think it's the best Van Gogh I have seen in London and I'm only sorry
my firm will not be auctioning it.  You're a lucky man, Mr. Drosser. 
If you ever want to auction it don't hesitate to contact me." James
handed Stephen a card and smiled at Jean Pierre.

Jean Pierre watched James.  It was a fine performance.  Adrian began to
take notes in what he hoped looked like shorthand and addressed Jean
Pierre: "Do you have a photograph of the picture?"

"Of course."

Jean Pierre opened a drawer and took out a colour photograph of the
picture with a typewritten description attached.  He handed it to
Adrian.  "Do watch the spelling of Lamanns, won't you?  I get so tired
of being confused with a French motor race."

He turned to Stephen.

"So sorry to keep you waiting, Herr Drosser.  How would you like us to
dispatch the picture?"

"You can send it to the Dorchester tomorrow morning, Room 120."
"Certainly, sir."

With that, Stephen started to leave.

"Excuse me, sir," said Adrian, "can I take the spelling of your
name?"

"D-R-O-S-S-E-R."

"And may I have permission to quote you in my article?"

"Yes, you may.  I am with my purchase very pleased.  Good day,
gentlemen."  Stephen bowed his head smartly, and departed.  He stepped
into Bond Street and to the horror of Jean Pierre, Adrian and James,
Harvey, without a moment's hesitation, followed him.

Jean Pierre sat down heavily on his Georgian mahogany desk and looked
despairingly at Adrian and James.

"God Almighty, the whole thing's a fiasco.  Six weeks of preparation
and three days of agony and he walks out on us."  Jean Pierre looked at
"The Harvest" angrily.

"I thought Stephen told us that Harvey would be bound to stay and
bargain with Jean Pierre," said James plaintively.  "He wouldn't let
the picture out of his sight."

"Who the hell thought of this bloody silly enterprise?"  muttered
Adrian.  "Stephen," they all cried together, and rushed to the window.
"What an interesting piece by Henry Moore," said an impeccably corseted
middle-aged lady, her hand on the bronze loin of a naked acrobat.  She
had slipped unnoticed into the gallery while the three had been
grumbling.  "How much are you asking for it?"

"I will be with you in a minute, madam," said Jean Pierre.  "Oh hell,
Metcalfe's following Stephen.  Get him on the pocket radio, Adrian."

"Stephen, can you hear me?  Whatever you do, don't look back.  We think
Harvey's a few yards behind you."

"What the hell do you mean he's a few yards behind me?  He's with you
in the gallery buying the Van Gogh, isn't he?  What are you all playing
at?"  "Harvey didn't give us a chance.  He walked straight out after
you before any of us could get a word in."

"Very clever.  Now what am I meant to do?"

Jean Pierre took over.

"You'd better go to the Dorchester just in case he is actually
following you."  "Where in hell's name is the Dorchester?"  yelped
Stephen.

Adrian came to his rescue.  "Take the first right, Stephen, and that
will take you into Bruton Street, keep walking as straight as you can
until you reach Berkeley Square.  Stay on the line, but don't look back
or you may turn into a pillar of salt."

"James," said Jean Pierre, thinking on his feet for not the first time
in his life.  "You take a taxi immediately for the Dorchester and book
Room 120 in the name of Drosser.  Have the key ready for Stephen the
moment he arrives through the door, then make yourself scarce. Stephen,
are you still there?"  "Yes."

"Did you hear all that?"

"Yes.  Tell James to book 119 or 121 if 120 is not available." "Roger,"
replied Jean Pierre.  "Get going, James."  James bolted and barged in
front of a woman who had just hailed a taxi, a thing he had never done
before.  "The Dorchester," he hollered, "as fast as you can go."  The
taxi shot off.  "Stephen, James has gone and I am sending Adrian to
follow Harvey so he can keep you briefed and guide you to the
Dorchester.  I am staying here.  Everything else O.K.?"

"No," said Stephen, "start praying.  I've reached Berkeley Square.
Where now?"  "Across the garden, then continue down Hill Street."

Adrian ran all the way to Bruton Street, until he was fifty yards
behind Harvey.  "Now, about that Henry Moore," said the well-corseted
lady.  "Screw Henry Moore!"

The steel-reinforced bosom heaved.

"Young man, I have never been spoken to in ..."

But it was pointless.  Jean Pierre had already reached the lavatory,
retching with nervousness.

"You're crossing South Audley Street now, then continue into Deanery
Street.  Keep going, don't turn right or left and don't look back.
Harvey is about fifty yards behind you.  I'm a little more than fifty
yards behind him," said Adrian.

"Is Room 120 free?"

"Yes sir, they checked out this morning, but I am not sure if it is
ready for occupancy yet.  I think the maid is still clearing the room.
I'll have to check, sir," said the tall receptionist in his morning
suit, indicating that he was a senior member of the floor staff.

"Oh, don't worry about that," said James.  "I always have that room.
Can you book me in for one night.  Name's Drosser, Herr--um--Helmut
Drosser."  He slipped a pound over the counter.

"Certainly, sir."

"That's Park Lane, Stephen.  Look right--the big hotel on the corner
straight in front of you is the Dorchester.  The semicircle facing you
is the main entrance.  Go up the steps and through the revolving door
and you'll find reception on your right.  James ought to be there."

Adrian was grateful that the annual dinner of the Royal Society for
Medicine had been held at the Dorchester last year.

"Where's Harvey?"  bleated Stephen.

"Only forty yards behind you."

Stephen quickened his pace and ran up the steps of the Dorchester and
pushed through the revolving door so hard that the other residents
going round found themselves on the street faster than they had
originally planned.  Thank God, James was there holding a key.

"The lift's over there," said James, pointing.  "You've only chosen one
of the most expensive suites in the hotel."

Stephen glanced in the direction James had indicated and turned back to
thank him.  But James was already heading off to the American Bar to be
sure he was well out of sight when Harvey arrived.

Stephen left the lift and found Room 120 on the first floor.  The
Dorchester, which he had never entered before, was as traditional as
Claridge's and its thick royal blue and golden carpets led to a
magnificently appointed corner suite which overlooked Hyde Park.  He
collapsed into an easy chair, not quite sure what to expect next.
Nothing had gone as planned.

Jean Pierre waited at the gallery, James sat in the American Bar and
Adrian loitered by the side of Barclays Bank, Park Lane, a mock Tudor
building fifty yards from the entrance of the Dorchester.  All four
waited nervously.  "Have you a Mr.  Drosser staying at this hotel?  I
think it's Room 120," barked Harvey.

The receptionist looked up the name.

"Yes, sir.  Is he expecting you?"

"No, but I want a word with him on the house phone."

"Of course, sir.  Would you be kind enough to go through the small
archway on your left, and you will find five telephones.  One of them
is the house phone."  Harvey marched through the archway as directed.

"Room 120," he instructed the operator, sitting in his own little
section, wearing the green Dorchester uniform with golden castles on
his lapels.  "Cubicle Number One, please, sir."

"Mr.  Drosser?"

"Speaking," said Stephen, summoning up his German accent for a
sustained effort.  "I wonder if I could come up and have a word with
you?  My name is Harvey Metcalfe.  It's about the Van Gogh you bought
this morning."  "Well, it's a little inconvenient at the moment.  I am
about to take a shower and I do have a lunch appointment."

"I won't keep you more than a few minutes."

Before Stephen could reply the telephone had clicked.  A few moments
later there was a knock on the door.  Stephen answered it nervously. He
was dressed in a white Dorchester dressing gown and his brown hair was
somewhat dishevelled and darker than normal.  (It was the only disguise
he could think of at such short notice as the original plan had not
allowed for a face-to-face meeting with Harvey.)

"Sorry to intrude, Mr.  Drosser, but I had to see you immediately.  I
know you have just got yourself a Van Gogh from the Lamanns Gallery and
I was hoping as you are a dealer, you might be willing to resell it for
a quick profit."  "No thank you," said Stephen, relaxing for the first
time.  "I've wanted a Van Gogh for my gallery in Munich for many years
and I'm sorry it's not for sale."  "Listen, you paid 170,000 guineas
for it.  What's that in dollars?"  Stephen paused.

"Oh, about $425,000."

"I will give you $15,000 if you release the picture to me.  All you
have to do is ring the gallery and say that the picture is mine and
that I will cover the bill."

Stephen sat silent, not sure how to deal with the situation without
blowing it.  Think like Harvey Metcalfe, he told himself.

"Twenty thousand dollars in cash and it's a deal."

Harvey hesitated.  Stephen felt weak.

"Done," said Harvey.  "Ring the gallery immediately."

Stephen picked up the telephone.  "Can you get me the Lamanns Gallery
in Bond Street as quickly as possible--I have a lunch appointment."  A
few seconds later the call came through.

"Lamanns Gallery."

"I would like to speak to Mr.  Lamanns."

"At last, Stephen.  What the hell happened your end?"

"Ah, Mr.  Lamanns, this is Herr Drosser.  You remember, I was in your
gallery earlier this morning."

"Of course I remember, you fool.  What are you going on about, Stephen?
It's me--Jean Pierre."

"I have a Mr.  Metcalfe with me."

"Christ, I'm sorry, Stephen.  I hadn't ..."

"And you can expect him in the next few minutes."  Stephen looked
towards Harvey, who nodded his assent.

"You are to release the Van Gogh I purchased this morning to him and he
will give you a cheque for the full amount, 170,000 guineas."

"Out of disaster, triumph," said Jean Pierre quietly.

"I'm very sorry I shall not be the owner of the picture myself, but I
have, as the Americans would say, had an offer I can't refuse.  Thank
you for the part you played," said Stephen, and put the telephone down.
Harvey was writing out a cheque to cash for $20,000.

"Thank you, Mr.  Drosser.  You have made me a happy man."

"I am not complaining, myself," said Stephen honestly.  He escorted
Harvey to the door and they shook hands.

"Good-bye, sir."

"Good-bye, Mr.  Metcalfe."

Stephen closed the door and tottered to the chair, almost too weak to
move.  Adrian and James saw Harvey leave the Dorchester.  Adrian
followed him in the direction of the gallery, his hopes rising with
each stride.  James took the lift to the first floor and nearly ran to
Room 120.  He banged on the door.  Stephen jumped at the noise.  He
didn't feel he could face Harvey again.  "James, it's you.  Cancel the
room, pay for one night and then join me in the cocktail bar."

"Why?  What for?"

"A bottle of Krug 1964."

One down and three to go.

Chapter 11

Jean Pierre was the last to arrive at Lord Brigsley's King's Road flat.
He felt he had the right to make an entrance.  Harvey's cheques were
cleared and the Lamanns Gallery account was for the moment $447,560 the
better for it.  The painting was in Harvey's possession and the heavens
had not fallen in.  Jean Pierre had cleared more money in two months of
crime than he had in ten years of legitimate trading.

The other three greeted him with acclaim and a glass of James's 1st
bottle of Veuve Clicquot 1959.

"We were lucky to pull it off," said Adrian.

"We weren't lucky," said Stephen.  "We kept our cool under pressure.
What we have learnt is that Harvey can change the rules in the middle
of the game."  "He almost changed the game, Stephen."

"Agreed, and we must remember that we shall fail unless we can be as
successful, not once, but three times.  We must not underestimate our
opponent because we have won the first round."

"Relax, Professor," said James.  "We can get down to business again
after dinner.  Anne came in this afternoon especially to make the
salmon mousse, and it won't go well with Harvey Metcalfe."

"When are we going to meet this fabulous creature?"  asked Jean Pierre.
"When this is all over and behind us."

"Don't marry her, James.  She's only after our money."  They all
laughed.  James hoped the day would come when he could tell them she
had known all along.  He produced the boeuf en croute and two bottles
of fichezeaux 1970.  Jean Pierre sniffed the sauce appreciatively.

"On second thoughts, she ought to be seriously considered if her touch
in bed is half as deft as it is in the kitchen."

"You're not going to get the chance to be the judge of that, Jean
Pierre.  Content yourself with admiring her French dressing."

"You were outstanding this morning, James," said Stephen, steering the
conversation away from Jean Pierre's pet subject.  "You should go on
the stage.  As a member of the English aristocracy, your talent is
simply wasted."  "I have always wanted to, but my old pa is against it.
Those who live in expectation of a large inheritance have to toe the
filial line."  "Why don't we let him play all four parts at Monte
Carlo?"  suggested Adrian.  The mention of Monte Carlo sobered them
up.

"Back to work," said Stephen.  "We have so far received $447,560.
Expenses with the picture and an unexpected night at the Dorchester
were $11,142, so Metcalfe still owes us $563,582.  Think of what we
have lost, not of what we have won.  Now, the Monte Carlo operation
which depends upon split-second timing and our ability to sustain our
roles.  Adrian will bring us up to date."  Adrian retrieved the green
dossier from the brief case by his side and studied his notes for a few
moments.

"Jean Pierre, you must grow a beard starting today, so that in three
weeks' time you will be unrecognisable.  You must also cut your hair
very short."  Adrian grinned unsympathetically at Jean Pierre's
grimace.  "Yes, you will look absolutely revolting."

"That," said Jean Pierre, "will not be possible."

"How are the baccarat and blackjack coming on?"  continued Adrian.  "I
have lost thirty-seven dollars in five weeks, including my member's fee
at Crockford's."

"It all goes on expenses," said Stephen.  "That puts the bill up to
$563,619."  They all laughed.  Only Stephen's lips did not move.  He
was in sober earnest.  "James, how is your handling of the van
going?"

"I can get to Harley Street from St.  Thomas's in fourteen minutes.  I
should be able to do the actual run in Monte Carlo in about eleven
minutes, though naturally I shall do some practice runs the day before.
I must master driving on the wrong side of the road."

"Strange how everybody except the British drives on the wrong side of
the road," observed Jean Pierre.

James ignored him.

"I'm not sure of all the continental road signs either."

"They are all in the Michelin guide that I gave you as part of my
dossier."  "I know, Adrian, but I will still feel easier when I have
experienced the actual run and not just studied maps.  There are quite
a few one-way streets in Monaco, and I want to be going down them in
the right direction."

"Don't worry.  You will have ample time when we are there.  That just
leaves Stephen, who is about the most able medical student I have ever
had.  You're happy with your newly acquired knowledge, aren't you?"

"About as happy as I am with your American accent, Adrian.  Anyway, I
trust that Harvey Metcalfe will be in no state to size us up by the
time we meet."  "Don't worry.  Believe me, he wouldn't even register if
you introduced yourself as Herr Drosser with a Van Gogh under each
arm."

Adrian handed round the final schedule of rehearsals at Harley Street
and St.  Thomas's, and consulted the green file again.

"I have booked four single rooms on different floors at the Hotel de
Paris and confirmed all the arrangements with the Centre Hos-pitalier
Princesse Grace.  The hotel is reputed to be one of the best in the
world--it's certainly expensive enough--but it is very near the Casino.
We fly to Nice on Monday, the day after Harvey is due to arrive on his
yacht."

"What do we do for the rest of the week?"  enquired James innocently.
Stephen resumed control.

"We master the green dossier--backwards, front wards and sideways for a
full dress rehearsal on Friday.  The most important thing for you,
James, is to get a grip of yourself and let us know what you intend to
do."

James sank back into gloom.

Stephen closed his file briskly.

"That seems to be all we can do tonight."

"Hang on, Stephen," said Adrian.  "Let's strip you off once more.  I'd
like to see if we can do it in ninety seconds."

Stephen lay down slightly reluctantly in the middle of the room, and
James and Jean Pierre swiftly and carefully removed his clothes.

"Eighty-seven seconds.  Excellent," said Adrian, looking down at
Stephen, naked except for his watch.  "Hell, look at the time.  I must
get back to Newbury.  My wife will think I have a mistress and I don't
fancy any of you."  Stephen dressed himself quickly while the others
prepared to leave.  A few minutes later, James stood by the front door,
watching them depart one by one.  As soon as Stephen was out of sight,
he bounded downstairs into the kitchen.  "Did you listen?"

"Yes, darling.  They're rather nice and I don't blame them for being
cross with you.  They are being very professional about the whole
venture.  Frankly, you sounded like the only amateur.  We'll have to
think up something good for you to match them.  We've over a week
before Mr.  Metcalfe goes to Monte Carlo."  James sighed: "Well, let's
enjoy tonight.  At least this morning was a triumph."  "Yes, but not
yours.  Tomorrow we work."

Chapter 12

"Passengers for Flight 017 to Nice are now requested to check in at
Gate Number Seven," boomed the loudspeaker at Heathrow Airport.

"That's us," said Stephen.

The four of them ascended the escalator to the first floor, and walked
down the long corridor.  After being searched for guns, bombs or
whatever terrorists are searched for, they boarded the aircraft.

They sat separately, neither looking nor speaking one to the other.
Stephen had warned them that the flight could well be sprinkled with
Harvey's friends, and each imagined himself to be sitting next to the
closest of them.  James gazed moodily at the cloudless sky and brooded.
He and Anne had read every book they could lay their hands on that even
hinted at stolen money or successful duplicity, but they had found
nothing they could plagiarise.  Even Stephen, in the intervals of being
undressed and practised upon at St.  Thomas's, was becoming daunted by
the task of finding a winning plan for James.  The Trident touched down
at Nice at 13:40, and the train journey from Nice to Monte Carlo took
them a further twenty minutes.  Each member of the team made his
separate way to the elegant Hotel de Paris in the Place du Casino.  At
7 P.M. they were all present in Room 217.

"So far, so good," said Adrian.  "Jean Pierre, you will go to the
Casino tonight and play a few hands of baccarat and blackjack.  Try to
acclimatise to the place and learn your way round it.  Do you foresee
any problems?"  "No, Adrian.  I may as well go now and start
rehearsing."

"Don't lose too much of our money," said Stephen.

Jean Pierre, resplendent in beard and dinner jacket, grinned and
slipped out of Room 217 and down the staircase, avoiding the lift.  He
walked the short distance from the hotel to the famous Casino.

Adrian continued:

"James, you take a taxi from the Casino to the hospital.  On arriving
at the hospital leave the meter running for a few minutes and then
return to the Casino.  You can normally rely on a taxi taking the
shortest route, but to be sure, tell the driver it's an emergency. That
will give you the opportunity of seeing which traffic lanes he uses
under pressure.  When he has returned you to the Casino, walk the route
from there to the hospital and back.  Then you can assimilate it in
your own time.  After you've mastered that, repeat the same procedure
for the route between the hospital and Harvey's yacht." "What about my
knowledge of the Casino on the night of the operation?" "Jean Pierre
will take care of that.  He'll meet you at the door because Stephen
won't be able to leave Harvey.  I don't think they will charge you the
twelve franc entrance fee because of your white coat and the stretcher.
When you have completed the walk, go to your room and stay there till
the meeting at eleven o'clock tomorrow.  Stephen and I will be going to
the hospital to check that all the arrangements have been carried out
as cabled from London."  Just as James left Room 217, Jean Pierre
arrived at the Casino.  It stands in the heart of Monte Carlo,
surrounded by beautiful gardens looking over the sea.  The present
building has several wings, the oldest of which is the one designed by
Charles Garnier, the architect of the Paris Opera House. The gambling
rooms, which were added in 1910, are linked by an atrium to the Salle
Garnier, in which operas and ballets are performed.

Jean Pierre marched up the marble staircase to the entrance and paid
his twelve francs.  The gambling rooms are vast and display the
decadence and grandeur of Europe at the turn of the century.

Massive red carpets, statues, paintings and tapestries give the
building an almost royal appearance and the portraits lend an air of a
country home still lived in.  The clientele were of all
nationalities--Arabs and Jews played next to each other at the roulette
wheel and it looked more like a gathering of the United Nations than a
casino.  Jean Pierre was totally at ease in the unreal world of the
wealthy.  Adrian had summed up his character very quickly and given him
a role he would master with aplomb.

Jean Pierre spent over three hours mastering the layout of the
Casino--its gambling rooms, bars and restaurants, the telephones, the
entrance and exits.  Then he turned his attention to the gambling
itself.  Two shoes of baccarat are played in the Salons Prives at 3
P.M. and 11 P.M."  and Jean Pierre discovered from Pierre Cattalano,
the head of the public relations department of the Casino, which of the
private rooms Harvey Metcalfe played in.  Blackjack is played in the
Salon des Ameriques from 11 A.M. daily.  There are three tables, and
Jean Pierre's informant told him that Harvey always played on table
number two at seat number three.  Jean Pierre played a little blackjack
and baccarat, to discover any slight variations there might be from
Crockford's.  There were in fact none, as Crockford's still adhere to
French rules.  Harvey Metcalfe arrived noisily at the Casino just after
eleven o'clock, and blazed a trail of cigar ash to his baccarat table.
Jean Pierre, inconspicuous at the bar, watched as the head croupier
first showed Harvey politely to a reserved seat, and then walked
through to the Salon des Ameriques to the No.  2 blackjack table and
placed a discreet white card marked "Reservee" on one of the chairs.
Harvey was clearly a favoured client.  The management knew as well as
Jean Pierre which games Harvey Metcalfe played.  At eleven twenty-seven
Jean Pierre left quietly and returned to the solitude of his hotel
room, where he remained until eleven o'clock the next day.

James's evening went well.  That taxi driver was superb.  The word
"emergency" brought out the Walter Mitty in him: he travelled through
Monte Carlo as if it were the Rally.  When James arrived at the
hospital in eight minutes, forty-four seconds, he genuinely felt a
little sick and rested for a few minutes in the Entree des Patients
before returning to the taxi.

"Back to the Casino, but much slower, please."

The journey back to the Casino along the Rue Grimaldi took just over
eleven minutes and James decided he would settle for trying to master
it in about ten.  He paid off the taxi driver and carried out the
second part of his instructions.  Walking to the hospital and back took
just over an hour.  The night air was gentle on his face, and the
streets were crowded with lively people.  Tourism is the chief source
of income for the principality, and the Monegasques take the welfare of
their visitors very seriously.  James passed innumerable little
pavement restaurants and souvenir shops stocked with expensive trinkets
of no significance.  Noisy groups of holiday makers strolled along the
pavements, their multilingual chatter forming a meaningless chorus to
James's thoughts of Anne.  James then took a taxi to the harbour to
locate Rosalie, and from there, once more to the hospital.  Like Jean
Pierre, he was safely in his room before midnight, having completed his
first task.

Adrian and Stephen found the walk to the hospital from their hotel took
just over forty minutes.  On arrival Adrian asked the receptionist if
he could see the superintendent.

"The night superintendent is now on," said a freshly starched French
nurse.  "Who shall I say is asking him for?"  Her English pronunciation
was excellent and they both avoided a smile at her slight mistake.

"Doctor Wiley Barker of the University of California."  Adrian began to
pray that the French superintendent would not happen to know Wiley
Barker, ex-President Nixon's physician and one of the most respected
surgeons in the world, was actually touring Australia at the time,
lecturing to the major universities.  "Bonsoir Docteur Barker.  M.
Bartise a votre service.  Votre vi site fait grand honneur a notre
humble hop ital

Adrian's newly acquired American accent stopped any further
conversation in French.  "I would like to check the layout of the
theatre," said Adrian, "and confirm that we have it booked for tomorrow
from eleven o'clock at night to four o'clock in the morning for the
next five days."

"That is quite correct, Docteur Barker.  The theatre is off the next
corridor.  Will you follow me, please?"

The theatre was not unlike the one the four of them had been practising
in at St.  Thomas's, two rooms with a rubber swing door dividing them.
The main theatre was well equipped and a nod from Adrian showed Stephen
that he had all the instruments he needed.  Adrian was impressed.
Although the hospital had only some 200 beds, the theatre was of the
highest standard.  Rich men had obviously been ill there before.

"Will you be requiring an anaesthetist or any nurses to assist you,
Docteur Barker?"

"No," said Adrian.  "I have my own anaesthetist and staff, but I will
require a tray of laparotomy instruments to be laid out every night.
However, I will be able to give you at least an hour's warning."

"That's plenty of time.  Is there anything else, sir?"

"Yes, the special vehicle I ordered.  Can it be picked up by my driver
at twelve o'clock tomorrow?"

"Yes, Docteur Barker.  I will leave it in the small car park behind the
hospital and your driver will be able to pick up the keys from
reception."  "Can you recommend an agency from which I can get an
experienced nurse for post-operative care?"

"Bien sur, the Auxiliare Medical of Nice will be happy to oblige--at a
certain price, of course."

"No problem," said Adrian.  "And that reminds me to ask, have all the
expenses been dealt with?"

"Yes, Docteur.  We received a cheque from California last Thursday for
seven thousand dollars."

Adrian had been very pleased with that touch, which had been so simple.
Stephen had contacted his bank at Harvard and asked them to send a
draft from the First National City Bank in San Francisco to the
hospital secretary at Monte Carlo.  "Thank you for all your help, M.
Bartise.  You have been most obliging.  Now, you understand I am not
quite sure which night I shall bring my patient in.  He's a sick man,
although he doesn't know it, and I have to prepare him for the
ordeal."

"Of course, mon cher docteur."

"Finally, I would appreciate it if you would let as few people as
possible know that I am in Monte Carlo as I am trying to snatch a
holiday at the same time as working."

"I understand, Docteur Barker.  I can assure you of my discretion."
Adrian and Stephen bade farewell to M. Barrise and took a taxi back to
the hotel.

"I'm always slightly humiliated by how well the French speak our
language compared with our grasp of theirs," said Stephen.

"It's all the fault of you bloody Americans," said Adrian.  "No, it
isn't.  If France had conquered America your French would be excellent.
Blame it on the Pilgrim Fathers."

Adrian laughed.  For fear of being overheard, neither of them spoke
again until they reached Room 217.  Stephen had no doubts about the
risk and responsibility they were taking this time.

Harvey Metcalfe was on the deck of his yacht, sunbathing and reading
the morning papers.  Nice Matin, irritatingly enough, was in French. He
read it laboriously, with the aid of a dictionary, to see if there were
any social events to which he ought to get himself invited.  He had
gambled late into the night, and was enjoying the sun's rays on his
fleshy back.  If money could have obtained it, he would have been six
foot and 170 pounds with a handsome head of hair, but no amount of
suntan oil would stop his balding dome from burning, so he covered it
with a cap inscribed "I'm sexy."  If Miss Fish could see him now.  At
eleven o'clock he turned over and allowed the sun to see his massive
stomach as James strolled into Room 217 to find the rest of the team
waiting for him.  Jean Pierre reported on the layout of the Casino and
Harvey Metcalfe's habits.  James brought them up to date on the result
of his run the night before and confirmed that he thought he could
cover the distance in just under eleven minutes.

"Perfect," said Adrian.  "Stephen and I took fifteen minutes by taxi
from the hospital to the hotel and if Jean Pierre warns me immediately
the balloon goes up in the Casino, I should have enough time to see
that everything is ready before you all arrive."

"I do hope the balloon is going to go down, not up, in the Casino,"
remarked Jean Pierre.

"I have booked an agency nurse to be on call from tomorrow night.  The
hospital has all the facilities I require.  It will take about two
minutes to get a stretcher from the front door to the theatre, so from
the moment James leaves the car park, I should have at least sixteen
minutes to prepare myself.  James, you will be able to pick up the
vehicle from the hospital car park at twelve o'clock today.  The keys
have been left in reception in the name of Doctor Barker.  Do a couple
of practice runs and no more.  I don't want you causing interest or
looking conspicuous.  And could you put this parcel in the back,
please."

"What is it?"

"Three long white laboratory coats and a stethoscope for Stephen. While
you're at it, better check that you can unfold the stretcher easily. 
When you have finished the two runs put the vehicle back in the car
park and return to your room until eleven P.M. From then through to
four o'clock in the morning you will have to wait in the car park until
you get a message from Jean Pierre of 'action stations' or 'all clear."
Everybody buy new batteries for your transmitters.  We can't have the
whole plan collapse for the sake of a tenpenny battery. I am afraid
there is nothing much for you to do, Jean Pierre, until this evening,
except relax.  I hope you have some books in your room."

"Can't I go to the Princes Cinema and see Frangois Truffaut's La mat
Americaine?  I just adore Jacqueline Bisset.  Vive la France!"

"My dear Jean Pierre, Miss Bisset's from Reading," said James.  "I
don't care.  I still want to see her."

"A frog he would a-wooing go," said Adrian mockingly.  "But why not?
The last thing Harvey will do is take in an intellectual French film
with no subtitles.  Hope you enjoy it and good 'luck tonight, Jean
Pierre."

Jean Pierre left for his room as quietly as he had come, leaving the
rest of them together in Room 217.

"Right, James.  You can do your practice runs any time you like now.
Just make sure you are fully awake tonight."

"Fine.  I'll go and pick up the keys from the hospital reception. Let's
just hope nobody stops me for a real emergency."

"Now, Stephen, let's go over it again.  There is more than money to
lose if we get this one wrong.  We will start from the top.  What do
you do if the nitrous oxide falls below five lit res ..."

"Station check--station check--operation Metcalfe.  This is Jean
Pierre.  I am on the steps of the Casino.  Can you hear me, James?"

"Yes.  I am in the car park of the hospital.  Out."

"Adrian here.  I am on the balcony of Room 217.  Is Stephen with you,
Jean Pierre?"

"Yes.  He's drinking on his own at the bar."

"Good luck and out."

Jean Pierre carried out a station check every hour on the hour from 7
P.M. until 11 P.M."  merely to inform Adrian and James that Harvey had
not arrived.  Eventually he did show up at eleven-sixteen and took his
reserved place at the baccarat table.  Stephen stopped sipping his
tomato juice and Jean Pierre moved over and waited patiently by the
table for one of the men seated on the left or right of Harvey to
leave.  An hour passed by.  Harvey was losing a little, but remained
playing.  So did the tall, thin American on his right and the Frenchman
on his left.  Another hour and still no movement.  Then suddenly the
Frenchman on the left of Metcalfe had a particularly bad run, gathered
his few remaining chips and left the table.  Jean Pierre moved
forward.

"I am afraid, monsieur, that that seat is reserved for another
gentleman," said the banker.  "We do have an unreserved place on the
other side of the table."  "It's not important," said Jean Pierre and
retreated, cursing the deference with which the Monegasques treat the
wealthy.  Stephen could see from the bar what had happened and made
furtive signs to leave.  They were all back in Room 217 just after 2

A.M.

"What a bloody silly mistake.  Merde, mer de mer de  I should have
thought of it."  "No, it was my fault.  I don't know how casinos work
and I should have queried it during rehearsals," said Adrian, stroking
his newly acquired moustache.  "No one is to blame," chipped in
Stephen.  "We still have three nights and we mustn't panic.  We will
have to work out how to overcome the seating problem, but for now we'll
all get some sleep and meet again in this room at ten o'clock tomorrow
morning."

They left a little depressed.  Adrian had sat waiting in the hotel on
edge for four hours, James was cold and bored in the hospital car park,
Stephen was sick of tomato juice and Jean Pierre had been on his feet
by the baccarat table waiting for a seat that wasn't even available.

Once again Harvey lounged in the sun.  He was now a light pink and was
hoping to be a better colour towards the end of the week.  The New York
Times informed him that the price of gold was still going up and the
deutsch mark and the Swiss franc were firm, while the dollar seemed to
be on the retreat against every currency, except sterling.  Sterling
stood at $2.42.  Harvey thought a more realistic price was $2.10 and
the sooner it reached there the better.  "Nothing new in that," he
thought, when the sharp ring of a French telephone roused him.  He
never could get used to the sound of another country's telephones.  The
attentive steward bustled out on deck with the instrument on an
extension lead.

"Hi, Lloyd.  Didn't know you were in Monte--yes, of course--why don't
we get together?--about eight o'clock?--me too--I'm even getting
brown--must be getting old--what--great, I'll see you then."

Harvey replaced the receiver and asked the steward for a large whisky
on the rocks.  He settled down happily once again to the morning's
financial bad news.

"That seems to be the obvious solution," said Stephen.  They all nodded
their approval.  "Jean Pierre will give up the baccarat table and book
a place next to Harvey Metcalfe on his blackjack table in the Salon des
Ameriques and wait for him to change games.  We know both the seat
numbers Harvey plays at and we will alter our plans accordingly."

Jean Pierre dialled the number of the Casino and asked to speak to the
Pierre Cattalano:

"Reservez-moi la deuxieme place sur la table deux pour le vingt-et-un
ce sou- et demain sous' il vous plait."

"Je pense que cette place est deja reservee, monsieur.  Un instant, sil
vous plait, je vais verifier."

"Peut-etre que cent francs la rendra libre," replied Jean Pierre. "Maid
certainment, monsieur, presentez-vous a moi des votre ar-ri vee et le
necessaire sera fait."

"Merci," said Jean Pierre, and replaced the receiver.

"That's under control."  Jean Pierre was visibly sweating, though had
the outcome of his call been of no significance, not a drop of
perspiration would have appeared for such a simple request.  They all
returned to their rooms.  Just after midnight Adrian waited quietly in
Room 217, James stood in the car park humming, "I get along without you
very well," Stephen was at the bar of the Salon des Ameriques toying
with yet another tomato juice and Jean Pierre was at seat number two on
table number two playing blackjack.  Both Stephen and Jean Pierre saw
Harvey come through the door chatting to a man in a loud checked jacket
which only a Texan could have worn outside his own front garden. Harvey
and his friend sat down together at the baccarat table.  Jean Pierre
beat a hasty retreat to the bar.

"Oh, no!  I give up."

"No, you don't," whispered Stephen.  "Back to the hotel."

Spirits were very low when they were all assembled in Room 217, but it
was agreed that Stephen had made the right decision.  They could not
risk the whole operation being carefully watched by a friend of
Harvey's.  "The first operation is beginning to look a bit too good to
be true," said Jean Pierre.

"Don't be silly," said Stephen.  "We had two false alarms then, and the
entire operation had to be changed at the last minute.  We can't expect
him just to walk in and hand over his money.  Now snap out of it, all
of you, and get some sleep."  They returned to their separate rooms,
but not to much sleep.  The strain was beginning to tell.

"That's enough, I think, Lloyd.  A goodish evening."

"For you, you mean, Harvey, not for me.  You are one of nature's
winners."  Harvey patted the checked shoulder expansively.  If anything
pleased him more than his own success, it was other people's failure.
"Do you want to spend the night on my yacht, Lloyd?"

"No, thanks.  I must get back to Nice.  I have a meeting in Paris,
France, tomorrow lunch.  See you soon, Harvey--take care of yourself."
He dug Harvey in the ribs jocularly.  "That's a fair-sized job."

"Good night, Lloyd," said Harvey a little stiffly.

The next evening Jean Pierre did not arrive at the Casino until eleven
o'clock.  Harvey Metcalfe was already at the baccarat table minus
Lloyd.  Stephen was at the bar looking angry and Jean Pierre glanced at
him apologetically as he took his seat at the blackjack table.  He
pkyed a few hands to get the feel, trying to keep his losses fairly
limited without drawing attention to the modesty of his stakes.
Suddenly Harvey left the baccarat table and walked into the Salon des
Ameriques, glancing at the roulette tables as he passed, more out of
curiosity than interest.  He detested games of pure chance and
considered baccarat and blackjack games of skill.  He headed to table
number two, seat number three, on the left of Jean Pierre.  The
adrenaline started pumping round again and the heartbeat was back up to
120.  Stephen left the Casino for a few minutes to warn James and
Adrian that Harvey was now sitting next to Jean Pierre.  He then
returned to the bar and waited.

There were now seven punters at the blackjack table.  On box number
one, a middle-aged lady, smothered in diamonds, who looked as if she
was passing time while her husband played roulette or perhaps baccarat.
On box number two, Jean Pierre.  On box number three, Harvey.  On box
number four, a dissipated young man with the world-weariness that goes
with a large unearned income.  On box number five, an Arab in full
robes.  On box number six, a not unattractive actress who was clearly
resting and, Jean Pierre suspected, with the occupier of box number
five, and on box number seven, an elderly straight-backed, aristocratic
Frenchman.

"A large black coffee," Harvey drawled to the slim waiter in his smart
brown jacket.

Monte Carlo does not allow hard liquor to be sold at the tables or
girls to serve the customers.  The Casino's business is gambling, not
booze or women, in direct contrast to Las Vegas.  Harvey had enjoyed
Vegas when he was younger, but the older he became the more he
appreciated the sophistication of the French.  He had grown to prefer
the formal atmosphere and decorum of the Casino.  Although at the
number three table only he and Jean Pierre were in dinner jackets, it
was frowned upon to be dressed in any way that might be described as
casual.  A moment later, piping hot coffee in a large golden cup
arrived at Harvey's side.  Jean Pierre eyed it nervously while Harvey
placed 100 francs on the table next to Jean Pierre's three-franc chip,
the minimum stake allowed.  The dealer, a tall young man not more than
thirty who was proud of the fact that he could deal a hundred hands in
an hour, slipped the cards out of the shoe.  A king for Jean Pierre, a
four for Harvey, a five for the young man on Harvey's left and a six
for the dealer.  Jean Pierre's second card was a seven.  He stuck.
Harvey drew a ten and also stuck.  The young man on Harvey's left also
drew a ten and asked the dealer to twist again.  It was an
eight--bust.

Harvey despised amateurs in any field and even fools know you don't
twist if you have twelve or more when the dealer's card face up is a
three, four, five or six He grimaced slightly.  The dealer dealt
himself a ten and a six.  Harvey and Jean Pierre were winners.  Jean
Pierre ignored the fate of the other players.  The next round was
unwinnable.  Jean Pierre stuck at eighteen, two nines which he did not
split as the dealer had an ace.  Harvey stuck on eighteen, an eight and
a jack, and the young man on the left, bust again.  The bank drew a
queen--"Blackjack," and took the table.

The next hand gave Jean Pierre a three, Harvey a seven and the young
man a ten.  The dealer drew himself a seven.  Jean Pierre drew an eight
and doubled his stake to six francs and then drew a ten--vingt-et-une.
Jean Pierre did not blink.  He realised he was playing well and that he
must not draw attention to it, but let Harvey take it for granted.  In
fact Harvey hadn't even noticed him: his attention was rivetted on the
young man on his left, who seemed anxious to make a gift to the
management on every hand.  The dealer continued, giving Harvey a ten
and the young man an eight, leaving them both no choice but to stick.
The dealer drew a ten, giving himself seventeen.  He paid Jean Pierre,
left Harvey's stake and paid the young man.

There were no more cards left in the shoe.  The dealer made a great
show of reshuffling the four packs and invited Harvey to cut the cards
before replacing them in the shoe.  They slipped out again: a ten for
Jean Pierre, a five for Harvey, a six for the young man and a four for
the dealer.  Jean Pierre drew an eight.  The cards were running well.
Harvey drew a ten and stuck at fifteen.  The young man drew a ten and
asked for another card.  Harvey could not believe his eyes and whistled
through the gap in his front teeth.  Sure enough, the next card was a
king and the young man was bust.  The dealer dealt himself a jack and
then an eight, making twenty-two, but the young man did not take the
lesson in.  Harvey stared at him.  When would he discover that of the
fifty-two cards in a pack, no less than sixteen have a face value of
ten.

Harvey's distraction gave Jean Pierre the opportunity he had been
waiting for.  He slipped his hand into his pocket and took the
prostigmin tablet Adrian had given him into the palm of his left hand.
He sneezed, pulling his handkerchief from his breast pocket in a
well-rehearsed gesture with his right hand.  At the same time, he
quickly and unobtrusively dropped the tablet into Harvey's coffee.  It
would, Adrian had assured him, be an hour before it took effect.  To
begin with, Harvey would just feel a little sick, then it would get
rapidly worse until the pain was too much to bear, and he would finally
collapse in absolute agony.

Jean Pierre turned to the bar, gripped his right-hand fist three times
and then placed it in his pocket.  Stephen left immediately and warned
Adrian and James from the steps of the Casino that the prostigmin
tablet was in Metcalfe's drink.  It was now Adrian's turn for a test
under pressure.  He rang the hospital and asked the sister on duty to
have the theatre in preparation.  Then he rang the nursing agency and
asked that the nurse he had booked should be waiting in the hospital
reception in exactly ninety minutes' time.  He then sat nervously
waiting for another call from the Casino.

Stephen returned to the bar.  Harvey had started to feel ill, but was
loath to leave.  Despite the growing pain, he found growing greed the
greater incentive.  He drank the rest of his coffee and ordered another
one, hoping it would clear his head.  The coffee did not help and
Harvey began to feel steadily worse.  An ace and a king, followed by a
seven, four and a ten, and then two queens helped him to stay at the
table.  Jean Pierre forced himself not to look at his watch.  The
dealer gave Jean Pierre a seven, Harvey another ace and the young man a
two.  Quite suddenly, almost exactly on the hour, Harvey could not bear
it any longer.  He tried to stand up and leave the table.

"Le jeu a commence, monsieur," the dealer said formally.

"Go fuck yourself," said Harvey, and collapsed to the ground, gripping
his stomach in agony.  Jean Pierre sat motionless while the croupiers
and gamblers milled around helplessly.  Stephen fought his way through
the circle which had gathered round Harvey.

"Stand back, please.  I am a doctor."

The crowd moved back quickly at the relief of having a professional man
available.

"What is it, Doctor?"  gasped Harvey, who now felt the end of the world
was about to come.

"I don't know yet," replied Stephen.  Adrian had warned him that from
collapse to passing out might be as short a time as ten minutes, so he
set to work fast.  He loosened Harvey's tie and took his pulse.  He
then undid his shirt and started feeling his abdomen.

"Have you a pain in the stomach?"

"Yes," groaned Harvey.

"Did it come on suddenly?"

"Yes."

"Can you try and describe the quality of the pain?  Is it stabbing,
burning or gripping?"

"Gripping."

"Where is it most painful?"

Harvey touched the right side of his stomach.  Stephen pressed down the
tip of the ninth rib, making Harvey bellow with pain.

"Ah," said Stephen, "a positive Murphy's sign.  You probably have an
acutely inflamed gallbladder and I am afraid that may mean gallstones."
He continued to palpate the massive abdomen gently.  "It looks as if a
stone has come out of your gallbladder and is passing down the tube to
your intestine and it's the squeezing of that tube that is giving you
the dreadful pain.  Your gallbladder and the stone must be removed at
once.  I can only hope there is someone at the hospital who can perform
an emergency operation."

Jean Pierre came in bang on cue:

"Doctor Wiley Barker is staying at my hotel."

"Wiley Barker, the American surgeon?"

"Yes, yes," said Jean Pierre.  "The chap who's been taking care of
Nixon."  "My God, what a piece of luck.  We couldn't have anyone
better, but he's very expensive."

"I don't give a damn about the expense," wailed Harvey.

"Well, it might be as high as fifty thousand dollars."

"I don't care if it's a hundred thousand," screamed Harvey.  At that
moment he would have been willing to part with his entire fortune, such
was the effect of the prostigmin tablet.

"Right," said Stephen.  "You, sir," looking at Jean Pierre, "ring for
an ambulance and then contact Doctor Barker and ask if he can get to
the hospital immediately.  Tell him it's an emergency.  This gentleman
requires a surgeon of the highest qualifications."

"You're damn right I do," said Harvey as he passed out.  Jean Pierre
left the Casino and called over his transmitter:

"Action stations!--action stations!"

Adrian left the Hotel de Paris and took a taxi.  He would have given a
hundred thousand to change places with the driver, but the car was
moving relentlessly towards the hospital.  It was too late to turn back
now.

James smashed the ambulance into first gear and rushed to the Casino,
siren blaring.  He was luckier than Adrian.  With so much to
concentrate on he didn't have time to worry.

Eleven minutes and forty-one seconds later he arrived, leapt out of the
driver's seat and opened the back door, gathered the stretcher and
rushed up the Casino steps in his long white coat.  Jean Pierre was
standing expectantly on the top step.  No words passed between them as
he guided James quickly through to the Salon des Ameriques, where
Stephen was bending over Harvey.  The stretcher was placed on the
floor.  It took three of them to put the 227 pounds of Harvey Metcalfe
onto the canvas.  Stephen and James picked him up and took him quickly
through to the ambulance, followed by Jean Pierre.

"Where are you going with my patron?"  demanded a voice.  The three of
them turned round, startled.  It was Harvey's French chauffeur standing
by the white Rolls Royce.  After a moment's hesitation, Jean Pierre
took over.  "Mr.  Metcalfe has collapsed and has to go to hospital for
an emergency operation.  You must return to the yacht immediately,
inform the staff to have his cabin ready and wait further
instructions."

The chauffeur touched his cap and ran to the Rolls Royce.  James leapt
behind the wheel, while Stephen and Jean Pierre joined Harvey in the
back of the vehicle.  "Hell, that was close.  Well done, Jean Pierre. I
was speechless," admitted Stephen.

"It was nothing," said Jean Pierre, sweat pouring down his face.  The
ambulance shot off like a scalded cat.  Stephen and Jean Pierre both
replaced their jackets with the long white laboratory coats left on the
seat and Stephen placed the stethoscope round his neck.

"It looks as if he's dead," said Jean Pierre.

"Adrian says he isn't," said Stephen.

"How can he tell four miles away?"

"I don't know.  We'll just have to take his word for it."  James
screeched to a halt outside the entrance of the hospital.  Stephen and
Jean Pierre hurried their patient through to the operating theatre.
James returned the ambulance to the car park and quickly joined the
others in the theatre.

Adrian, scrubbed up and gowned, was there to meet them, and while they
were strapping Harvey Metcalfe to the operating table in the small room
next to the theatre, he spoke for the first time:

"All of you change your clothes and, Jean Pierre, you scrub up as
instructed."  All three of them changed and Jean Pierre started to wash
immediately--a long, laborious process which Adrian had firmly taught
him must never be cut short.  Post-operative septicaemia formed no part
of his plans.  Jean Pierre appeared from the scrubbing-up room ready
for action.

"Now relax.  We have done this nine times already.  Just carry on
exactly as if we were still at St.  Thomas's."

Stephen moved behind the mobile Boyle's machine.  For four weeks he had
been training to be an anaesthetist: he had rendered James and a
faintly protesting Jean Pierre unconscious twice each in practise runs
at St.  Thomas's.  Now was his chance to exercise his new powers over
Harvey Metcalfe.

Adrian removed a syringe from a plastic packet and injected 250
milligrams of thiopentone into Harvey's arm.  The patient sank back
into a deep sleep.  Jean Pierre and James quickly and efficiently
undressed Harvey and then covered him in a sheet.  Stephen placed the
mask from the Boyle's machine over Metcalfe's nose.  The two
flow-meters on the back of the machine showed five lit res nitrous
oxide and three lit res of oxygen.

"Take right pulse," said Adrian.

Stephen placed a finger in front of the ear just above the lobe to
check the pre auricular pulse.  It was seventy.

"Wheel him through into the theatre," instructed Adrian.  James pushed
the operating trolley into the next room until it was just under the
operating lights.  Stephen trundled the Boyle's machine along behind
them.  The operating threat re was windowless and coldly sterile.
Gleaming white tiles covered every wall from floor to ceiling, and it
contained only the equipment needed for one operation.  Jean Pierre had
covered Harvey with a sterile green sheet, leaving only his head and
left arm exposed.  One trolley of sterile instruments, drapes and
towels had been carefully laid out by the theatre nurse, and stood
covered with a sterile sheet.  Adrian hung a bottle of intravenous
fluid and tubing from a standard near the head of the table and taped
the end of the tubing to Harvey's left arm to complete the preparation.
Stephen sat at the head of the table with the Boyle's machine and
adjusted the face mask over Harvey's mouth and nose.  Only one of the
three massive operating lights hanging directly over Harvey had been
turned on, causing a spotlight effect on the protruding bulge of the
abdomen.

Eight eyes stared down on their victim.  Adrian continued:

"I shall give exactly the same instructions as I did in all our
rehearsals, so just concentrate.  First, I shall clean the abdomen with
a skin preparation of iodine."

Adrian had all the instruments ready on the side of the table next to
Harvey's feet.  James lifted the sheet and folded it back over Harvey's
legs, then he carefully removed the sterile sheet covering the trolley
of instruments and poured iodine into one of the small basins.  Adrian
picked up a swab in a pair of forceps and dipped it in the iodine
solution.  With a swift action up and down over the abdomen, he cleaned
about a foot square of Harvey's massive body.  He threw the swab into a
bin and repeated the action with a fresh one.  Next he placed a sterile
towel below Harvey's chin, covering his chest, and another one over his
hips and thighs.  A third one was placed lengrhways along the left-hand
side of his body and a further one along the right-hand side, leaving a
nine-inch square of flabby belly exposed.  He put a towel clip on each
corner to secure them and then placed the laparotomy drapes over the
prepared site.  He was now ready.

"Scalpel."

Jean Pierre placed what he would have called a knife firmly in Adrian's
outstretched palm.  James's apprehensive eyes met Jean Pierre's across
the operating table, and Stephen concentrated on Harvey's breathing as
Adrian made a ten-centimetre para median incision, reaching about three
centimetres into the fat.  Adrian had rarely seen a larger stomach and
thought he could probably have gone as far as eight centimetres without
reaching the muscle.  Blood started flowing everywhere, which Adrian
stopped with diathermy.  No sooner had he finished the incision and
staunched the flow of blood than he began to stitch up the patient's
wound with a 3/0 interrupted plain catgut for ten stitches.  "That will
dissolve within a week," he explained.

He then closed the skin with 32/0 interrupted plain silk using an
atraumatic needle.  Then he cleaned the wound, removing the patches of
blood that still remained.  Finally, he placed a medium self-adhesive
wound dressing over his handiwork.

James removed the drapes and sterile towels and placed them in the bin
while Adrian and Jean Pierre put Metcalfe into a hospital gown and
carefully packed his clothes in a grey plastic bag.

"He's coming round," said Stephen.

Adrian took another syringe and injected ten milligrams of diazepam.
"That will keep him asleep for at least thirty minutes," he said, "and,
in any case, he'll be ga-ga for about three hours and he won't be able
to remember much of what has happened.  James, get the ambulance
immediately and bring it round to the front of the hospital."

James left the theatre and changed back into his clothes, a procedure
which he could now perform in ninety seconds.  He disappeared to the
car park.  "Now, you two, get changed, and then place Harvey very
carefully in the ambulance and you, Jean Pierre, wait in the back with
him.  Stephen, you carry out your next job."

Stephen and Jean Pierre changed quickly back into their clothes, donned
their long white coats again, and wheeled the slumbering Harvey
Metcalfe gently to the ambulance.  Stephen ran to the public telephone
by the hospital entrance, checked a piece of paper in his top pocket
and dialled.

"Hello, Nice Matin?  My name's Terry Robards of the New York Times. I'm
here on holiday, and I have a great little story for you...."

Adrian returned to the operating theatre and wheeled the trolley of
instruments he had used to the sterilizer room, and left them there to
be dealt with by the hospital theatre staff in the morning.  He picked
up the plastic bag which contained Harvey's clothes and, going through
to the changing room, quickly removed his operating gown, cap and mask
and put on his own clothes.  He went in search of the theatre sister,
and smiled charmingly at her.  "All finished, ma so eur  I have left
the instruments by the sterilizer.  Please thank M. Bartise for me once
again."

"Oui, monsieur.  Notre plaisir.  Je suis heureuse de pouvoir etre a
meme de vous aider.  Votre infirmiere de 1"Auxiliare Medical est
arrivee."  A few moments later, Adrian arrived at the ambulance,
accompanied by the agency nurse.  He helped her into the back.

"Drive very slowly and carefully to the harbour."

James nodded and set off at funereal pace.

"Nurse Faubert."

"Yes, Docteur Barker."  Her hands were tucked primly under her blue
cape, and her French accent was enchanting.  Adrian thought Harvey
would not find her ministrations unwelcome.

"My patient has just had an operation for the removal of a gallstone
and will need plenty of rest."

With that Adrian took out of his pocket a gallstone the size of an
orange with a hospital tag on it which read "Harvey Metcalfe."  Adrian
had in fact acquired the huge stone from St.  Thomas's Hospital, the
original owner being a six foot six West Indian bus conductor on the
number 14 route.  Stephen and Jean Pierre stared at it in disbelief.
The nurse checked her new charge's pulse and respiration.  "Were I your
patient, Nurse Faubert," said Jean Pierre, "I should take good care
never to recover."

When they arrived at the yacht Adrian had briefed the nurse on diet and
rest, and told her that he would be round to see his patient at eleven
o'clock the next morning.  They left him sleeping soundly in his large
cabin, stewards and staff clucking attentively.

James drove the other three back to the hospital and deposited the
ambulance in the car park, and the keys with reception.  The four of
them headed back to the hotel by separate routes.  Adrian was the last
to arrive at Room 217, just after 3:30 A.M. He fell into an armchair.

"Will you allow me a whisky, Stephen?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good God, he meant it," said Adrian, and downed a large Johnnie Walker
before handing the bottle to Jean Pierre.

"He will be all right?"  said James.

"You sound quite concerned for him.  Yes, he can have his ten stitches
out in a week's time and all he'll have is a nasty scar to brag about
to his friends.  I must get to bed.  I have to see him at eleven
o'clock tomorrow and the confrontation may well be harder than the
operation.  You were all great tonight.  My God, am I glad we had those
sessions at St.  Thomas's.  If you are ever out of work and I need a a
croupier, a driver and an anaesthetist, I will ring for you."

The others left and Adrian collapsed on his bed, exhausted.  He fell
into a deep sleep and woke just after eight o'clock to discover he was
still fully dressed.  That had not happened to him since his days as a
young houseman, when he had been on night duty after a fourteen-hour
day without a break.  Adrian had a long, soothing bath in very hot
water.  He dressed and put on a new shirt and suit, ready for his
face-to-face meeting with Harvey Metcalfe.  His newly acquired
moustache and rimless glasses, and the success of the operation made
him feel a little like the famous surgeon he was impersonating.

The other three all appeared during the next hour to wish him luck and
elected to wait in Room 217 for his return.  Stephen booked them all
out of the hotel and arranged the flight to London for late that
afternoon.  Adrian left, again taking the staircase rather than the
lift.  Once outside the hotel, he walked a little way before hailing a
taxi to take him to the harbour.

It was not hard to find Messenger Boy.  She was a gleaming, newly
painted 100-footer lying at the east end of the harbour.  She sported a
massive Panamanian flag on her stern mast, which Adrian assumed must be
for tax purposes.  He ascended the gangplank and was met by Nurse
Faubert.  "Bonjour, Docteur Barker."

"Good morning, nurse.  How is Mr.  Metcalfe?"

"He has had a very peaceful night and is having a light breakfast and
making a few telephone calls.  Would you like to see him now?"

"Yes, please."

Adrian entered the magnificent cabin and faced the man he had spent
eight weeks plotting and planning against.  He was talking into the
telephone: "Yes, I'm fine, dear.  But it was an A1 emergency at the
time all right Don't worry, I'll live."  And he put the telephone down.
"Doctor Barker, I have just spoken to my wife in Massachusetts and told
her that I owe you my life.  Even at five o'clock in the morning she
seemed pleased.  I understand that I had a private ward, private
surgery, private ambulance and that you saved my life, or that's what
it says in Nice Matin."

There was the old picture of Harvey in Bermuda shorts on the deck of
Messenger Boy, familiar to Adrian from his dossier.  The headline read
"Millionaire s'evanouit au Casino" over "La Vie dun Millionaire
Americain a etc Sauve par une Operation Urgente Dramatique!"  Stephen
would be pleased.  "Tell me, Doctor," said Harvey with relish, "was I
really in danger?"  "Well, you were on the critical list, and the
consequences might have been fairly serious if we hadn't got this out
of you."  Adrian removed the inscribed gallstone from his pocket with a
flourish.

Harvey's eyes grew large as saucers.

"Gee, have I really been walking round with that inside me all this
time?  Isn't that something!  I can't thank you enough.  If I ever can
do anything for you, don't hesitate to call on me."  He offered Adrian
a grape.  "Look, you're going to see me through this thing, aren't you?
I don't think the nurse fully appreciates the gravity of my case."

Adrian thought fast.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Mr.  Metcalfe.  My holiday finishes today.
I have to get back to California.  Nothing urgent: just a few elective
surgeries and a rather heavy lecture schedule."  He shrugged
deprecatingly.  "Nothing very earth-shattering about it, but it helps
me keep up a way of life I have grown accustomed to."

Harvey sat bolt upright, tenderly holding his stomach.

"Now, you listen to me, Doctor Barker.  I don't give a damn about a few
hernias.  I'm a sick man and I need you here.  I'll make it worth your
while to stay, don't you worry.  I never grudge the money where my
health is concerned, and what's more I'll make the cheque cash.  The
last thing I want Uncle Sam to know is how much I'm worth."

Adrian coughed delicately, wondering how American doctors approached
the ticklish subject of fees with their patients.

"It would cost you a lot of money if I'm not to be out of pocket by
staying.  Say a hundred thousand dollars."

Harvey didn't blink.

"Sure.  You're the best.  That's not a lot of money to be alive." "Very
well.  I'll get back to my hotel and see if I can rearrange my schedule
for you."

Adrian retreated from the sickroom and the white Rolls Royce took him
back to the hotel.  In Room 217 they sat staring at Adrian.

"Stephen, for Christ's sake, the man's a raving hypochondriac.  He
wants me to stay on here for his convalescence."

He recounted his conversation with Harvey Metcalfe verbatim.  "We
hadn't planned for this.  What the hell shall we do?"  Stephen looked
up coolly.

"You'll stay here and play ball.  Why not give him value for money--at
his own expense, of course.  Go on, get on the blower and tell him
you'll be round to hold his hand every morning at eleven o'clock. We'll
just have to go back without you.  And keep the hotel bill down, won't
you?"

Adrian picked up the telephone ... Three young men left the Hotel de
Paris after a long lunch in Room 217, returned to Nice Airport in a
taxi and caught BA Flight 012 at 16:10 to London Heathrow.  They were
once again in separate seats.  One sentence remained on Stephen's mind
from Adrian's reported conversation with Harvey Metcalfe.

"If ever I can do anything for you, don't hesitate to call on me at any
time."

Adrian visited his patient once a day, borne in the white Corniche with
white-rimmed tyres and a chauffeur in a white uniform.  Only Harvey
could be quite so brash, he thought.  On the third day, Nurse Faubert
asked for a private word with him.

"My patient," she said plaintively, "is making improper advances when I
change his dressing."

Adrian allowed Dr.  Wiley Barker the liberty of an unprofessional
remark.  "Can't say I altogether blame him.  Still, be firm, nurse. I'm
sure you must have encountered that sort of thing before."

"Naturellement, but never from a patient only three days after major
surgery.  His constitution, it must be formidable."

"I tell you what, let's catheterise him for a couple of days.  That'll
cramp his style.  Look, it must be pretty boring for you cooped up here
all day.  Why don't you come and have a spot of supper with me after
Mr.  Metcalfe has gone to sleep tonight?"

"I should love to, docteur.  Where shall I meet you?"

"Room 217, Hotel de Paris," said Adrian unblushingly.  "Nine P.M."
"I'll look forward to it, docteur."

"A little more chablis, Angeline?"

"No more thank you, Wiley, that was a memorable meal.  I think, maybe,
you have not yet had everything you want?"

She got up, lit two cigarettes and put one in his mouth.  Then she
moved away, her long skirt swinging slightly from the hips.  She wore
no bra under her pink shirt.  She exhaled smokily and watched him.

Adrian thought of the blameless Dr.  Barker in Australia, of his wife
and children in Newbury, and the rest of the team in London.  Then he
put them out of his mind.

"Will you complain to Mr.  Metcalfe if I make improper advances to
you?"  "From you, Wiley"--she smiled--"they will not be improper."

Harvey made a talkative recovery, and Adrian removed the stitches
gravely on the sixth day.

"That seems to have healed very cleanly, Mr.  Metcalfe.  Take it easy,
and you should be back to normal by the middle of next week."

"Great.  I have to get over to England right away for Ascot week.  You
know, my horse Rosalie is favourite this year.  I suppose you can't
join me as my guest?  What if I had a relapse?"

Adrian suppressed a smile.

"Don't worry.  I think you'll pull through O.K. Sorry I can't stay to
see how you do at Ascot."

"So am I, doc.  Thanks again, anyway.  I've never met a surgeon like
you before."  And you're not likely to again, thought Adrian, his
American accent beginning to fray at the edges.  He bid his adieus to
Harvey with relief and to Angeline with regret, and sent the chauffeur
back from the hotel with a copperplate bill.

Dr.  Wiley Franklin Barker presents his Compliments to

Mr.  Harvey Metcalfe and begs to inform him that the bill for
professional services rendered is

$ 80,000

in respect of surgery and post-operative treatment.

The chauffeur was back within the hour with a cash cheque for $80,000.
Adrian bore it back to London in triumph.

Two down and two to go.

Chapter 13

The following day, Friday, Stephen sat on Adrian's examination couch in
Harley Street and addressed his troops.

"The Monte Carlo operation was one hundred per cent successful in every
way, thanks to Adrian keeping his cool.  The expenses were fairly high,
though.  The hospital and hotel bills totalled $11,351 and we received
$80,000.  Therefore, we have had $527,560 returned to us, and expenses
so far have come to $22,530.  So Mr.  Metcalfe still owes us $494,970.
Does everyone agree with that?"  There was a general murmur of
approval.  Their confidence in Stephen's arithmetic was unbounded,
although in fact, like all algebraists, he found working with figures
tedious.

"Incidentally, Adrian, however did you manage to spend $73.50 on dinner
on Wednesday night?  What did you.  have caviare and champagne?"
"Something a little out of the ordinary," said Adrian.  "It seemed to
be called for at the time."

"I would bet more than I laid out in Monte Carlo that I know who
answered that call," said Jean Pierre, taking his wallet out of his
pocket.  "Here you are, Stephen, 219 francs--my winnings from the
Casino on Wednesday night.  If you had left me there in peace, we
needn't have bothered with Adrian's butchery.  I could have won it back
all on my own.  I think the least I deserve is Nurse Faubert's
telephone number."

Jean Pierre's remarks went straight over Stephen's head.

"Well done, Jean Pierre, it will come off expenses.  At today's
exchange rate, your 219 francs"--he paused for a moment and tapped out
on his calculator--"is 146.76.  That brings expenses down to
$22,483.24."

"Now, my plans for Ascot are simple.  James has acquired two badges for
the Members' Enclosure at a cost of 8. We know that Harvey Metcalfe
also has a badge, as all owners do, so as long as we get our timing
right and make it appear natural, he should once again fall into our
trap.  James will control the walkie-talkie, watching the movements of
Metcalfe from start to finish.  Adrian will wait by the entrance of the
Members' Enclosure and follow him in.  Jean Pierre will send the
telegram from London at one P.M."  so Harvey ought to receive it during
lunch in his private box.  That part of the plan is simple.  It's when
we lure him to Oxford we all have to be at our best.  I must confess it
would be a pleasant change if Ascot were to work first time."  Stephen
grinned widely.

"That would give us extra time to go over the Oxford plan again and
again.  Any questions?"

"You don't need us for Part A of the Oxford plan, only B?"  asked
Adrian.  "That's correct.  I can manage Part A on my own.  In fact, it
will be better if you all remain in London on that night.  Our next
priority must be to think up some ideas for James or he might, heaven
preserve us, think up something for himself.  I am very concerned about
this," continued Stephen, "for once Harvey returns to America we will
have to deal with him on his own territory.  To date he has always been
at the venue of our choosing and James could stick out like a sore
thumb in Boston, even though he is the best actor of the four of us. In
Harvey's own words, "It's a whole different ball game.""

James sighed lugubriously and studied the Axminster carpet.  "Poor old
James--don't worry, you drove that ambulance like a trooper," said
Adrian.

"Perhaps you could learn to fly a plane and then we could hijack him,"
suggested Jean Pierre.

Miss Meikle did not approve of the laughter that was coming from Dr.
Tryner's room and she was glad to see the strange trio leave.  When she
had closed the door on them she returned to Adrian's room.

"Will you take patients now, Dr.  Tryner?"

"Yes, if I must, Miss Meikle."

Miss Meikle pursed her lips.  Whatever had come over him?  It must be
those dreadful types he had started mixing with lately.  He had become
so unreliable.  "Mrs.  Wentworth-Brewster--Dr.  Tryner will see you
now."

Stephen returned for a few days' rest to Magdalen College.  He had
started the entire exercise eight weeks before and two of the team had
succeeded far beyond his expectations.  He was conscious that he must
crown their efforts with something Oxford historians would talk about
after he was dead.  Jean Pierre returned to work in his gallery in Bond
Street.  Sending a telegram was not going to overtax him, although Part
B of Stephen's Oxford plan kept him nightly in front of the mirror
rehearsing his role.

James took Anne down to Stratford on Avon for the weekend.  The Royal
Shakespeare Company obliged with a sparkling performance of Much Ado
about Nothing and afterwards, walking along the banks of the Avon,
James proposed.  Only the royal swans could have heard her reply.  The
diamond ring James had noticed in the window of Carrier while he had
been waiting for Harvey Metcalfe to join Jean Pierre in the gallery,
looked even more beautiful on her slim finger.  James's happiness
seemed complete.  If only he could come up with a plan and shock them
all, then he would need for nothing.  He discussed it with Anne again
that night, considering new ideas and old ones, getting nowhere.

Chapter 14

On the Monday morning James drove Anne back to London and changed into
the most debonair of his suits.  Anne was returning to work, despite
James's suggestion that she should accompany him to Ascot.  She felt
the others would not approve of her presence and would realise that
James had confided in her.  Although James had not told her the details
of the Monte Carlo exercise, Anne knew every step of what was to take
place at Ascot and she could tell that James was nervous.  Still, she
would be seeing him that night and would know the worst by then.  James
looked lost.  Anne was very thankful that Stephen, Adrian and Jean
Pierre held the baton most of the time in the relay team--but an idea
was forming in her mind that just might work out for him.

Stephen rose early and admired his grey hair in the mirror.  The result
had been expensively achieved the previous day in the hairdressing
salon of Debenham.  He dressed carefully, putting on his one
respectable grey suit and blue-checked tie.  These were brought out for
all special occasions, ranging from a talk to students at Sussex to
dinner with the American ambassador.  The suit was no longer
fashionable and it sapped slightly at elbow and knee, but by Stephen's
standards it was sheer elegance.  He travelled from Oxford to Ascot by
train, while Adrian came from Newbury by car.  They met up with James
at The Belvedere Arms, almost a mile from the course, at eleven
o'clock.

Stephen immediately telephoned Jean Pierre to confirm that all three of
them had arrived and asked for the telegram to be read over to him.
"That's right, Jean Pierre.  Now travel to Heathrow and send it at
exactly one P.M."

"Good luck, Stephen.  Grind the bastard into the dust."

Stephen returned to the others and confirmed that Jean Pierre had the
London end under control.

"Off you go, James, and let us know immediately Harvey arrives."  James
downed a bottle of Carlsberg and departed.  The problem was he kept
bumping into friends and he could hardly explain what he was up to.

Harvey arrived at the members' car park just after midday, his white
Rolls Royce shining like a Tide advertisement.  It was being stared at
by all the racegoers with English disdain which Harvey mistook for
admiration.  He led his party to his box.  His newly tailored suit had
taxed the ingenuity of Bernard Weatherill to the utmost.  A red
carnation in his buttonhole and a hat to cover his bald head left him
nearly unrecognisable to James, who followed the little group at a
careful distance until he saw Harvey enter a door marked "Mr.  Harvey
Metcalfe and Guests."

"He's in his private box," said James.

"Where are you?"  enquired Adrian.

"Directly below him on the ground level by a course bookmaker called
Sam O'Flaherty."

"Now, don't be rude about the Irish, James," said Adrian.  "We'll be
with you in a few minutes."

James stared up at the vast white stand which accommodated 10,000
spectators with comfort and gave them an excellent view of the course.
He was finding it hard to concentrate on the job in hand as once again
he had to avoid relations and friends.  First was the Earl of Halifax
and then the frightful girl he had so unwisely agreed to take to Queen
Charlotte's Ball in the spring.  What was the creature's name?  Ah yes.
The Hon.  Selina Wallop.  How appropriate.  She was wearing a mini
skirt a good four years out of fashion and a hat which didn't look as
if it ever could come into fashion.  James jammed his trilby over his
ears, looked the other way and passed the time chatting to Sam
O'Flaherty about the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes at
three-twenty.  O'Flaherty quoted the latest odds on the favourite.

"Rosalie at six to four, owned by that American, Harvey Metcalfe, and
ridden by Pat Eddery."

Eddery was heading towards being the youngest ever champion jockey and
Harvey always liked winners.

Stephen and Adrian joined James at the side of Sam O'Flaherty's bag.
His tic tac man was standing on an upturned orange box beside him and
swinging his arms like a semaphore sailor aboard a sinking ship.

"What do you fancy, gentlemen?"  Sam asked the three of them.  James
ignored Stephen's slight frown of disapproval.

"Five pounds each way on Rosalie," he said, and handed over a crisp
ten-pound note, receiving in return a little green card with the series
number and "Sam O'Flaherty" stamped right across the middle.

"I suppose, James, this is an integral part of your as yet undisclosed
plan," said Stephen.  "What I should like to know is, if it works, how
much do we stand to make?"

"Nine pounds ten pence after tax if Rosalie wins," chipped in Sam
O'Flaherty, his large cigar bobbing up and down in his mouth as he
spoke.  "A great contribution towards a million dollars, James.  Well,
we're off to the Members' Enclosure.  Let us know the moment Harvey
leaves his box.  My guess is that will be about one forty-five, when he
will come to look at the runners and riders for the two o'clock, so
that gives us a clear hour."

The waiter opened another bottle of Krug 1964 champagne and began
pouring it for Harvey's guests: three bankers, two economists, a couple
of ship owners and an influential city journalist.

Harvey always liked his guests to be famous and influential, and so he
invited people who would find it almost impossible to refuse him
because of the business he might put their way.  He was pleased with
the company he had assembled for his big day.  Senior among them was
Sir Howard Dodd, the ageing chairman of the merchant bank that bore his
name, although its name referred to his great-grandfather.  Sir Howard
was six foot two and as straight as a ramrod.  He looked more like a
Grenadier Guard than a respected banker.  The only thing he had in
common with Harvey was the amount of hair, or lack of hair, on his
balding head.  His young assistant, Jamie Clark, accompanied him.  Just
over thirty and extremely bright, he was there to be sure his chairman
did not commit the bank to anything he would later regret.  Clark,
although he had a sneaking admiration for Harvey, did not think him the
sort of customer the bank should do business with.  Nevertheless, he
was far from averse to a day at the races.  The two economists, Mr.
Colin Emson and Dr.  Michael Hogan from the Hudson Institute, were
there to brief Harvey on the perilous state of the British economy.
They could not have been more different.  Emson was a totally self-made
man who had left school at fifteen and educated himself.  With his
contacts in social life, he had built up a company that specialised in
taxation, which had been very successful, thanks to the British
Government putting through a new Finance Act every few weeks.  Emson
was six foot, solid and genial, game to help the party along whether
Harvey lost or won.  Hogan, in contrast, had been to all the right
places--Winchester, Trinity College, Oxford, and Wharton Business
School in Pennsylvania.  A spell with McKinsey, the management
consultants in London, had made him one of the best-informed economists
in Europe.  Those who observed his slim, sinewy body would not have
been surprised to learn that he had been an international squash
player.  Dark-haired, with brown eyes that rarely left Harvey, he found
it hard not to show contempt, but this was the fifth invitation to
Ascot and it seemed Harvey would not take no for an answer.  The Kundas
brothers, second-generation Greek ship owners who adored racing almost
as much as ships, could hardly be told apart, with their black hair,
swarthy skins and heavy eyebrows.  It was difficult to guess how old
they were, and nobody knew how much they were worth.  They probably did
not know themselves.  Harvey's final guest, Nick Lloyd of the News of
the World, had come along to pick up any dirt he could about his host.
He had come near to exposing Metcalfe in the mid-sixties, but the Jack
Profumo affair had kept less juicy stories off the front page for
several weeks, and by then Harvey had escaped.  Lloyd, hunched over the
inevitable triple gin with a faint suggestion of tonic, watched the
motley bunch with interest.

"Telegram for you, sir."

Harvey ripped it open.  He was never neat about anything.

"It's from my daughter, Rosalie.  That's cute of her to remember, but
damn it all, I named the horse after her."

They took their seats for lunch--cold vichyssoise, pheasant and
strawberries.  Harvey was even more loquacious than usual, but his
guests dismissed it, knowing he was nervous about the race he had
always wanted to win.  He would rather be the winner of this trophy
than any he could be offered in America.  Harvey never could understand
why he felt this way.  Perhaps it was the special atmosphere of Ascot
which appealed to him so strongly--a combination of lush green grass
and gracious surroundings, of elegant crowds and an efficiency of
organisation which made Ascot the envy of the racing world.

"You must have a better chance this year than ever before, Harvey,"
said the senior banker.

"Well, you know, Sir Howard, Lester Piggott is riding the Duke of
Devonshire's horse, Crown Princess, and the Queen's horse, Highclere,
is the joint favourite.  When you have been third twice before, even
favourite and not placed, you begin to wonder when one of your horses
is going to make it."

"Another telegram, sir."

Once again Harvey's fat little fingers ripped it open.

" "All best wishes and good luck for King George VI and Queen Elizabeth
Stakes."  It's from the staff of your bank, Sir Howard.  Jolly good
show."  Harvey's Polish-American accent made the English expression
sound slightly grotesque.

"More champagne, everybody."

Another telegram arrived.

"At this rate, Harvey, you will need a special room at the Post
Office."  They all laughed at Sir Howard's feeble joke.  Once again
Harvey read it out loud: " "Regret unable to join you Ascot.  Heading
soonest California.  Grateful look out for Professor Rodney Porter,
Oxford Nobel Prize Winner.  Don't let English bookies stitch you up.
Wiley B. Heathrow Airport."  It's from Wiley Barker.  He's the guy who
did stitch me up in Monte Carlo.  He saved my life.  He took out a
gallstone the size of that bread roll you're eating, Dr.  Hogan.  Now,
how the hell am I supposed to find this Professor Porter."  Harvey
turned to the headwaiter.  "Get my chauffeur."

A few seconds later the smartly clad Guy Salmon flunkey appeared.
"There's a Professor Rodney Porter of Oxford here today.  Go find him."
"What does he look like, sir?"

"How the hell do I know?"  said Harvey.  "Like a professor."  The
chauffeur regretfully abandoned his plans for an afternoon at the
railings and departed.

Harvey's guests were enjoying the strawberries, the champagne and the
string of telegrams that were arriving.

"You know, if you win, the cup will be presented by the Queen," said
Nick Lloyd.  "You bet.  It will be the crowning moment of my life to
win the King George and Elizabeth Stakes and meet Her Majesty the
Queen.  If Rosalie wins, I will suggest my daughter marries Prince
Charles--they're about the same age."  "I don't think even you will be
able to fix that, Harvey."  "What will you do with the odd 81,000 prize
money, Mr.  Metcalfe?"  asked Jamie Clark.

"Give it to some charity," said Harvey, pleased with the impression the
remark made on his guests.

"Very generous, Harvey.  Typical of your reputation."  Nick Lloyd gave
Michael Hogan a knowing look.  Even if the others didn't, they knew
what was typical of his reputation.

The chauffeur returned to report that there was no trace of a solitary
professor anywhere in the champagne bar, balcony luncheon room or the
paddock buffet, and he'd been unable to gain access to the Members'
Enclosure.  "Naturally not," said Harvey in a rather pompous manner. "I
shall have to find him myself.  Drink up and enjoy yourselves."

Harvey rose and walked to the door with the chauffeur.  Once he was out
of earshot of his guests, he said:

"Get your ass out of here and don't give me any crap about not being
able to find him."

The chauffeur bolted.  Harvey turned to his guests and smiled.

"I am going to look at the runners and riders for the two o'clock."
"He's leaving the box now," said James.

"What's that you're saying?"  asked the Duke of Rutland.  "Are you
talking to yourself, James?"

James stared at the noble Duke, six foot one and still able to stand
his full height, an M.C. and a D.S.O. in the First World War.  Although
the lines on his face suggested that he had passed the age at which the
Maker had fulfilled his contract, he sail exuded enthusiastic energy.

"Oh hell.  No, sir, I was just ... em ... coughing."

"What do you fancy in the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes?"
enquired the Duke.

"Well, I have put five pounds each way on Rosalie, sir."

"He seems to have cut himself off," said Stephen.

"Well, buzz him again," said Adrian.

"What's that noise, James?  Have you got a hearing aid or something?"
"No, Duke.  It's, it's, it's a transistor radio."

"Ought to be banned," said the Duke.  "Bloody invasion on one's
privacy."  "Absolutely right, sir."

"What's he playing at, Stephen?"

"I don't know--I think something must have happened."

"Oh my God, it's Harvey heading straight for us.  You go into the
Members' Enclosure, Stephen, and I'll follow you.  Take a deep breath
and relax.  He hasn't seen us."

Harvey marched up to the official blocking the entrance to the Members'
Enclosure.

"I'm Harvey Metcalfe, the owner of Rosalie, and this is my badge."  The
official let Harvey through.  Thirty years ago, he thought, they would
not have let him in if he'd owned every horse in the race.  Times had
changed.  Then racing at Ascot was only on four days a year, a jolly,
social occasion.  Now it was twenty-four days a year and big business.
Adrian followed closely, showing his pass without speaking to the
official.

A photographer broke away from stalking outrageous hats, for which
Ascot has such a reputation, to take a picture of Harvey just in case
Rosalie won the King George VI Stakes.  As soon as his bulb had flashed
he rushed over to the other entrance.  Linda Lovelace, the star of Deep
Throat, the film running to packed houses in New York but banned in
England, was trying to enter the Members' Enclosure.  She was not
succeeding, despite being accompanied by a well-known London banker,
Richard Szpiro.  She wore a top hat and morning suit with nothing under
the topcoat.  In moments she was surrounded by photographers.  No one
was going to bother with Harvey while she was around.  When she was
quite certain that every photographer had taken a picture of her
attempting to enter the Enclosure she left, swearing at the top of her
voice, her publicity stunt completed.

Harvey returned to studying the horses as Stephen moved up to within a
few feet of him.

"Here we go again," said Adrian to himself, and went smartly over to
Stephen and, standing directly between the two of them, shook Stephen's
hand warmly and declared in a voice intended to carry:

"How are you, Professor Porter?  I didn't know you were interested in
racing."  "I'm not really, but I have just been to a seminar in London
and thought it a good opportunity to see how ..."

"Professor Porter," cried Harvey.  "I am honoured to make your
acquaintance.  Sir, my name is Harvey Metcalfe from Boston,
Massachusetts.  My good friend, Dr.  Wiley Barker, who saved my life,
told me you would be here today and I am going to make sure you have a
wonderful afternoon."

Adrian slipped away.  He could not believe how easy it had been.  The
telegram had worked like a charm.

"Her Majesty the Queen; His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh; Her
Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother; and Her Royal Highness
the Princess Anne are now entering the Royal Box."

The massed bands of the Brigade of Guards struck up the national
anthem: "God Save the Queen."

The crowd of 25,000 rose and sang loyally out of tune.

"We should have someone like that in America," said Harvey to Stephen,
"to take the place of Richard Nixon, then we would not have any of our
problems."  Stephen thought his fellow American was being just a little
unfair.  Richard Nixon was almost a saint by Harvey Metcalfe's
standards.

"Come and join me in my box, Professor, and meet my other guests.  The
damned box cost me 750, we may as well fill it.  Have you had some
lunch?"  "Yes, I had an excellent lunch," Stephen lied--something else
Harvey had taught him.  He had stood by the Members' Enclosure for an
hour, nervous and pensive, unable even to manage a sandwich, and by now
he was starving.  "Well, come and enjoy my champagne," roared Harvey.

On an empty stomach, thought Stephen.  "Thank you, Mr.  Metcalfe.  I am
a little lost.  This is my first Royal Ascot."

"This isn't Royal Ascot, Professor.  It's the last day of Ascot Week,
but the Royal Family always come to see the King George and Elizabeth
Stakes so everybody dresses up."

"I see," said Stephen timidly, pleased with his deliberate error.
Harvey collared his find and took him back to the box.  "Everybody, I
want you to meet my distinguished friend Rodney Porter.  He's a Nobel
Prize Winner, you know.  By the way, what's your subject, Rod?"

"Biochemistry."

Stephen was getting the measure of Harvey.  As long as he played it
straight the bankers and shippers, and even the journalist, were not
going to realise that he was not the cleverest thing since Einstein. He
relaxed a little and even found time to fill himself with salmon
sandwiches when the others were not looking.  Lester Piggott won the
two o'clock on Olympic Casino and the two-thirty on Roussalka,
achieving his three-thousandth win.  Harvey was getting steadily more
nervous.  He talked incessantly without making much sense.  He had sat
through the two-thirty without showing any interest in the result and
consumed more and more champagne.  At ten to three he called for them
all to join him in the Members' Enclosure to look at his famous filly.
Stephen, like the others, trailed behind him in a little pseudo-royal
entourage.

Adrian and James watched the procession from a distance.

"He's too far in to back out now," said Adrian.

"He looks happy enough to me," replied James.  "Let's make ourselves
scarce.  We can only get under his feet now."

They headed into the champagne bar, where a considerable number of
red-faced men looked as if they spent more time there than they did
watching the racing.  "Isn't she beautiful, Professor?  Almost as
beautiful as my daughter.  If she doesn't win today I am never going to
make it."

Harvey left his little crowd to have a word with Pat Eddery, the
jockey, to wish him luck.  Peter Walwyn, the trainer, was giving final
instructions before the jockey mounted and left the Enclosure.  The ten
horses were paraded in front of the stand before the race, a custom at
Ascot that is only carried out for the King George VI and Queen
Elizabeth Stakes.  The gold, purple and scarlet colours of Her Majesty
the Queen's horse Highclere led the procession, followed by Crown
Princess, who was giving her jockey a little trouble.  Directly behind
her came Rosalie, who was very relaxed and looked fresh and ready to
go.  Buoy and Dankaro came behind Rosalie, with the outsiders,
Messipatania, Ropey and Minnow bringing up the rear.  The crowd rose to
cheer the horses and Harvey beamed with as much pride as if he had
owned every horse in the race.

"... and I have with me today the distinguished American owner, Harvey
Metcalfe," said Julian Wilson into the BBC TV outside broadcast camera.
"I'm going to ask him if he'd be kind enough to give me his views on
the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes, for which he has the
joint favourite, Rosalie.  Welcome to England, Mr.  Metcalfe.  How do
you feel about the big race?"  "It's a thrill to be here, just to
participate in the race again.  Rosalie's got a great chance.  Still,
it's not winning that matters.  It's taking part."  Stephen flinched.
Baron de Coubertin, who had first made that remark about the 1896
Olympics, must have turned in his grave.

"The latest betting shows Rosalie joint favourite, with Her Majesty the
Queen's horse, Highclere.  How do you react to that?"

"I am just as worried about the Duke of Devonshire's Crown Princess.
Lester Piggott is always hard to beat on the great occasion.  He won
the first two races and will be all set for this one, and Crown
Princess is a fine little filly."  "Is a mile and a half a good
distance for Rosalie?"

"Results this season show it's definitely her best distance."  "What
will you do with the 81,240 money?"

"The money is not important, it hasn't entered my mind."  It had
certainly entered Stephen's mind.

"Thank you, Mr.  Metcalfe, and the best of luck.  And now over to the
latest news on the betting."

Harvey moved back to his group of admirers and suggested that they
return to watch the race from the balcony just outside his box.

Stephen was fascinated to be able to observe Harvey at such close
quarters.  He had become nervous and even more mendacious than usual
under pressure--not at all the icy operator they had feared him to be.
This man was human, susceptible and could be beaten.

They all leant over the rails watching the horses being put into the
stalls.  Crown Princess was still giving a little trouble while all the
others waited.  The tension was becoming unbearable.

"They're off," boomed the loudspeaker.

Twenty-five thousand people raised glasses to their eyes and Harvey
said, "She's got a good start and she's well placed."

He continued to give everybody a running commentary until the last
mile, when he became silent.  The others waited also in silence, intent
on the loudspeaker.  "They're into the straight mile--Minnow leads the
field round the bend--with Buoy and Dankaro, looking relaxed, just
tucked in behind him--followed by Crown Princess, Rosalie and
Highclere.

"As they approach the six-furlong marker--Rosalie and Crown Princess
come up on the stand side with Highclere making her effort.

"Five furlongs to go--Minnow still sets the pace, but is beginning to
tire as Crown Princess and Buoy make up ground.

"Half a mile to go--Minnow still just ahead of Buoy, who has moved up
into second place, perhaps making her move too early.

"Three furlongs from home--they are quickening up just a little--Minnow
sets the pace on the rails--Buoy and Dankaro about a length
behind--followed by Rosalie, Crown Princess and the Queen's filly
Highclere, all making ground.  "Inside the two-furlong
marker--Highclere and Rosalie move up to challenge Buoy--Crown Princess
is right out of it now.

"A furlong to go."  The commentator's voice rose in pitch and volume.
"It's Joe Mercer riding Highclere who hits the front, just ahead of Pat
Eddery on Rosalie--two hundred yards to go--they're neck and neck--one
hundred yards to go--it's anybody's race and on the line it's a photo
finish between the gold, purple and scarlet colours of Her Majesty the
Queen and the white and green check colours of the American owner,
Harvey Metcalfe--M.  Moussac's Dankaro was third."

Harvey stood paralysed, waiting for the result.  Even Stephen felt some
sympathy for him.  None of Harvey's guests dared to speak for fear they
would get it wrong.

"The result of the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes."  Once
again the loudspeaker boomed out and silence fell over the whole
course.  "The winner is Number Five, Rosalie."

The rest of the result was lost in the roar of the crowd and the bellow
of triumph from Harvey.  Pursued by his guests, he raced to the nearest
lift, pressed a pound note into the lift girl's hand and shouted, "Get
this thing moving."

Only half of his guests managed to jump in with him.  Stephen was one
of them.  Once they reached the ground floor, the lift gates opened and
Harvey came out like a thoroughbred, past the champagne bar, through
the rear of the Members' Enclosure into the Winners' Enclosure, and
flung his arms around the horse's neck almost unseating the jockey.  A
few minutes later he triumphantly led Rosalie to the little post marked
"FIRST."  The crowd thronged around him, offering their
congratulations.

The clerk of the course, Captain Beaumont, was briefing Harvey on the
procedure that would be followed when he was presented.

Lord Abergavenny, the Queen's representative at Ascot, accompanied Her
Majesty to the Winners' Enclosure.

"The winner of the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes--Mr.
Harvey Metcalfe's Rosalie."

Harvey was in a dream world--camera bulbs flashed and film cameras
followed him as he walked towards the Queen.  He bowed, received the
trophy and the Queen, resplendent in a turquoise silk suit and matching
turban that could only have been designed by Hardy Amies, said a few
words, but Harvey was speechless for the first time in his life. Taking
a pace backwards, he bowed again and returned to his place accompanied
by loud applause.

Back in his box the champagne flowed and everybody was Harvey's friend.
Stephen realised this was not the moment to try anything clever.  He
must bide his time and watch his quarry's reaction to these
circumstances.  He stayed quietly in a corner, letting the excitement
subside, and observed Harvey carefully.  It took another race before
Harvey was half back to normal and Stephen decided the time had come to
act.  He made as if to leave.

"Are you going already, Professor?"

"Yes, Mr.  Metcalfe.  I must get some scripts marked before tomorrow
morning."  "I always admire the work you boys put in.  I hope you
enjoyed yourself?"  Stephen avoided the famous George Bernard Shaw
riposte "I had to, there was nothing else to enjoy."

"Yes, thank you, Mr.  Metcalfe.  An amazing achievement.  You must be a
very proud man."

"Well, I guess so.  It's been a long time coming, but it all seems
worth it now.  Rod, it's too bad you can't stay a little longer and
join my party at Claridge's tonight."

"I should have liked that, Mr.  Metcalfe, but you must join me at my
college at Oxford and allow me to show you the university."

"That's swell.  I have a couple of days after Ascot and I've always
wanted to see Oxford, but I never seem to have had the time."

"It's the University Garden Party on Wednesday.  Why don't you join me
for dinner at my college next Tuesday evening and then we can spend the
following day looking at the university and go on to the Garden Party?"
He scribbled a few directions on a card.

"Fantastic.  This is turning out to be the best vacation I have ever
had in Europe.  How are you getting back to Oxford, Professor?"

"By train."

"No, no," said Harvey.  "My Rolls Royce will take you.  It will be back
well in time for the last race."

And before Stephen could protest, the chauffeur was called for.  "Take
Professor Porter back to Oxford and then return here.  Have a good
trip, Professor.  I'll look forward to seeing you next Tuesday night at
eight o'clock.  Great meeting you."

"Thank you for a wonderful day, and congratulations on your splendid
victory."  Seated in the back of the white Rolls Royce on his way to
Oxford, the car which Adrian had boasted he and he alone would travel
in, Stephen relaxed and smiled to himself.  Taking a small notebook
from his pocket he made an entry: "Deduct 98p from expenses, the price
of a single second-class ticket from Ascot to Oxford."

Chapter 15

"Bradley," said the senior tutor.  "You're looking a bit grey these
days, dear boy.  Is the office of junior dean proving too much for
you?"  Stephen had wondered whether any of the Senior Common Room would
think his hair worthy of comment.  Dons are seldom surprised by
anything their colleagues do.  "My father went grey at an early age,
Senior Tutor, and there seems to be no way of defying heredity."

"Ah well, dear boy, there is the Garden Party for you to look forward
to next week."

"Oh yes.  I'd quite forgotten about that."

Stephen returned to his rooms, where the rest of the team were
assembled for their next briefing.

"Wednesday is the day of the Encaenia and the Garden Party.  One thing
we have learnt about our millionaire friend is that even if we take him
away from his own environment he continues to act as if he knows
everything.  But his bluff can be called as long as we remember that we
know what is going to happen next and he doesn't.  Just in the way he
did with us over Discovery Oil, keeping one step ahead the whole time.
Now, we will have a rehearsal today and tomorrow a full dress
rehearsal."

"Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted," muttered James.  It
was about the only sentiment he could recall from his Army Cadet days
at school.  "Haven't had to spend much time on reconnaissance for your
plan have we?"  said Jean Pierre.

Stephen ignored the interruptions.  "Now, the whole process on the day
takes about seven hours for me and four hours for you, including the
time spent on makeup, and we will need an extra session of tuition from
James before the day."  "How often will you need my two sons?"  asked
Adrian.

"Only once on the Wednesday.  Too many runs at it will make them stiff
and awkward."

"When do you think Harvey will want to return to London?"  enquired
Jean Pierre.  "I rang Guy Salmon to check the Rolls and they have been
instructed to have him back at Claridge's by seven P.M."  so I assume
we have only until five-thirty."  "Clever," said Adrian.

"It's awful," said Stephen.  "I even think like him now.  Right, let's
run through the whole plan once again.  We'll take it from the red
dossier, page sixteen.  When I leave All Souls ..."

On Sunday and Monday they carried out full rehearsals.  By the Tuesday
they knew every route Harvey could take and where he would be at any
given moment of the day from nine-thirty to five-thirty.  Stephen had
covered everything.  He had little choice.  They were only going to be
allowed one crack at this one.  Any mistakes like Monte Carlo and there
would be no second chance.  The dress rehearsal went to a second.

"I haven't worn clothes like this since I was six years old and going
to a fancy dress party," said Jean Pierre.  "We are going to be
anything but inconspicuous."  "There will be red and blue and black all
around you on the day," said Stephen.  "It's such a circus.  No one
will look twice, not even at you, Jean Pierre."  They were all nervous
again waiting for the curtain to go up.  Stephen was glad they were
edgy: he had no doubt that they were lost the moment they relaxed with
Harvey Metcalfe.

The Team spent a quiet weekend.  Stephen watched the College Dramatic
Society's annual effort in the gardens, Adrian took his wife to
Glyndebourne and was uncommonly attentive, Jean Pierre read the latest
art book, Goodbye, Picasso by David Douglas Duncan, and James took Anne
to Tathwell Hall, near Louth in Lincolnshire, to meet his father, the
fifth Earl.  Even Anne was nervous that weekend.

"Harry?"

"Dr.  Bradley."

"I have an American guest dining with me in my rooms tonight.  His name
is Harvey Metcalfe.  When he arrives, will you bring him over, please."
"Certainly, sir."

"And one more thing.  He seems to have mistaken me for Professor Porter
of Trinity College.  Don't correct the mistake, will you?  Just humour
him."  "Certainly, sir."

Harry retreated into the porter's lodge shaking his head sadly.  Of
course, all academics went dotty in the end, but Dr.  Bradley had been
afflicted at an unusually tender age.

Harvey arrived at eight.  He was always on time in England.  The head
porter guided him through the cloisters and up the old stone staircase
to Stephen's rooms.

"Mr.  Metcalfe, sir."

"How are you, Professor?"

"I'm well, Mr.  Metcalfe.  Good of you to be so punctual."

"Punctuality is the politeness of princes."

"I think you will find it is the politeness of kings, and, in this
instance, of Louis XVIII."  For a moment Stephen forgot that Harvey
wasn't a pupil.  "I'm sure you're right, Professor."

Stephen mixed him a large manhattan.  His guest's eyes took in the room
and settled on the desk.

"Gee--what a wonderful set of photographs.  You with the late President
Kennedy, another with the Queen and even the Pope."

That touch was due to Jean Pierre, who had put Stephen in contact with
a photographer who had been in jail with his artist friend David Stein.
Stephen was already looking forward to burning the photographs and
pretending they never existed.

"Let me give you another to add to your collection."  Harvey pulled out
of his pocket a large photograph of himself receiving the trophy for
The King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes from the Queen.

"I'll sign it for you, if you like."

He scribbled an exuberant signature diagonally across the Queen. "Thank
you," said Stephen.  "I can assure you I will treasure it as much as my
other photographs, and I do appreciate you sparing the time to visit me
here, Mr.  Metcalfe."

"It's an honour for me to come to Oxford and this is such a lovely old
college."  Stephen really believed he meant it, and he suppressed an
inclination to tell Harvey the story of the late Lord Nuffield's dinner
at Magdalen.  For all Nuffield's munificence to the university, the two
were never on entirely easy terms.  When a manservant assisted the
guests' departure after a college feast, Nuffield took the proffered
hat ungraciously.  "Is this mine?"  he said.  "I don't know, my lord,"
was the rejoinder, "but it's the one you came with."  Harvey was gazing
a little blankly at the books on Stephen's shelves.  The disparity
between their subject matter, pure mathematics, and the putative
Professor Porter's discipline, biochemistry, happily failed to strike
him.  "Do brief me on tomorrow."

"Surely," said Stephen.  "Let's have dinner and I'll go through what I
have planned for you and see if it meets with your approval."

"I'm game for anything.  I feel ten years younger since this trip to
Europe and I'm thrilled about being at Oxford University."

Stephen wondered if he really could stand seven hours of Harvey
Metcalfe, but for another $250,000 and his reputation with the rest of
the Team ... The college servants served shrimp cocktail.

"My favourite," said Harvey.  "How did you know?"

Stephen would have liked to say, "There's nothing I don't know about
you," but he satisfied himself with, "Just a lucky guess.  Now, if we
meet at ten o'clock tomorrow we can join in with what is thought to be
the most interesting day in the university calendar.  It is called
Encaenia."

"What's that?"

"Well, once a year at the end of Trinity term, which is the equivalent
to the summer term in an American university, in the ninth week we
celebrate the ending of the university year.  There are several
ceremonies and a big Garden Party, attended by the chancellor and vice
chancellor of the university.  The chancellor is the old British Prime
Minister, Harold Macmillan, and the vice chancellor is Mr.  Habakkuk. I
am hoping it will be possible for you to meet them both and we should
manage to cover everything in time for you to be back in London by
seven o'clock."

"How did you know I had to be back by seven?"

"You told me at Ascot."  Stephen could lie very quickly now.  He
thought if they did not get their million very soon he would end up a
hardened criminal.  Harvey enjoyed his meal, which Stephen had been
almost too clever about, as each course was one of Harvey's favourites.
After Harvey had drunk a good deal of after dinner brandy (price 7.25
per bottle, thought Stephen), they strolled through the quiet Magdalen
cloisters past the Song School.  The sound of the choristers rehearsing
a Gabrieli mass hung gently in the air.  "Gee, I'm surprised you allow
record players on that loud," said Harvey.  Stephen escorted his guest
to the Randolph Hotel, pointing out the iron cross set in Broad Street
outside Balliol College, said to mark the spot on which Archbishop
Cranmer had been burnt to death for heresy in 1556.  Harvey fore bore
to say that he had never heard of the reverend gentleman.

Stephen and Harvey parted on the steps of the Randolph.

"See you in the morning, Professor.  Thanks for a great evening."  "My
pleasure.  I'll pick you up at ten A.M. Good night."

Stephen returned to Magdalen and immediately called Adrian.  "All's
well, though I nearly went too far.  The meal was altogether too
carefully chosen and I even had his favourite brandy.  Still, it will
keep me on my toes tomorrow.  One must remember to avoid overkill.  See
you then, Adrian.  Have a good night's sleep."

Stephen repeated the same message to Jean Pierre and James before
falling gratefully into his bed.  The same time tomorrow he would be a
wiser man, but would he be a richer one?

Chapter 16

At five o'clock the sun rose over the Cherwell and those few Oxonians
who were about that early would have been left in no doubt why the
connoisseurs consider Magdalen to be the most beautiful college at
either Oxford or Cambridge.  Nestling on the banks of the river, its
perpendicular architecture is easy on the eye.  It has educated King
Edward VII, Prince Henry, Cardinal Wolsey, Edward Gibbon and Oscar
Wilde.  Not that such thoughts were passing through Stephen's mind as
he lay awake.

He could hear his heart beat and for the first time he knew what Adrian
and Jean Pierre had been through.  It seemed a lifetime since their
first meeting only three months before.  He smiled to himself at the
thought of how close they had been brought by the common aim of
defeating Harvey Metcalfe.  Stephen, like James, was beginning to have
a sneaking admiration for the man, although he was now even more
convinced that he could be out-manoeuvred when he was not on his own
territory.  For over two hours Stephen lay motionless in bed, deep in
thought, and when the sun had risen from behind the tallest tree, he
rose, showered, shaved and dressed slowly and deliberately, his mind
concentrating on the day ahead.

He made his face up carefully to age himself by fifteen years.  It took
him a long time, and he wondered whether women had to struggle as long
in front of the mirror to achieve the reverse effect.  He put on his
gown, a magnificent scarlet, that announced he was a Doctor of
Philosophy of the University of Oxford.  It amused him that Oxford had
to be different.  Every other university abbreviated this, the
ubiquitous award for research work, to Ph.D. In Oxford, it was D.Phil.
He studied himself in the mirror.

"If that doesn't impress Harvey Metcalfe, nothing ever will."  And
what's more, he had the right to wear it.  He sat down to read his red
dossier for the last time.  He had studied it so often that he
practically had it by heart.  He avoided breakfast.  Looking nearly
fifty he would have caused an undoubted stir amongst his colleagues,
though the older dons would probably have failed to notice anything
unusual in his appearance.

Stephen headed out of the college in to the High unnoticed, joining the
thousand other graduates all dressed like fourteenth-century
archbishops.  Anonymity on that day was easy.  That, and the fact that
Harvey would be bemused by the strange traditions of the ancient
university, were the two reasons why Stephen had chosen Encaenia for
his battleground.

He arrived at the Randolph at nine fifty-five and informed one of the
younger bellboys that his name was Professor Porter and that he was
awaiting Mr.  Metcalfe.  The young man scurried away and returned
moments later with Harvey.  "Mr.  Metcalfe--Professor Porter."

"Thank you," said Stephen.  He made a note to return and tip the
bellboy.  That touch had been useful, even if it was only part of his
job.  "Good morning, Professor.  Where do we start?"

"Well," said Stephen, "Encaenia starts with Lord Nathaniel Crewe's
Benefaction at Jesus College, which is champagne, strawberries and
cream for all the notabilities of the university.  They then form a
procession to the Sheldonian Theatre."

"What happens then?"

"The most exciting event is the presentation of honour ands for
degrees."  "The what?"  said Harvey.

"The honour ands said Stephen.  "They are the distinguished men and
women who have been chosen by the senior members of the university to
be awarded honorary degrees."

"Who's this Lord Crewe guy?"

"Ah well, that's most interesting.  Lord Nathaniel Crewe was a doctor
of the university and the Bishop of Durham.  He died in the seventh
century, but he left two hundred pounds a year to the university as a
benefaction to provide the entertainment I told you about and an
oration which we shall hear later.  Of course, the money he left does
not cover expenses nowadays with rising prices and inflation, so they
have to dip into the university pocket."  Stephen rose and guided his
guest out of the Randolph Hotel.  "We must leave now to secure a good
position on the route from which to watch the procession."  They
strolled down the Broad and found an excellent spot just in front of
the Sheldonian Theatre, the police clearing a little space for Stephen
because of his scarlet gown.  A few minutes later the procession wound
into sight round the corner from the Turl.  The police held up all the
traffic and kept the public on the pavement.

"Who are the guys in front carrying those clubs?"  enquired Harvey.
"They are the university marshal and the bed els  They are carrying
maces to safeguard the chancellor's processsion."

"Hell, of course, it's safe.  This isn't Central Park New York."  "I
agree," said Stephen, "but it hasn't always been safe over the past
three hundred years and tradition dies hard in England."

"And who's that behind the bedel fellows?"

"The one wearing the black gown with gold trimmings is the chancellor
of the university, accompanied by his page.  The chancellor is the
Right Honourable Harold Macmillan, who was Prime Minister of Great
Britain in the late fifties and early sixties."

"Oh yes, I remember the guy.  Tried to get the British into Europe and
De Gaulle wouldn't have it."

"Well, I suppose that's one way of remembering him.  Now, he's followed
by the vice chancellor, Mr.  Habakkuk, who is also the principal of
Jesus College."  "You're losing me, Professor."

"Well, the chancellor is always a distinguished Englishman who was
educated at Oxford, but the vice chancellor is a leading member of the
university itself and is usually chosen from the heads of the
colleges."

"Got it."

"Now, after him we have the university registrar, Mr.  Caston, who is a
Fellow of Merton College.  He is the senior administrator of the
university, or you might look on him as the university's top civil
servant.  He's directly responsible to the vice chancellor and
Hebdomadal Council, who are the sort of cabinet for the university.
Behind them we have the senior proctor, Mr.  Campbell of Worcester
College, and the junior proctor, the Reverend Doctor Bennett of New
College."  "What is a proctor?"

"For over seven hundred years men like them have been responsible for
decency and discipline in the universty."

"What?  Those two old men take care of nine thousand rowdy youths?"
"Well, they are helped by the bulldogs," said Stephen.

"Ah, that's better, I suppose.  A couple of bites from an old English
bulldog will keep anyone in order."

"No, no," protested Stephen, trying desperately not to laugh.  "The
name bulldog is only a term for the men who help the proctors keep
order.  Now finally in the procession you can see that tiny crocodile
of colour: it consists of heads of colleges who are doctors of the
university, doctors of the university who are not heads of colleges and
heads of colleges who are not doctors of the university, in that
order."

"Listen, Rod, all doctors mean to me is money."

"They are not that sort of doctor," replied Stephen.

"Forget it.  You beat me.  I only know about making millions."  Stephen
watched Harvey's face carefully.  He was drinking it in and had already
become quieter.  "The long line will proceed into the Sheldonian
Theatre and all the people in the procession will take their places in
the hemicycle."

"Excuse me, sir, what type of cycle is that?"

"The hemicycle is a round bank of seats, the most uncomfortable in
Europe.  But don't you worry.  I have managed to arrange special seats
for us because of your well-known interest in education at Harvard and
there will just be time for us to take them ahead of the procession."

"Well, lead the way, Rod.  Do they really know what goes on in Harvard
here?"  "Why yes, Mr.  Metcalfe.  You have a reputation in university
circles as a generous man interested in financing the pursuit of
academic excellence."  "Well, what do you know?"

Very little, thought Stephen.

He guided Harvey to his reserved seat in the balcony.  He did not want
his guest to be able to see the individual men and women too clearly.
The truth of the matter was that the senior members of the university
in the hemicycle were so covered from head to toe in gowns, and caps,
and bow ties, and bands, that even their mothers would not have
recognised them.  The organist played his final chord while the guests
settled.

"The organist," said Stephen, "is from my own college and is the
choragus, the leader of the chorus, and deputy professor of music."

Harvey could not take his eyes off the hemicycle and the scarlet-clad
figures.  He had never seen a sight like it in his life.  The music
stopped and the chancellor rose to address the assembled company in
vernacular Latin.  "Causa hujus convocation is est ut ..."

"What the hell's he saying?"

"He's telling us why we are here," explained Stephen.  "I will try and
guide you through it."

"Ite Bedelli,"" said the chancellor, and the great doors opened for the
bed els to go and fetch the honour ands from the Divinity School. 
There was a hush as they were led in by the public orator, Mr.  J. G.
Griffith, and one by one he presented them to the chancellor,
enshrining the careers and achievements of each in polished and witty
Latin prose.

Stephen's translation, however, followed a rather more liberal line and
was embellished with suggestions that their doctorates were as much the
result of financial generosity as academic prowess.

"That's Lord Amory.  They're praising him for all the work he has done
in the field of education."

"How much did he give?"

"Well, he was Chancellor of the Exchequer.  And there's Lord Hailsham.
He has held eight cabinet positions, including Secretary of State for
Education and finally Lord Chancellor.  Both he and Lord Amory are
receiving the degree of Doctor of Civil Law."

Harvey recognised Dame Flora Robson, the actress, who was being
honoured for a distinguished lifetime in the theatre and Stephen
explained that she was receiving a Doctor of Letters, as was the Poet
Laureate, Sir John Betjeman.  Each was given his degree by the
chancellor, shaken by the hand and then shown to a seat in the front
row of the hemicycle.

The final honour and was Sir George Porter, Director of The Royal
Institution and Nobel laureate.  He received his honourary degree of
Doctor of Science.  "My namesake, but no relation.  Oh well, nearly
through," said Stephen.  "Just a little prose from the professor of
poetry, John Wain, about the benefactors of the university."

Mr.  Wain delivered the Crewian Oration, which took him some twelve
minutes, and Stephen was grateful for something so lively in a language
he could understand.  He was only vaguely aware of the recitations of
undergraduate prize winners which concluded the proceedings.

The chancellor of the university rose and led the procession out of the
hall.  "Where are they off to now?"  said Harvey.

"They are going to have lunch at All Souls, where they will be joined
by other distinguished guests."

"I would love to have gone to that," said Harvey.

"I have arranged it," replied Stephen.

Harvey was quite overwhelmed.

"How did you fix it, Professor?"

"The registrar is most impressed by your past help to Harvard and I
think they hope you may be able to assist Oxford in some small way,
especially after your wonderful win at Ascot."

"What a great idea."

Stephen tried to show little interest.  The time had not yet come to
move in for the kill.  The truth was that the registrar had never heard
of Harvey Metcalfe and Stephen, because it was his last term at Oxford,
had been put on the list of invitations by a friend who was a Fellow of
All Souls.

They walked over to All Souls, just across the road from the Sheldonian
Theatre.  Stephen attempted, without much success, to explain the
nature of All Souls to Harvey.  Indeed, many Oxford people themselves
find the college something of an enigma.  Its corporate name, the
College of All Souls of the Faithful Departed of Oxford, resonantly
commemorates the victors of Agincourt.  It was intended that masses
should for ever be said there for the repose of their souls.  Its
modern role is unique in academic life.  All Souls is a society of
graduates distinguished either by promise or achievement, mostly
academic, from home and abroad, with a sprinkling of men who have made
their mark in other fields.  The college has no undergraduates, admits
no female Fellows, and generally appears to the outside world to do
much as it pleases with its massive financial and intellectual
resources.

Stephen and Harvey took their places among the hundred or more guests
at the long tables in the noble Codrington Library.  Stephen spent the
entire time ensuring that Harvey was kept occupied and was not too
obvious.  He was thankfully aware that on such occasions people never
remembered whom they met or what they said, and he happily introduced
Harvey to everyone around as a distinguished American philanthropist.
He was fortunately some way from the vice chancellor, the registrar and
the secretary of the University Chest.  Harvey was quite overcome by
the new experience and enjoyed listening to the distinguished men
around him--something that had rarely happened to him before.  When the
meal was over and the guests had risen, Stephen drew a deep breath and
played one of his riskier cards.  He deliberately took Harvey up to the
chancellor.

"Chancellor," he said to Harold Macmillan.

"Yes, young man."

"May I introduce Mr.  Harvey Metcalfe from Boston.  Mr.  Metcalfe, as
you will know, Chancellor, is a great benefactor of Harvard."

"Yes, of course.  Capital, capital.  What brings you to England, Mr.
Metcalfe?"  Harvey was nearly speechless.

"Well, sir, I mean, Chancellor, I came to see my horse Rosalie run in
the King George and Elizabeth Stakes."

Stephen was now standing behind Harvey and made signs to the chancellor
that Harvey's horse had won the race.  Harold Macmillan, as game as
ever and never one to miss a trick, replied:

"Well, you must have been very pleased with the result, Mr.  Metcalfe."
Harvey turned as red as a beetroot.

"Well, sir, I guess I was lucky."

"You don't look to me like the type of man who depends on luck."
Stephen took his career firmly in both hands.

"I am trying to interest Mr.  Metcalfe in some of the research we are
doing at Oxford, Chancellor."

"What a good idea."  No one knew better than Harold Macmillan, after
seven years of leading a political party, about flattery on such
occasions.  "Keep in touch, young man.  Boston was it, Mr.  Metcalfe?
Do give my regards to the Kennedys."  Macmillan swept off, resplendent
in his academic dress.  Harvey stood dumbfounded.

"What a great man.  What an occasion.  I feel I'm part of history.  I
just wish I deserved to be here."

Stephen had completed his task and was determined to get out before any
mistakes could be made.  He knew Harold Macmillan would shake hands
with and talk to over a thousand people by the time the day was over
and his chances of remembering Harvey were minimal.  In any case, it
would not much matter if he did.  Harvey was, after all, a genuine
benefactor of Harvard.

"We ought to leave before the senior people, Mr.  Metcalfe."  "Of
course, Rod.  You're the boss."

"I think that would be wise."

Once they were out on the street Harvey glanced at his Jaeger le
Coultre watch.  It was two-thirty.

"Excellent," said Stephen, who was running three minutes late for the
next rendezvous.  "We have just over an hour before the Garden Party.
Let's take a look at one or two of the colleges."

They walked slowly up past Brasenose College and Stephen explained that
the name really meant brass nose and the famous original brass nose, a
sanctuary knocker of the thirteenth century, was still mounted in the
hall.  One hundred yards farther on Stephen directed Harvey to the
right

"He's turned right, Adrian, and is heading towards Lincoln College."
"Fine," said Adrian, and turned to his two sons.  They stood awkwardly,
aged seven and nine, in unfamiliar Eton suits ready to play their part
as pages--not that they could understand what Daddy was up to.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes, Daddy."

Stephen continued slowly towards Lincoln and when they were a few paces
away Adrian appeared from the main entrance of the college in the
official dress of vice chancellor, bands, collar, white tie and all. He
looked fifteen years older and as much like Mr.  Habakkuk as possible. 
Perhaps not quite so bald, thought Stephen.

"Would you like to meet the vice chancellor?"  asked Stephen.  "That
would be something," said Harvey.

"Good afternoon, Vice Chancellor, may I introduce Mr.  Harvey
Metcalfe."  Adrian doffed his academic cap and bowed.  He spoke before
Stephen could continue: "Not the benefactor of Harvard University?"

Harvey blushed and looked at the two little boys who were holding the
vice chancellor's train.  Adrian continued:

"This is a pleasure, Mr.  Metcalfe.  I do hope you are enjoying your
visit to Oxford.  Mind you, it's not everybody who's shown around by a
Nobel laureate."  "I have enjoyed it immensely, Vice Chancellor, and
I'd like to feel I could help this university in some way."

"Well, that's excellent news."

"Look, gentlemen, I'm staying here at the Randolph Hotel.  It would be
my great pleasure to have tea with you all later this afternoon."

Adrian and Stephen were thrown for a moment.  Surely the man realised
that on the day of Encaenia the vice chancellor did not have a moment
free to attend tea parties.

Adrian recovered first.

"I'm afraid that is impossible.  One has so many responsibilities on a
day like this, you understand.  Perhaps you could join me in my rooms
at the Clarendon Building, which will give us the chance for a private
discussion?"  Stephen immediately followed suit and said, "Excellent.
Will four-thirty be convenient for you, Vice Chancellor?"

Adrian tried not to look as if he wanted to run a mile.  They had only
been standing there for about two minutes, but it seemed to him a
lifetime.  He had not objected to being a journalist, or an American
surgeon, but he genuinely hated being a vice chancellor.  Surely
someone would appear at any moment and recognise him for the fraud he
was.  Thank God most of the undergraduates had gone home the week
before.

Stephen thought of Jean Pierre and James, the finest string to their
dramatic bow, loitering uselessly in their fancy dress behind the tea
tent at the Garden Party in the grounds of Trinity College.

"Perhaps it would be wise, Vice Chancellor, if we were to ask the
registrar and the secretary of the University Chest to join us?"

"First-class idea, Professor.  I will ask them to be there.  It isn't
every day we have a distinguished philanthropist to visit us.  I must
take my leave of you now, sir, and go to my Garden Party.  Nice to have
made your acquaintance, Mr.  Metcalfe, and I look forward to seeing you
again at four-thirty."  They shook hands warmly, and Stephen guided
Harvey towards Exeter College as Adrian darted back into the little
room in Lincoln that had been arranged for him.  He sank into a seat.

"Are you all right, Daddy?"  asked his elder son, William.

"Yes, I'm fine.  Let's go and have some ice cream and Coca-Cola."  Both
boys were transformed--ice cream and Coca-Cola were much more important
than helping with that silly gown.

Adrian slipped off all the paraphernalia--the gown, hood, bow tie,
bands--and placed them in a suitcase.  He returned to the street just
in time to watch the real vice chancellor, Mr.  Habakkuk, leave Jesus
College on the opposite side of the road, obviously making his way
towards the Garden Party.  Adrian glanced at his watch.  If they had
run five minutes later the whole plan would have struck disaster.

Meanwhile, Stephen had gone full circle and was heading towards
Shepherd & Woodward, the tailor's shop which supplies academic dress
for the university.  He was preoccupied with the thought of getting a
message through to James.  Stephen and Harvey came to a halt in front
of the shop window.

"What magnificent robes."

"That's the gown of Doctor of Letters.  Would you like to try it on and
see how you look?"

"That would be great.  But would they allow it?"  said Harvey.  "I'm
sure they will have no objection."

They entered the shop, Stephen still in his full academic dress as a
Doctor of Philosophy.

"My friend would like to see the gown of Doctor of Letters."
"Certainly, sir," said the assistant, who was not going to argue with a
Fellow of the University.

He vanished to the back of the shop and returned with a magnificent red
gown with grey facing and a black, floppy velvet cap Stephen plunged
on, brazen-faced.

"Why don't you try it on, Mr.  Metcalfe?  Let's see what you would look
like as an academic."

The assistant looked somewhat surprised.  He wished Mr.  Venables would
return from his lunch break.

"Would you like to come through to the fitting room, sir?"  Harvey
disappeared.  Stephen slipped quietly out onto the road.  "James, can
you hear me?  Oh hell, for God's sake answer, James."  "Cool down, old
fellow.  I'm having a deuce of a time putting on this ridiculous gown
and in any case, our rendezvous isn't for seventeen minutes."  "Cancel
it."

"Cancel it?"

"Yes, and tell Jean Pierre as well.  Both of you report to Adrian on
the speaker and meet as quickly as possible.  He will brief you on the
new plans."  "New plans.  Is everything all right, Stephen?"

"Yes, better than I could have hoped for."

Stephen clicked off his speaker and rushed back into the tailor's shop.
Harvey was just coming out of the cubicle dressed as a Doctor of
Letters; a more grotesque sight Stephen had not seen for many years.

"You look magnificent."

"What do they cost?"

"About one hundred pounds, I think."

"No, no.  How much would I have to give ... ?"

"I have no idea.  You would have to discuss that with the vice
chancellor after the Garden Party."

After a long look at himself in the mirror, Harvey returned to the
dressing room while Stephen thanked the assistant, asking him to wrap
up the gown and cap and send them to the Clarendon Building to be left
with the porter in the name of Sir John Betjeman.  He paid cash.  The
assistant looked even more bewildered.  "Yes, sir."

He was not sure what to do, except pray for Mr.  Venables' arrival.  He
did return some ten minutes later, but by then Stephen and Harvey were
well on the way to Trinity College for the Garden Party.

"Mr.  Venables, I have just been asked to send the DLitt.  dress to Sir
John Betjeman at the Clarendon Building."

"Strange.  We kitted him out for this morning's ceremony weeks ago.  I
wonder why he wants another outfit."

"He paid cash."

"Well, send it round to the Clarendon, but be sure it's in his name."
Stephen and Harvey arrived at Trinity College shortly after
three-thirty.  The elegant green lawns, the croquet hoops removed, were
already crowded with over a thousand people.  The members of the
university wore an odd hybrid dress--best lounge suits or silk dresses
topped with their gowns, hoods and caps.  Cups of tea and crates of
strawberries and cucumber sandwiches were disappearing with alacrity.

"What a swell party this is," said Harvey, unintentionally mimicking
Frank Sinatra.  "You certainly do things in style here, Professor."
"Yes, the Garden Party is always rather fun.  It's the main social
event of the university year, which is just ending, of course.  Half
the senior members here will be snatching an afternoon off from reading
examination scripts.  Exams for the final year undergraduates are in
full swing at the moment."  Stephen staked out the vice chancellor, the
registrar and the secretary of the University Chest with a firm eye,
and led Harvey well clear of them, introducing him to as many of the
older members of the university as possible, hoping they would not find
the encounter too memorable.  They spent just over three quarters of an
hour moving from person to person.  Stephen felt rather like an
aide-de-camp to an incompetent dignitary whose mouth must be kept shut
for fear of a diplomatic incident if he opens it.  Despite Stephen's
anxious approach, Harvey was clearly having the time of his life.

"Adrian, Adrian, can you hear me?"

"Yes, James."

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the Eastgate Restaurant: come and join me here with Jean
Pierre."  "Fine.  We will be there in five minutes.  No, make it ten.
With my disguise, I'd better go slowly."

Adrian rose.  The children had finished their treat and he took them
out of the Eastgate to a waiting car and instructed the driver, who had
been hired especially for the day, to return them to Newbury.  They had
played their part and could now only be in the way.

"Aren't you coming, Dad?"  demanded Jamie.

"No, I'll be home later tonight.  Tell your mother to expect me about
seven o'clock."

Adrian returned to the Eastgate to find Jean Pierre and James hobbling
towards him.

"Why the change of plan?"  asked Jean Pierre.  "It's taken me over an
hour to get dressed and ready."

"Never mind.  You're still in the right gear.  We had a stroke of luck.
I chatted up Harvey in the street and the cocky bastard invited me to
tea with him at the Randolph Hotel.  I said that was impossible, but
asked him to join me at the Clarendon.  Stephen suggested that you two
should be invited as well."  "Clever," said James.  "No need for the
build-up at the Garden Party."  "Let's hope it's not too clever," said
Jean Pierre.

"Well, at least we can do the whole damn charade behind closed doors,"
said Adrian, "which ought to make it easier.  I never did like the idea
of walking through the streets with him."

"Nothing with Harvey Metcalfe is easy," said Jean Pierre.

"I will get myself into the Clarendon Building by four-fifteen,"
continued Adrian.  "You appear a few minutes after four-thirty, Jean
Pierre, and then you, James, about quarter to five.  But keep exactly
to the same routine as if the meeting had taken place, as originally
planned, at the Garden Party and we had all walked over to the
Clarendon together."

Stephen suggested to Harvey that they should return to the Clarendon
Building as it would be discourteous to be late for the vice
chancellor.  "Sure.  Jesus, it's twenty past four already."

They left the Garden Party and walked quickly down to the Clarendon
Building at the bottom of the High, Stephen explaining en route that
the Clarendon was a sort of Oxford White House, where all the officers
and officials of the university had their rooms.

The Clarendon is a large, imposing eighteenth-century building which
could be mistaken by a visitor as another college.  A few steps lead up
to an impressive hallway and on entering you realise you are in a
magnificent old building which has been converted, with as few changes
as possible, for use as offices.  When they arrived the porter greeted
them.

"The vice chancellor is expecting us," said Stephen.  The porter had
been somewhat surprised when Adrian had arrived fifteen minutes earlier
and told him Mr.  Habakkuk had asked him to wait in his room and even
though Adrian was in full academic dress, the porter kept a beady eye
on him as he did not expect the vice chancellor or any of his staff to
return from the Garden Party for at least an hour.  The arrival of
Stephen gave him a little more confidence.  He well remembered the
pound he had received for his guided tour of the building.  The porter
ushered Stephen and Harvey through to the vice chancellor's rooms and
left them.  The vice chancellor's room was in no way pretentious and
its beige carpet and pale walls would have made it look like the office
of any middle-ranking civil servant had it not been for the magnificent
picture by P. Wilson Steer over the marble fireplace.

Adrian was staring out of the vast windows overlooking the Bodleian
Library.  "Good afternoon, Vice Chancellor."

"Good afternoon again, Professor."

"You remember Mr.  Metcalfe?"

"Yes indeed.  How nice to see you again," Adrian shuddered.  All he
wanted to do was to go home.  They chatted for a few minutes.  Another
knock and Jean Pierre entered.

"Good afternoon, Registrar."

"Good afternoon, Vice Chancellor, Professor Porter."

"May I introduce Mr.  Harvey Metcalfe."

"Good afternoon, sir."

"Registrar, would you like some ... ?"

"Where's this man Metcalfe?"

The others stood stunned as a man looking ninety entered the room on
sticks.  He hobbled over to Adrian, winked, bowed and respectfully
said: "Good afternoon, Vice Chancellor," in a loud, crotchety voice.
"Good afternoon, Horsley."

James went over to Harvey and prodded him with his sticks as if to make
sure he was real.  "I have read about you, young man."

Harvey had not been called young man for thirty years.  The others
stared at James in admiration.  None of them knew that in his last year
at university James had played L'Avare to great acclaim.  His secretary
of the Chest was simply a repeat performance--even Moliere would have
been pleased with it.  James continued:

"You have been most generous to Harvard."

"That's very kind of you, sir," said Harvey respectfully.

"Don't call me sir, young man.  I like the look of you--call me
Horsley."  "Yes, Horsley, sir," blurted Harvey.

The others were only just able to keep straight faces.

"Well, Vice Chancellor," continued James.  "You can't have dragged me
halfway across the city for my health.  What's going on?  Where's me
sherry?"  Stephen wondered if James was going too far and looked at
Harvey, but he was evidently captivated by the scene.  How could a man
so mature in one field be so immature in another?  he thought.  He was
beginning to see how Westminster Bridge had been sold to at least four
Americans in the past.

"Well, we were hoping to interest Mr.  Metcalfe in the work of the
university and I felt that the secretary of the University Chest should
be present."  "What's this Chest?"  asked Harvey.

"Sort of treasurer for the university," replied James, his voice loud,
old and very convincing.  "Why don't you read this?"  And he thrust
into Harvey's hand an Oxford calendar, which Harvey could have obtained
at Blackwells' bookshop for two pounds, and indeed James had.

Stephen was not sure what move to make next, when happily for him
Harvey took over.

"Gentlemen, I would like to say how proud I am to be here today.  This
has been a wonderful year for me.  I was present when an American won
Wimbledon.  I finally bought a Van Gogh.  My life was saved by a
wonderful, wonderful surgeon in Monte Carlo and now here I am in Oxford
surrounded by all this history.  Gentlemen, it would give me a great
deal of pleasure to be associated with this wonderful university."

James took the lead again:

"What have you in mind?"  he shouted at Harvey, adjusting his hearing
aid.  "Well, gentlemen, I achieved my life's ambition when I received
the King George and Elizabeth trophy from your Queen, but the prize
money, well, I would like to use that to make a benefaction to your
university."

"But that's over 80,000," gasped Stephen.

"It's 81,240 to be exact, sir.  But why don't I call it $250,000?"
Stephen, Adrian and Jean Pierre were speechless.  James was left to
command the day.  This was the opportunity he'd needed to show why his
great-grandfather had been one of Wellington's most respected
generals.

"We accept.  But it would have to be anonymous," said James.  "Only I
think I can safely say that the vice chancellor would inform Mr. Harold
Macmillan and Hebdomadal Council, but we would not want a fuss made of
it.  Of course, Vice Chancellor, I would ask you to consider an
honorary degree."  Adrian was so conscious of James's obvious control
that he could only say, "How would you recommend we go about it,
Horsley?"

"Cash cheque so nobody can trace it back to Mr.  Metcalfe.  We can't
have those bloody men from Cambridge chasing him for the rest of his
life.  Same way as we did for Sir David--no fuss."

"I agree," said Jean Pierre, not having the vaguest idea what James was
talking about.  Neither, for that matter, did Harvey.

James nodded to Stephen, who left the vice chancellor's office and made
his way to the porter's room to enquire if a parcel had been left for
Sir John Betjeman.  "Yes, sir.  I don't know what they left it here."

"Don't worry," said Stephen.  "He's asked me to pick it up."  Stephen
returned to find James holding forth to Harvey on the importance of
keeping his donation as a bond between himself and the university.

Stephen undid the box and took out the magnificent gown of a Doctor of
Letters.  Harvey turned red with embarrassment and pride as Adrian
placed it on his shoulders, chanting some Latin, which was nothing more
than his old school motto.  The ceremony was completed in a few
moments.

"Many congratulations," bellowed James.  "What a pity we could not have
organised this to be part of today's ceremony, but for such a
munificent gesture as yours we could hardly wait another year."

Brilliant, thought Stephen, Laurence Olivier could not have done
better.  "That's fine by me," said Harvey as he sat down and made out a
cheque to cash.  "You have my word that this matter will never be
mentioned again."  None of them believed that.

They stood in silence as Harvey rose and passed the cheque to James.
"No, sir."  James transfixed him with a glare.

The others looked dumbfounded.

"The vice chancellor."

"Of course.  Excuse me, sir."

"Thank you," said Adrian, his hand trembling as he received the cheque.
"A most gracious gift, and you may be sure we shall put it to good
use."  There was a loud knock on the door.  They all looked round
startled, except for James, who was now ready for anything.  It was
Harvey's chauffeur.  James had always hated the pretentious white
uniform with the white hat.  "Ah, the efficient Mr.  Mellor," said
Harvey.  "Gentlemen, I guarantee he's been watching every move we've
made today."

The four froze, but the chauffeur had clearly made no sinister
deductions from his observations.

"Your car is ready, sir, You wanted to be back at Claridge's by seven
o'clock to be in good time for your dinner appointment.

"Young man," bellowed James.

"Yes, sir," whimpered the chauffeur.

"Do you know you are in the presence of the vice chancellor of this
university?"  "No, sir.  I'm very sorry, sir."

"Take your hat off immediately."

"Yes, sir."

The chauffeur removed his hat and retreated to the car, swearing
quietly under his breath.

"Vice Chancellor, I sure hate to break up our party, but as you've
heard I do have an appointment..  ."

"Of course, of course, and may I once again officially thank you for
your most generous donation, which will be used to benefit many
deserving people.  We all hope you have a safe journey back to the
States and will remember us as warmly as we shall remember you."

Harvey moved towards to the door.

"I will take my leave of you now, sir," shouted James.  "It will take
me twenty minutes to get down those damned steps.  You are a fine man
and you have been most generous."

"It was nothing," said Harvey expansively.

True enough, thought James, nothing to you.

Stephen, Adrian and Jean Pierre accompanied Harvey from the Clarendon
to the waiting Rolls.

"Professor," said Harvey, "I didn't quite understand everything the old
guy was saying."  As he spoke he shifted the weight of his heavy robes
on his shoulders self-consciously.

"Well, he's very deaf and very old, but his heart's in the right place.
He wanted you to know that this has to be an anonymous donation as far
as the university is concerned, though, of course, the Oxford hierarchy
will know the truth.  If it were public knowledge all sorts of
undesirables who have never done anything for education in the past
would all come along wanting to buy an honorary degree."

"Of course, of course.  I understand.  That's fine by me," said Harvey.
"I want to thank you for a swell day and wish you all the luck for the
future."  He climbed into the Rolls Royce and waved enthusiastically to
the three of them as they watched the car start effortlessly on its
journey back to London.  Three down and one to go.

"James was brilliant," said Jean Pierre.  "When he first came in I
didn't know who the hell it was."

"I agree," said Adrian.  "Let's go and rescue him--truly the hero of
the day."  They all three ran up the steps, forgetting that they looked
somewhere between the ages of fifty and sixty, and rushed back into the
vice chancellor's room to congratulate James, who lay silent in the
middle of the floor.  He had passed out,

An hour later, in Magdalen, with the help of Adrian and two large
whiskies, James was back to normal health.

"You were fantastic," said Stephen, "just at the point when I was
beginning to lose my nerve."

"You would have received an Academy Award if we could have put it on
screen," said Adrian.  "Your father will have to let you go on the
stage after that performance."

James basked in his first moment of glory for three months.  He could
not wait to tell Anne.

"Anne."  He quickly looked at his watch.  "Six-thirty!  Oh hell, I am
meeting Anne at eight and I must leave at once.  See you all next
Monday in Stephen's rooms for dinner.  By then I will try to have my
plan ready."  James rushed out of the room.

"James."

His face reappeared round the door.  They all said in chorus,
"Fantastic!"

He grinned, ran down the stairs and leapt into his Alfa Romeo, which he
now felt he would be able to keep, and headed towards London at top
speed.

It took him fifty-nine minutes from Oxford to the King's Road.  The new
motorway had made a considerable difference since those days when he
was an undergraduate.  Then the journey had taken anything from an hour
and a half to two hours through High Wycombe or Henley.

The reason for the rush was because the meeting with Anne was most
important and under no circumstances must he be late, for tonight he
was due to meet her father.  He was determined to make a good
impression, particularly after Anne's successful weekend at Tathwell
Hall.  The old man had taken to her at once and never left her side.
They had even managed to agree on a wedding date, subject, of course,
to the approval of Anne's parents.

James had a quick cold shower and removed all his makeup, losing some
sixty years in the process.  He had arranged to meet Anne for a drink
at Les Ambassadeurs Club in Mayfair before dinner and as he put on his
dinner jacket, he wondered if he could make it from the King's Road to
Hyde Park Corner in twelve minutes.  He leapt into his car, revving it
quickly through the gears, shot along to Sloane Square, through Eaton
Square, up past St.  George's Hospital, round Hyde Park Corner into
Park Lane, and arrived at two minutes to eight.

"Good evening, my lord," said Mr.  Mills, the club owner.

"Good evening.  I'm dining with Miss Summerton and I have had to leave
my car double parked.  Can you take care of it?"  said James, dropping
the keys and a pointed note into the doorman's white-gloved hand.

"Delighted, my lord.  Show Lord Brigsley to the private rooms."  James
followed the head porter up the red staircase and into a small Regency
room where dinner had been laid for three.  He could hear Anne's voice
in the next room.  She came through looking even more beautiful than
usual in a floating mint green dress.

"Hello, darling.  Come on through and meet Daddy."  James followed Anne
into the next room.

"Daddy, this is James.  James, this is my father."  James went red and
then white, and then he felt green.

"How are you, my boy.  I have heard so much about you from Rosalie that
I can't wait to get acquainted."

Chapter 17

"Call me Harvey," said Anne's father.  James stood aghast and
speechless.  Anne jumped into the silence.

"Shall I get your usual whisky, James?"

James found his voice with difficulty.

"Thank you."

"I want to know all about you," continued Harvey, "what you get up to
and why I have seen so little of my daughter in the last few weeks,
though I think I know the answer to that."

James drank the whisky in one gulp and Anne quickly refilled his glass.
"You see so little of your daughter because I am modelling and I am
very rarely in London."

"I know, Rosalie ..."

"James knows me as Anne, Daddy."

"We christened you Rosalie.  It was good enough for your mother and me
and it ought to be good enough for you."

"Daddy, whoever heard of a top European model calling herself Rosalie
Metcalfe?  All my friends know me as Anne Summerton."

"What do you think, James?"

"I was beginning to think I didn't know her at all," replied James,
recovering slowly.  It was obvious that Harvey did not suspect
anything.  He had not seen James face to face at the gallery, he did
not see him at Monte Carlo or Ascot, and James had been looking ninety
years of age at Oxford earlier in the day.  James supposed he had got
away with it.  But how the hell could he tell the others at the Monday
meeting that the final plan would be to outwit not Harvey Metcalfe, but
his father-in-law?

"Shall we go through for dinner?"

Harvey did not wait for a reply.  He marched into the dining room. "You
just wait, young woman," whispered James fiercely.  "You've got some
explaining to do."

Anne kissed him gently on the cheek.

"You are the first person who's given me the chance to beat my father
at anything.  Can you forgive me ... ?  I love you ..."

"Come on, you two.  You'll have time enough for that when you're
married."  Anne and James went through to join Harvey for dinner. James
was amused by the sight of the shrimp cocktail and remembered how
Stephen had regretted that touch at Harvey's Magdalen dinner.

"Well, James, I understand you and Anne have fixed the date for the
wedding."  "Yes, sir, if you approve."

"Of course I approve.  I was hoping Anne would marry Prince Charles
after winning the King George and Elizabeth Stakes, but an earl will do
for my only daughter."  They both laughed, neither of them thinking it
was remotely funny.  "I wish you could have come to Wimbledon this
year, Rosalie.  Imagine, there on Ladies Day and the only company I
have is a boring old Swiss banker."  Anne looked at James and
grinned.

The waiters cleared the table and wheeled in a trolley bearing a crown
of lamb in immaculate cutlet frills, which Harvey studied with great
interest.  "Still, it was kind of you to ring me at Monte Carlo, dear.
I really thought I was going to die, you know.  James, you wouldn't
have believed it.  They removed from my stomach a gallstone the size of
a baseball Thank God it was done by one of the greatest surgeons in the
world.  Wiley Barker saved my life."  Harvey promptly undid his shirt
and revealed to James a four-inch scar across his vast stomach.  "What
do you think of that, James?"

"Remarkable."

"Daddy, really.  We're having dinner."

"Stop fussing, honey.  It won't be the first time James has seen a
man's stomach."

It's not the first time I have seen that one, thought James.  Harvey
pushed his shirt back into his trousers and continued.  "Anyway, it was
really kind of you to phone me."  He leant over and patted her hand. "I
was a good boy too.  I did just what you told me and kept on that nice
Doctor Barker for another week in case any complications arose. Mind
you, the price these doctors ..."

James dropped his wineglass.  The claret covered the tablecloth with a
red stain.  "I am so sorry."

"You all right, James?"

"Yes, sir."

James looked at Anne in silent outrage.  Harvey was quite unperturbed.
"Bring a fresh tablecloth and some more wine for Lord Brigsley."  The
waiter poured a new glass and James decided it was his turn to have a
little fun.  Anne had been laughing at him for three months.  Why
shouldn't he tease her a little, if Harvey gave him the chance?  Harvey
chatted on.  "You a racing man, James?"

"Yes, sir, and I was delighted by your victory in the King George VI
and Queen Elizabeth Stakes for more reasons than you realise."

In the diversion caused by the waiters clearing the table, Anne
whispered sotto voce, "Don't try to be clever, darling--he's not as
stupid as he sounds."  "Well, what do you think of her?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Rosalie."

"Magnificent.  I put five pounds each way on her."

"Yes, it was a great occasion for me and I was sorry you missed it,
Rosalie, because you would have met the Queen and a nice guy called
Professor Porter."  "Professor Porter?"  enquired James, burying his
face in his wineglass.  "Yes, Professor Porter, James.  Do you know
him?"

"No, sir, I can't say I know him, but didn't he win a Nobel Prize?" "He
sure did and he gave me a wonderful time at Oxford.  I enjoyed myself
so much that I ended up giving him a cheque for $250,000 for research
of some kind, so he should be happy."

"Daddy, you know you're not meant to tell anybody that."

"I know, but James is family now."

James was still not going to let Anne get away with her duplicity. "Why
can't you tell anyone else, sir?"

"Well, it's a long story, James, but it was quite an honour for me. You
do understand this is highly confidential, but I was Professor Porter's
guest at Encaenia.  I lunched at All Souls with Mr.  Harry Macmillan,
your dear old Prime Minister, and then I attended the Garden Party, and
afterwards I had a meeting with the vice chancellor in his private
rooms along with the registrar and the secretary of the University
Chest.  Were you at Oxford, James?"  "Yes, sir.  The House."

"The House?"  queried Harvey.

"Christ Church, sir."

"I'll never understand Oxford."

"No, sir."

"You must call me Harvey.  Well, we all met at the Clarendon and they
stammered and stuttered and were lost for words, except for one funny
old guy, who was ninety if he was a day.  These people just don't know
how to approach millionaires for money, so I put them out of their
embarrassment and took over.  They would have gone on all day about
their beloved Oxford, so eventually I had to shut them up and I simply
wrote out a cheque for $250,000."  "That was very generous, Harvey."

"I would have given them $500,000 if they'd asked.  James, you look a
bit pale, do you feel all right?"

"I am sorry.  Yes, I'm fine.  I was quite carried away with your
description of Oxford."

Anne joined in.  "Daddy, you made a promise to the vice chancellor that
you would keep your gift as a bond between the university and yourself,
and you must promise never to tell that story again."

"I think I shall wear the robes for the first time when I open the new
library at Harvard in the fall."

"Oh no, sir," said James hastily, "that wouldn't be quite the thing.
You should only wear those robes in Oxford on ceremonial occasions."

"Gee, what a shame.  Still, I know what sticklers you English are for
etiquette.  Which reminds me, we ought to discuss your wedding.  I
suppose you two will want to live in England?"

"Yes, Daddy, but we will visit you every year and when you make your
annual trip to Europe you can come and stay with us."

The waiters cleared the table again and reappeared with Harvey's
favourite strawberries.  Anne tried to keep the conversation on
domestic issues and stop her father returning to what he'd been up to
during the past two months, while James spent his time trying to get
him back on the subject.  "Coffee or liqueur, sir?"

"No, thank you," said Harvey.  "Just the check.  I thought we'd have a
drink in my suite at Claridge's, Rosalie.  I have something I want to
show you both.  It's a bit of a surprise."

"I can't wait, Daddy.  I love surprises.  Come on, James."

James left them and drove the Alfa Romeo to Claridge's garage so that
Anne could have a few moments alone with her father.  They strolled
along Curzon Street, arm in arm.

"Isn't he wonderful, Daddy?"

"Yeah, great guy.  Didn't seem too bright to begin with, but he cheered
up as the meal went on.  And fancy my little girl turning out to be a
genuine English lady.  Your momma's tickled pink and I'm happy that we
have patched up our quarrel."  "Oh, I've got things back into
perspective in the last few weeks.  Now tell me, what is your little
surprise, Daddy?"

"Wait and see, honey.  It's your wedding present."

James joined them again at the entrance to Claridge's.  He could tell
from Anne's look that Harvey had given him the seal of parental
approval.  "Good evening, sir.  Good evening, my lord."

"Hi there, Albert.  Could you fix for coffee and a bottle of Remy
Martin to be sent up to my suite?"

"Immediately, sir."

The Royal Suite is on the first floor of Claridge's--James and Anne had
never seen it before.  Off the small entrance room, there is the master
bedroom on the right and a sitting room on the left, Harvey took them
straight to the sitting room.

"Children, you are about to see your wedding present."  He threw the
door open in dramatic style and there on the far wall was the Van Gogh.
They both stared, quite unable to speak.

"That's exactly how it left me," said Harvey.  "Speechless."  "Daddy."
Anne swallowed.  "A Van Gogh.  But you always wanted a Van Gogh.  You
always dreamed of possessing such a picture, and anyway I can't
possibly have anything so valuable in my house.  Think of the security
risk, we don't have the protection you have.  We can't let you give us
the pride of your collection, can we, James?"

"Absolutely not," said James with great feeling.  "I wouldn't have a
moment's peace with that on the premises."

"Keep it in Boston, Daddy, in a setting worthy of it.  You can always
leave it to James and me if you like."

"What a great idea, Rosalie.  That way we can both enjoy it.  Now I
shall have to think of another wedding present.  She nearly got the
better of me then, James, and she hasn't done that in twenty-four
years."

"Well, I've managed it two or three times, Daddy, and I am hoping for
just once more."

Harvey ignored Anne's remark and went on talking,

"That's the King George and Elizabeth trophy," he said, pointing to a
magnificent bronze sculpture of a horse and jockey with his hoop and
quartered cap studded in diamonds.  "They give a new trophy every year
because of the importance of the race, so it's mine for life."

James was thankful that the trophy at least was genuine.

The coffee and brandy arrived and they settled down to discuss the
wedding in detail.

"Now, Rosalie, you must fly over to Lincoln next week and help your
mother with the arrangements; otherwise she'll panic and nothing will
get done.  And, James, you let me know how many people you will have
coming over and we'll put them up in the Statler Hilton.  The wedding
will be in Trinity Church, Copley Square, and we'll have a real English
style reception back in my home in Lincoln.  Does all that make sense,
James?"

"Sounds wonderful.  You are a very well organised man, Harvey." "Always
have been, James.  Find it pays in the long run.  Now, you and Rosalie
must get the details sewn up before she comes over next week, because
I'm flying to America tomorrow."

James and Anne spent another hour chatting about the wedding
arrangements and left Harvey just before midnight.

"I'll see you first thing in the morning, Daddy."

"Good night, sir."  James shook hands and left.

"I told you he was super."

"He's a fine young man and your mother will be very pleased."  James
said nothing in the lift on the way down because two other men stood
behind them in silence, also waiting to reach the ground floor.  But
once they were in the Alfa Romeo he took Anne by the scruff of the neck
and spanked her on her bottom so hard that she didn't know whether to
laugh or cry.  "What's that for?"

"Just in case you ever forget after we're married who's the head of
this household."

"You male chauvinist pig.  I was only trying to help."

James drove at furious speed to Anne's flat.

"What about all your-so-called background--"My parents live in
Washington and Daddy's in the Diplomatic Corps," " James mimicked.
"Some diplomat."  "I know, darling, but I had to think of something
once I'd realised who it was."  "What in hell's name am I going to tell
the others?"

"Nothing.  You invite them to the wedding, explaining that my mother is
American and that's the reason we are getting married in Boston.  I'd
give the earth to see their faces when they finally discover who your
father-in-law is.  In any case, you still have a plan to think of and
under no circumstances can you let them down."

"But circumstances have changed."

"No, they haven't.  The truth of the matter is that they have all
succeeded and you have not, so you must be sure you have a plan by the
time you reach America."

"It's obvious we wouldn't have succeeded without your help." "Nonsense,
darling.  I had nothing to do with Jean Pierre.  I just added some
background colour here and there."

"How much did you help with Oxford?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, my love?  Promise you'll never spank me
again?"  "Certainly I will, every time I think of that picture, but
now, darling ..."  "James, you are a sex maniac!"

"I know, darling.  How do you think we Brigsleys reared tribes of
little lords for generations?"

Anne left James early the next morning to spend some time with her
father and they both saw him off at the airport on the midday flight to
Boston.  Anne could not resist asking in the car on the way back what
James had decided to tell the others.  She could get no response other
than:

"Wait and see, I'm not having it all changed behind my back.  I am only
too glad you're off to America on Monday!"

Chapter 18

Monday was a double hell for James.  First, he had to see Anne off on
the morning TWA flight for Boston, and then he spent the rest of the
day preparing for the Team meeting in the evening.  The other three had
now completed their operations and would be waiting to hear what he had
come up with.  It was twice as hard now he knew that his victim was to
become his father-in-law, but he accepted that Anne was right and that
he could not make that an excuse.  It meant that he still had to
relieve Harvey of $250,000.  To think he could have done it with one
sentence at Oxford; that was something he could not tell the rest of
the Team either.

As Oxford had been Stephen's victory, the Team dinner was at Magdalen
College and James travelled out of London just after the rush hour,
past the White City Stadium and on down the M40 to Oxford.

"You're always last, James," said Stephen.

"Sorry, I have been up to my eyes ..."

"In a good plan, I hope," said Jean Pierre.

James didn't answer.  How well they all knew each other now, he
thought.  In twelve weeks James felt he knew more about these three men
than any of the so-called friends he'd known for twenty years.  For the
first time he understood why his father always referred back to
friendships formed during the war.  He began to realise how much he was
going to miss Stephen when he returned to America.  Success was in fact
going to split them up and James would have been the first to admit
that he didn't want to go through the agony of another Discovery Oil,
but it had certainly had its compensations.  Stephen never could treat
any occasion as a celebration, and when the servants had served the
first course and left, he banged the table and declared that the
meeting was in progress.

"Make me a promise," said Jean Pierre.

"What's that?"  asked Stephen.

"When we have every last penny back, I can sit at the top of the table
and you won't speak until you are spoken to."

"Agreed," said Stephen, "but not until we do have every last penny. The
position at the moment is that we have received $777,560.  Expenses on
this operation have totaled $5,178, making a grand total of $27,661.24
cents.  Therefore, Metcalfe still owes us $250,101.24." Stephen handed
round a copy of the current balance sheet.

"Three sheets to be added to your own folders.  Any questions?"  "Yes,
why are expenses so high for this operation?"  asked Adrian.  "Well,
over and above the obvious things," said Stephen, "the truth is that
the floating exchange rate of sterling against the dollar has hit us.
At the beginning of this operation you could get $2.44 to the pound.
This morning I could only get $2.32.  I am spending in pounds but
charging Metcalfe in dollars at the going rate."

"Not going to let him off with one penny, are you?"  said James.  "Not
one penny.  Now, before we go on I should like to place on record ..."
"This gets more like a meeting of the House of Representatives every
time," said Jean Pierre.

"Quiet, frog," said Adrian.

"Listen, you Harley Street pimp."

Uproar broke out.  The college scouts, who had seen some rowdy
gatherings in college in their time, wondered if they would be called
for help before the evening was out.

"Quiet."  The sharp senatorial voice of Stephen brought them back to
order.  "I know you are in high spirits, but we still have to get
$250,101.24."  "We must not on any account forget the twenty-four
cents, Stephen."  "You weren't as noisy the first time you had dinner
here, Jean Pierre: "The man that once did sell the lion's skin While
the beast liv'd, was killed with hunting him."" The table went
silent.

"Harvey still owes the Team money and it will be just as hard to
acquire the last quarter as it has been the first three quarters.
Before I hand over to James though, I would like to place on record
that his performance at the Clarendon was nothing less than
brilliant."

Adrian and Jean Pierre banged the table in appreciation and agreement.
"Now, James, we are at your command."  Once again the room fell into
silence.  "My plan is nearly complete," began James.  The others looked
disbelieving.  "But I have something to tell you, which I hope will
allow me a short respite before we carry it out."

"You're going to get married."

"Quite right, Jean Pierre, as usual."

"I could tell the moment you walked in.  When can we meet her, James?"
"Not until it's too late for her to change her mind, Jean Pierre."
Stephen consulted his diary.  "How much reprieve are you asking for?"
"Well, Anne and I are getting on August third in Boston--Anne's mother
is American," explained James.  "And although Anne lives in England, it
would please her mother if she was married at home.  Then there will be
a honeymoon and we anticipate being back in England on August
twenty-fifth.  My plan for Mr.  Metcalfe ought to be carried out on
September thirteenth, on the closing day of the Stock Exchange
account."

"I'm sure that is acceptable, James.  All agreed?"  Adrian and Jean
Pierre nodded.  James launched into his plan.

"I shall require a telex and telephone.  They will be installed in my
flat.  Jean Pierre will have to be in Paris at the Bourse, Stephen in
Chicago on the commodity market and Adrian in London at Lloyd's.  I
will present a full blue dossier as soon as I return from my
honeymoon."

They were all struck dumb with admiration and James paused for dramatic
effect.  "Very good, James," said Stephen.  "We wait with
interest--what further instructions do you have?"

"First, Stephen, you must know the opening and closing price of gold in
Johannesburg, Zurich, New York and London each day for the next month.
Jean Pierre, you must know the price of the deutsch mark the French
franc and the pound against the dollar every day over the same period,
and Adrian must master a telex machine and PBX eight-line switchboard
by September second.  You must be as good as any international
operator."

"Always get the easy job, Adrian, don't you?"  said Jean Pierre.  "You
can ..."

"Shut up, both of you," said James.

Their faces registered surprise and respect.

"I have made notes for all of you."

James handed two typewritten sheets to each member of the Team.  "That
should keep you occupied for at least a month.  Finally, you are all
invited to the wedding of Miss Anne Summerton to James Brigsley.  I
shan't bother issuing you with formal invitations at such short notice,
but I have reserved seats for us on a 747 on the afternoon of August
second and we are all booked in at the Statler Hilton in Boston.  I
hope you will honour me by being ushers."  Even James was impressed by
his own efficiency.  The others received the plane tickets and
instructions with astonishment.

"We will meet at the airport at three o'clock and during the flight I
shall test you on your dossier notes."

"Yes, sir," said Jean Pierre.

"Your test, Jean Pierre, will be both in French and English as you are
required to converse in two languages over a transatlantic telephone,
and to appear an expert on foreign currency exchange."

There were no more jokes about James that evening and as he travelled
back up the motorway he felt a new man.  Not only had he been the star
of the Oxford plan, he now had the other three on the run.  He would
come out on top and do his old Pa yet.

Chapter 19

For a change James was first to arrive for a meeting, and the others
joined him at Heathrow.  He had obtained the upper hand and he was not
going to lose it.  Adrian arrived last, clutching an armful of
newspapers.

"We're only going for two days," said Stephen.

"I know, but I always miss the English papers, so I have to take enough
for tomorrow as well."

Jean Pierre threw his arms up in Gallic despair.

They checked their luggage through the Number 3 Terminal and boarded
the British Airways 747 flight to Logan International Airport.

"It's more like a football ground," said Adrian at his first encounter
with the inside of a jumbo.

"It holds three hundred and fifty people.  About the size of the crowds
your English clubs deserve," said Jean Pierre.

"Cut it out," said James sternly, not realising that they were both
nervous passengers and were only trying to relieve the tension.  Later,
during take off, they both pretended to read, but as soon as they
reached 3,000 feet and the little red light that says "Fasten your seat
belts" clicked off, they were back in top form.

The Team chewed its way stolidly through a plastic dinner of cold
chicken and Algerian red wine.

"I do hope, James," said Jean Pierre, "that your father-in-law will do
a little better."

After the meal James allowed them to watch the film, but insisted that
as soon as it was over they must prepare to be tested one by one.
Adrian and Jean Pierre moved back fifteen rows to watch The Sting.
Stephen stayed in his seat to be grilled by James.

James handed Stephen a typewritten sheet of forty questions on the
price of gold all over the world, and the market movements in the past
four weeks.  Stephen completed it in twenty-two minutes, and it came as
no surprise to James to find that every answer was accurate: Stephen
had always been the backbone of the Team, and it was his cogent brain
that had really defeated Harvey Metcalfe.  Stephen and James dozed
intermittently until Adrian and Jean Pierre returned, when they were
given their forty questions.  Adrian took thirty minutes over his and
scored thirty-eight out of forty.  Jean Pierre took twenty-seven
minutes and scored thirty-seven.

"Stephen got forty out of forty," said James,

"He would," said Jean Pierre.

Adrian looked a little sheepish.

"And so will you by September second.  Understood?"

They both nodded.

"Have you seen The Sting?"  asked Adrian.

"No," replied Stephen.  "I rarely go to the cinema."

"They're not in our league.  One big operation and they don't even keep
the money."

"Go to sleep, Adrian."

The meal, the film and James's quizzes had taken up most of the
six-hour flight They all nodded off in the last hour to be woken up
suddenly by: "This is your captain speaking.  We are approaching Logan
International Airport and our flight schedule is running twenty minutes
late.  We expect to land at fifteen minutes past seven in approximately
ten minutes.  We hope you have enjoyed your flight and will travel
again with British Airways."  Customs took a little longer than usual
as they had all brought presents for the wedding and the other three
did not want James to know what they had bought for him.  They had
considerable trouble in explaining to the customs officer why one of
the two Piaget watches had inscribed on the back: "The illicit profits
from Discovery Oil--The three who had plans."

When they finally escaped the terminal, they found Anne there at the
entrance to greet them with a large Cadillac to chauffeur them to the
hotel.  "Now we know why it took you so long to come up with something.
Congratulations, James, you are entirely excused," said Jean Pierre,
and threw his arms round Anne as only a Frenchman could.  Adrian
introduced himself and kissed her gently on the side of her cheek.
Stephen shook hands with her rather formally.  They bustled into the
car, Jean Pierre sitting next to Anne.

"Miss Summerton," stuttered Stephen.

"Do call me Anne."

"Will the reception be at the hotel?"

"No," replied Anne, "at my parents' house, but there will be a car to
pick you up and take you there after the wedding.  Your only job is to
see that James gets to the church by three-thirty.  Other than that you
have nothing to worry about.  While I think of it, James, your father
and mother arrived yesterday and they are staying with my parents.  We
thought it would not be a good idea for you to spend this evening at
home because Mother is flapping about everything."  "Anything you say,
darling."

"If you should change your mind between now and tomorrow," said Jean
Pierre, "I find myself available, and although I am not blessed with
noble blood, there are one or two compensations we French can offer."

Anne smiled to herself.

"You're a little late, Jean Pierre.  In any case, I don't like beards."
"But I only ..."  began Jean Pierre.

The others glared at him.

At the hotel they left Anne and James alone while they went to unpack.
"Do they know, darling?"

"They haven't the slightest idea," replied James.  "They are going to
get the surprise of their lives tomorrow."

"Is your plan prepared at last?"

"Wait and see."

"Well, I have one," said Anne.  "When is yours scheduled for?"
"September thirteenth."

"I win then--mine's for tomorrow."

"What, you weren't meant to ..."

"Don't worry.  You just concentrate on getting married ... to me."
"Can't we go somewhere?"

"No, you terrible man.  You can wait until tomorrow."

"I do love you."

"Go to bed, you silly thing.  I love you too, but I must go home;
otherwise nothing will be ready."

James took the lift to the seventh floor and joined the others for
coffee.  "Anyone for blackjack?"  said Jean Pierre.

"Not with you, you pirate," said Adrian.  "You have been tutored by the
biggest crook alive."

The Team were in top form and looking forward to the wedding.  They
didn't depart for their separate rooms until after midnight, despite
the transatlantic time dislocation.  Even then, James lay awake for
some time, turning the same question over in his mind:

"I wonder what she's up to."

Chapter 20

Boston in August is as beautiful a city as any in America, and the Team
enjoyed a large breakfast in James's room overlooking the river.

"I don't think he looks up to it," said Jean Pierre.  "You're the
captain of the Team, Stephen.  I volunteer to take his place."

"It will cost you $250,000."

"Agreed," said Jean Pierre.

"You don't have $250,000," said Stephen.  "You have $187,474.69, one
quarter of what we have so far raised, so my decision is that James
must be the bridegroom."

"It's an Anglo-Saxon plot," said Jean Pierre, "and when James has
successfully completed his plan and we have the full amount, I shall
reopen negotiations."  They sat talking and laughing for a long time
over the toast and coffee.  Stephen regarded them fondly, regretting
how rarely they would meet once--if, he corrected himself
sternly--James's operation were accomplished.  If Harvey Metcalfe had
ever had a team like this on his side instead of against him, he would
have been the richest man in the world, and not just in financial
terms.  "You're dreaming, Stephen."

"Yes, I'm sorry.  I mustn't forget that Anne has put me in charge."
"Here we go again," said Jean Pierre.  "What time shall we report,
Professor?"  "One hour from now, fully dressed to inspect James and
take him to the church.  Jean Pierre, you will go and buy four
carnations--three red ones and one white.  Adrian, you will arrange the
taxi and I shall take care of James."  Adrian and Jean Pierre left
singing the "Marseillaise" lustily in two different keys.  James and
Stephen watched them depart.

"How are you feeling, James?"

"Great.  I'm only sorry that I did not complete my plan before today."
"Doesn't matter at all.  September thirteenth will be just as good.  In
any case, the break will do us no harm."

"We would never have managed it without you.  You know that, don't you,
Stephen?  We would all be facing ruin and I wouldn't even have met Anne
but for you.  We all owe you so much."

Stephen stared fixedly out of the window, unable to reply.

"Three red and one white," said Jean Pierre, "as instructed, and I
presume the white one is for me."

"Pin it on James.  Not behind his ear, Jean Pierre."

"You look fantastic, but I still haven't been able to work out what she
sees in you," said Jean Pierre, fixing the white carnation in James's
buttonhole.  The four of them were ready to leave, but still had half
an hour to kill before the taxi was due.  Jean Pierre opened a bottle
of champagne.  They toasted James's health, then the Team's health,
then Her Majesty the Queen, then the President of the United States,
and finally, with simulated reluctance, the President of France. Having
finished the bottle, Stephen thought it wise to leave immediately, and
dragged the other three down to the waiting taxi. "Keep smiling, James.
 We're with you."

And they bundled him into the back.

The taxi took twenty minutes to reach Trinity Church, Copley Square,
and the driver was not unhappy to be rid of the four of them.

"Three-fifteen.  Anne will be very pleased with me," said Stephen.  He
escorted the bridegroom to the front pew on the right-hand side of the
church, while Jean Pierre made eyes at the prettiest of the girls.
Adrian helped hand out the wedding sheets.  One thousand overdressed
guests waited for the bride.  Stephen had just come to Adrian's aid on
the steps of the church and Jean Pierre had joined them, suggesting
they take their seats, when the Rolls Royce arrived.  They were riveted
to the steps by the beauty of Anne in her Balenciaga wedding gown.  Her
father stepped out behind her.  She took his arm and proceeded to mount
the steps.

The three stood motionless, like sheep in the stare of a python.  "The
bastard!"

"Who is conning who?"

"She must have known all along!"

Harvey beamed vaguely at them as he walked past with Anne on his arm.
"Good God!"  thought Stephen.  "He didn't recognise any of us."  They
took their places at the back of the church, out of earshot of the vast
congregation.  The organist stopped playing when Anne reached the
altar.

"Harvey can't know," said Stephen.

"How do you work that out?"  enquired Jean Pierre.

"Because James would never have let us go through this unless he had
passed the test himself at some earlier date."

"Clever," whispered Adrian.

"I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day
of judgement when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed ..."

"I should like to know some secrets now," said Jean Pierre.  "To start
with, how long has she known?"

"James Clarence Spencer, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife,
to live together after God's ordinance in the Holy estate of Matrimony?
Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her in sickness and in
health and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as
ye both shall live?"  "I will."

"Rosalie Arlene, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband to live
..."

"I think," said Stephen, "we can be sure that she is a fully fledged
member of the Team, otherwise we would never have succeeded at Monte
Carlo or Oxford."

"... so long as ye both shall live?"

"I will."

"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"

Harvey bustled forward and took Anne's hand and gave it to the priest.
"I, James Clarence Spencer, take thee, Rosalie Arlene, to my wedded
wife ..."

"And what's more, he didn't recognise us because he's only seen each of
us once, and then never as we really are," continued Stephen.

"And thereto I plight thee my troth."

"I, Rosalie Arlene, take thee, James Clarence Spencer, to my wedded
husband."

"But he must have a chance of working it out if we hang around," said
Adrian.  "Not true," said Stephen.  "Now, don't panic.  Our secret has
always been to catch him off his own ground."

"But he is on his ground," said Jean Pierre.

"No, he isn't.  It's his daughter's wedding day and it's totally
strange to him.  Naturally, we avoid him at the reception, but we don't
make it obvious."  "You'll have to hold my hand," said Adrian.

"I will," volunteered Jean Pierre.

"Just remember to act naturally."

"... and thereto I give thee my troth."

Anne was quiet and shy, her voice only just reaching the astonished
three at the back.  James's was clear and firm.

"With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all
my worldly goods I thee endow ..."

"And with some of ours too," said Jean Pierre.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
Amen."  "Let us pray," intoned the priest.

"I know what I'm going to pray," said Adrian.  "To be delivered out of
the power of our enemy and from the hands of all that hate us."

"O Eternal God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind .. ."  "We're near
the end now," said Stephen.

"An unfortunate turn of phrase," replied Adrian.

"Silence," said Jean Pierre.  "I agree with Stephen.  We've got the
measure of Metcalfe, just relax."

"Those whom God hath joined let no man put asunder."

Jean Pierre continued mumbling to himself, but it didn't sound like a
prayer.  The blast of Handel's Wedding March from the organ brought
them back to the occasion.  The ceremony was over and Lord and Lady
Brigsley walked down the aisle to two thousand smiling eyes.  Stephen
amused, Jean Pierre looked envious and Adrian looked nervous.  James
smiled beatifically as he passed them.  After a ten-minute photographic
session on the steps of the church, the Rolls Royce carried the newly
married couple back to the Metcalfes' house in Lincoln.  Harvey and the
Countess of Louth took the second car, and the Earl and Arlene, Anne's
mother, took the third.  Stephen, Adrian and Jean Pierre followed some
twenty minutes later, still arguing the pros and cons of bearding the
lion in his own den.

Harvey Metcalfe's Georgian house was magnificent, with an oriental
garden leading down to the lake, great beds of roses and in the
conservatory his pride and joy, a rare orchid collection.

"I never thought I'd see this," said Jean Pierre.

"Nor me," said Adrian, "and now that I have, I'm not too happy."  "Now
we run the gauntlet," said Stephen.  "I suggest that we join the
receiving line at well-separated intervals.  I'll go first.  Adrian,
you come second at least twenty places behind, and, Jean Pierre, you
come third at least twenty places behind Adrian, and act naturally.
We're just friends of James's from England.  Now, when you take your
places in the queue, listen to the conversation.  Try and find someone
who's a close friend of Harvey's and jump immediately in front of them.
When it comes to your turn to shake hands, Harvey's eyes will already
be on the next person because he won't know you and will know them.
That way we should escape."

"Brilliant, Professor," said Jean Pierre.

The queue seemed interminably long.  A thousand people shuffled past
the outstretched hands of Mr.  and Mrs.  Metcalfe, the Earl and
Countess of Louth, and Anne and James.  Stephen eventually made it and
passed with flying colours.  "So glad you could come," said Anne.

Stephen did not reply.

"Good to see you, Stephen."

"We all admire your plan, James."

Stephen slipped into the main ballroom and hid behind a pillar on the
far side of the room, as far as he could be from the multi-storey
wedding cake in the centre.

Adrian was next, and avoided looking Harvey in the eyes.

"How kind of you to come all this way," said Anne.

Adrian mumbled something under his breath.

"Hope you have enjoyed yourself today, Adrian?"  James was obviously
having the time of his life.  He's been put through it by Anne, and was
relishing the Team having to go through the same discomfiture.

"You're a bastard, James."

"Not too loud, old fellow.  My mother and father might hear you."
Adrian slipped through to the ballroom and after a search behind all
the pillars, found Stephen.

"Did you get through all right?"

"I think so, but I don't want to see him ever again.  What time is the
plane back?"

"Eight o'clock.  Now, don't panic.  Keep your eye out for Jean Pierre."
"Bloody good thing he kept his beard," said Adrian.

Jean Pierre shook hands with Harvey, who was already intent on the next
guest as Jean Pierre had, by shameless queue-barging, managed to secure
a place in front of a Boston banker who was obviously a close friend of
Harvey's.  "Good to see you, Marvin."

Jean Pierre had escaped.  He kissed Anne on both cheeks and whispered
in her ear.  "Game, set and match to James," and went off in search of
Stephen and Adrian, but forgot his original instructions when he found
himself face to face with the chief bridesmaid.

"Did you enjoy the wedding?"  she enquired.

"Of course.  I always judge weddings by the bridesmaids, not the
bride."  She blushed with pleasure.

"This must have cost a fortune," she continued.

"Yes, my dear, and I know whose," said Jean Pierre, slipping his arm
around her waist.

Four arms grabbed a protesting Jean Pierre and unceremoniously dragged
him behind the pillar.

"For God's sake, Jean Pierre.  She's not a day over seventeen.  We
don't want to go to jail for rape as well as theft.  Drink this and
behave yourself."  Adrian thrust a glass into his hand.

The champagne flowed and even Stephen had a little too much.  They were
clinging to their pillar for support by the time the toast-master
called for silence.  "My lords, ladies and gentlemen.  Pray silence for
the Viscount Brigsley, the bridegroom."

James made an impressive speech.  The actor in him took over and the
Americans adored it.  Even his father had a look of admiration on his
face.  The toastmaster then introduced Harvey, who spoke long and loud.
He cracked his favourite joke about marrying his daughter off to Prince
Charles, at which the assembled guests roared heartily as they always
will, even for the weakest joke, at a wedding, and he ended by calling
the toast for the bride and groom.  When the applause had died down,
and the hubbub of chatter had struck up again, Harvey took an envelope
from his pocket and kissed his daughter's cheek.  "Rosalie, here is a
little wedding present for you, to make up for letting me keep the Van
Gogh.  I know you will put it to good use."

Harvey passed her the white envelope.  Inside there was a cheque for
$250,000.  Anne kissed her father with genuine affection.

"Thank you, Daddy, I promise you it will be wisely used."  She hurried
in pursuit of James, whom she found besieged by a group of American
matrons.  "Is it true you are related to the Queen ... ?"

"I never met a real live lord ..."

"I do hope you will invite us over to see your castle ... ?"  "There
are no castles in the King's Road."  James was more than relieved to
see Anne.

"Darling, can you spare me a minute?"

James excused himself and followed Anne, but they found it almost
impossible to escape the crowd.

"Look," she said.  "Quickly."

James took the cheque.

"Good God--$250,000!"

"You know what I'm going to do with it, don't you?"

"Yes, darling."

Anne hunted for Stephen, Adrian and Jean Pierre, which was not easy as
they were still hidden behind the pillar in the far corner.  She was
eventually guided to the spot by the subdued but spirited rendering of
"Who wants to be a millionaire?"  issuing from it.

"Can you lend me a pen, Stephen?"

Three pens shot out for her use.

She took the cheque from the middle of her bouquet and wrote on its
back, "Rosalie Brigsley--pay Stephen Bradley."  She handed it to him.
"Yours, I believe."

The three of them stared at the cheque.  She was gone before they could
even comment.

"What a girl our James has gone and married," said Jean Pierre. "You're
drunk, you frog," said Adrian.

"How dare you, sir, suggest that a Frenchman could get drunk on
champagne.  I demand satisfaction.  Choose your weapons."

"Champagne corks."

"Quiet," said Stephen.  "You'll give yourselves away."

"Well now, tell me, Professor, what is the latest financial position."
"I'm just working it out now," said Stephen.

"What?"  said Adrian and Jean Pierre together, but they were too happy
to argue.  "He still owes us a hundred and one dollars and twenty-four
cents."  "DISGRACEFUL," said Jean Pierre.  "Burn the place down!"

Anne and James left to change, while Stephen, Adrian and Jean Pierre
forced down more champagne.  The toastmaster announced that the bride
and groom would be leaving in approximately fifteen minutes and
requested the assembled guests to gather in the main hall and
courtyard.

"Come on, we'll watch them go," said Stephen.  The drink had given them
new confidence and they took their places near the car.

It was Stephen who heard Harvey say: "God damn it.  Do I have to do
everything?"  and watched him look around until his eyes fell on the
trio.  Stephen's legs turned to jelly as Harvey's finger beckoned
him.

"Hey you, weren't you an usher?"

"Yes, sir."

"My only daughter is going to leave at any moment and there are no
flowers.  God knows what's happened to them, but there are no flowers.
Grab a car.  There's a florist half a mile down the road, but hurry."

"Yes, sir."

Stephen turned and fled.  Adrian and Jean Pierre, who had been watching
horrified, thinking that Harvey had at last rumbled them, ran after
him.  When he reached the back of the house, Stephen stopped by the
most beautiful bed of roses.  Adrian and Jean Pierre shot straight past
him, stopped, turned round staggered back.

"What the hell are you up to--picking flowers for your own funeral?"
"It's Metcalfe.  Somebody forgot the flowers for Anne and I have five
minutes to get them, so start picking."

"Mes enfants, do you see what I see?"

The others looked up.  Jean Pierre was staring rapturously at the
conservatory.  Stephen rushed back to the front of the house, the prize
orchids in his arms, followed by Adrian and Jean Pierre.  He was just
in time to pass them over to Harvey before James and Anne came out of
the house.

"Magnificent.  They're my favorite flowers.  How much were they?"  "A
hundred dollars," replied Stephen, without thinking.  Harvey handed
over two fifty-dollar bills.  Stephen retreated, sweating, to join
Adrian and Jean Pierre behind the large crowd.

James and Anne fought their way through the crowd.  No man in the
gathering could take his eyes off her.

"Oh, Daddy, orchids, how beautiful."  Anne kissed Harvey.  "You have
made this the most wonderful day in my life ..."

The Rolls Royce moved slowly away from the large crowd, around to the
back of the house, down the drive on its way to the airport for James
and Anne to catch the flight to San Francisco, the first stop on the
way to Hawaii.  As the car glided around the house, Anne stared at the
empty conservatory and then at the flowers in her arms.  James did not
notice.  He was thinking of other things.  "Do you think they will ever
forgive me?"

"I'm sure they will find a way, darling, but let me into a secret.  Did
you really have a plan?"

"I knew you would eventually ask and ..."

The car purred effortlessly along the highway and only the chauffeur
heard his reply.

Stephen, Adrian and Jean Pierre watched the guests dispersing, most of
them saying their good-byes to the Metcalfes.

"Don't let's risk it," said Adrian.

"Agreed," said Stephen.

"Let's invite him out to dinner," said Jean Pierre.  The other two
grabbed him and threw him into a taxi.

"What's that you have under your morning coat, Jean Pierre?"  "Two
bottles of Krug dix-neuf cent soixante-quatre.  It seemed such a shame
to leave them there on their own.  I thought they would get lonely."
Stephen instructed the driver to take them back to the hotel.  "What a
wedding.  Do you think James ever had a plan?"  asked Adrian.  "I don't
know, but if he has it will only have to bring a dollar and twenty-four
cents."

"We should have retrieved the money he made from his win on Rosalie at
Ascot," mused Jean Pierre.

After packing and signing out of the hotel, they took another taxi to
Logan International Airport and with some considerable help from the
British Airways staff, managed to board the plane.

"Damn," said Stephen.  "I wish we hadn't left without the dollar and
twenty-four cents."

Chapter 21

Once on board, they drank the champagne Jean Pierre had captured at the
wedding.  Even Stephen seemed content, although he did occasionally
revert to being a dollar and twenty-four cents short.

"How much do you imagine this champagne cost?"  teased Jean Pierre.
"That's not the point.  Not a penny more, not a penny less."  Jean
Pierre decided he would never understand academics.

They spent most of the journey home in a drunken slumber, with the
occasional grunt from Stephen about the dollar and twenty-four cents.
"Don't worry, Stephen.  I have every confidence that James's plan will
bring in a dollar and twenty-four cents."

Stephen would have laughed, but it gave him a headache.

"To think that girl knew everything."

On arrival at Heathrow, they had little trouble in clearing customs.
The purpose of the trip had never been to bring back gifts.  Adrian
made a detour to W. H. Smith's and picked up The Times and the London
Evening Standard.  Jean Pierre bargained with a taxi driver about the
fare to Central London.  "We're not some bloody Americans who don't
know the fare or the route and can be easily fleeced," he was saying,
not yet sober.

The taxi driver grumbled to himself as he nosed his black Austin
towards the motorway.  It was not going to be his day.

Adrian read the papers happily, He was one of those rare people who
could read in a moving car.  Stephen and Jean Pierre both envied him
and satisfied themselves by watching the passing traffic.

"Jesus Christ."

Stephen and Jean Pierre were startled.  They had rarely heard Adrian
swear.  It seemed out of character, as indeed it was.

"God Almighty."

This was too much for them, but before they could enquire, he began to
read out loud:

"British Petroleum announced a strike in the North Sea which is likely
to produce 200,000 barrels of oil a day.  It is described by their
chairman, Sir Eric Drake, as a major find.  The British Petroleum field
is one mile from the so far unexplored Discovery Oil field and rumours
of a bid by BP have sent Discovery Oil shares to a record high of
$12.25 at the close of business."  "Nom de Dieu," said Jean Pierre.
"What do we do now?"

"Oh well," said Stephen, "I suppose we'll have to work out how to give
it back."  

Epilogue

HARVEY METCALFE Retired at sixty-five to Lincoln, Massachusetts.
Estimated to be worth $25 million.

BERNIE SILVERSTEIN Arrested, extradited and sentenced in Montreal to
five years for fraud.

RICHARD ELLIOTT Arrested extradited and sentenced to two years for
fraud.  ALVIN COOPER Arrested and later released on grounds of
insufficient evidence.

DAVID KESLER Turned Queen's evidence and assisted the police in their
enquiries.  Now working for a small real estate firm in Albuquerque.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR CLIFFORD SMITH Promoted to Chief Inspector.  LORD
AND LADY BRIGSLEY Farming successfully in Hampshire.  Six-month-old son,
Hon.  Charles Spencer Clarence, heir to the title.  JEAN PIERRE
LAMANNS Assistant Curator of the Guggenheim Collection.  ADRIAN
TRYNER Continues to make a profit diagnosing the diseases of the rich.

ELSPETH MEIKLERe signed to make way for Angeline Faubert.  STEPHEN
BRADLEY Killed in an air disaster on December 1, 1974 on a TWA flight
out of Washington.

DISCOVERY OIL One small strike (50,000 barrels a day) and one large
strike (150,000 barrels a day) to date after joint participation with a
major oil company.  The shares today stand at $1.2.