Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

“Harvey?”

“Yes.”

“Kesler seems to have been the right choice. He may have talked a friend of his into investing $250,000 in the company.”

“Good. Now listen carefully. Brief my broker to put 40,000 shares on the market at just over $6 a share. If Kesler’s friend does decide to invest in the company, mine will be the only large block of shares immediately available.”

After a further day’s consideration, Stephen noticed that the shares of Prospecta Oil moved from £2.75 to £3.05 and decided the time had come to invest in what he was now convinced must be a winner. He trusted David, and had been impressed by the glossy geologist’s report. He rang Kitcat & Aitken, a firm of stockbrokers in the City, and instructed them to buy $250,000 worth of shares in Prospecta Oil. Harvey Metcalfe’s broker released 40,000 shares when Stephen’s request came onto the floor of the stock exchange and the transaction was quickly completed. Stephen’s purchase price was £3.10.

After investing his father’s inheritance, Stephen spent the next few days happily watching the shares climb to £3.50, even before the expected announcement. Though Stephen didn’t realize it, it was his own investment that had caused the shares to rise. He began to wonder what he would spend the profit on even before he had realized it. He decided not to cash in immediately, but hold on; David thought the shares would reach $20, and in any case he had promised to tell him when to sell.

Meanwhile, 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 Silverman that David Kesler, young, honest, and with all the enthusiasm of a man in his first appointment, had been an excellent choice. It was not the first time Harvey had used this ploy, keeping himself well away from the action while placing the responsibility on inexperienced, innocent shoulders.

At the same time, 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 and kept the price steady.

One lesson a man learns in the Harvard Business School is that an executive is only as good as his health. David never felt happy without a regular medical check-up; he rather enjoyed being told he was in good shape, but perhaps should take things a little easier. His secretary, Miss Rentoul, had therefore made an appointment for him with a Harley Street doctor.

Dr. Robin Oakley was by anyone’s standards a successful man. At thirty-seven he was tall and handsome, with a head of dark hair that looked as if it would never recede. He had a classic strong face and the self-assurance that came from proven success. He still played squash twice a week, which helped him look enviably younger than his contemporaries. Robin had remained fit since his Cambridge days, which he left with a Rugby Blue and an upper-second-class degree. He had gone on to complete his medical training at St. Thomas’s, where once again his Rugby football rather than his medical skill brought him into prominence with those who decide the future careers of young men. 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 the rich, especially middle-aged women, who came to see him again and again however little seemed to be wrong with them. At fifty guineas a visit that had to be regarded as success.

Moffat had chosen Robin Oakley as his assistant for exactly those qualities which he himself displayed, and which had made him so sought-after. Robin Oakley was unquestionably good-looking, personable, well-educated—and just clever enough. Robin settled very well into Harley Street and the Moffat system, and when the older man died suddenly in his early sixties, he took over his mantle with the ease with which a crown prince would take over a throne. Robin continued to build up the practice, losing none of Moffat’s ladies other than by natural causes, and did remarkably well for himself. He had a wife and two sons, a comfortable country house a few miles outside Newbury in Berkshire, and a considerable saving in blue chip securities. He never complained at his good fortune and enjoyed life, at the same time being, he had to confess, a little bored with it all. He was beginning to find that the bland role of sympathetic doctor was almost intolerably cloying. Would the world come to an end 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 if he personally administered to the nubile Miss Lydia de Villiers a good dose of what she so clearly indicated she desired?

David Kesler arrived on time for his appointment. He had been warned by Miss Rentoul that in England doctors and dentists cancel if you are late and still charge you.

He stripped and lay on Robin Oakley’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—Prospecta Oil?”

“No,” said Robin. “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. Oakley, you will. Things are going very well for us. Watch out for our progress in the papers.”

“Why?” said Robin, smiling. “Struck oil, have you?”

“Yes,” said David quietly, pleased with the impression he was creating. “As a matter of fact, we’ve done just that.”

Robin prodded David’s abdomen for a few seconds. “Good muscular wall, not fat, no sign of an enlarged liver. Young man, you’re in good physical shape.”

Robin left him in the examination room to get dressed and thoughtfully wrote out a brief report on Kesler for his records, while his mind dwelt on deeper things. An oil strike.

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. Robin had no intention of rushing Mr. Kesler.

“There’s very little wrong with you, Mr. Kesler. Some signs of anemia, which I suspect are caused by nothing more than overwork and your recent rushing about. I’m going to give you some iron tablets which should quickly take care of that. Take two a day, morning and night.” He scribbled an illegible prescription for the tablets and handed it to David.

“Many thanks. It’s kind of you to give me so much of your time.”

“Not at all. How are you finding London?” asked Robin. “Very different from America, I expect.”

“Sure—the pace is much slower. Once I’ve mastered how long it takes to get something done here I’ll be halfway to victory.”

“Do you have many friends in London?”

“No,” replied David, “I have one or two buddies at Oxford from my Harvard days, but I haven’t yet made contact with many people in London.”

Good, thought Robin, here is a chance for me to find out a little more about the oil game, and spend some time with a man who makes most of my patients look as if they had both feet in the grave. It might even shake me out of my 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.”