Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

“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 of £150,000 at 2 percent above base rate.”

James was not at all sure what base rate was, but he knew that Williams & Glyn’s were as competitive as everyone else in such matters and that their reputation was beyond dispute.

“Thank you,” said James. “Please acquire for me 35,000 shares in a company called Prospecta Oil.”

“Have you checked carefully into this company, my lord?” inquired 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 Silverman of the meeting in Annabel’s between David Kesler and a nameless peer who seemed to have more money than sense. Harvey released 40,000 shares onto the market at £4.80. Williams & Glyn’s acquired 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 of his own, and over the next four days he was able to dispose of them all. It had taken him fourteen weeks to off-load his entire stock in Prospecta Oil at a profit of just over $6 million.

On Friday morning, the shares stood at £4.90 and Kesler had, in all innocence, occasioned four large investments: Harvey Metcalfe studied them in detail before putting through a call to Jörg Birrer.

Stephen Bradley had bought 40,000 shares at $6.10

Dr. Robin Oakley 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.

Among them they had purchased 135,500 shares at a cost of just over $1 million. They had also kept the price rising, giving Harvey the chance to off-load all his own stock onto a natural market.

Harvey Metcalfe had done it again. His name was not on the letterhead and now he possessed no shares. Nobody would be able to place any blame on him. He had done nothing illegal; even the geologist’s report contained enough ifs and buts to pass in a court of law. As for David Kesler, Harvey could not be blamed for his youthful overenthusiasm. He had never even met the man. Harvey Metcalfe opened a bottle of Krug Privée Cuvée 1964, imported from Hedges and Butler of London. He sipped it slowly, then lit a Romeo y Julieta Churchill, and settled back for a mild celebration.

David, Stephen, Robin, Jean-Pierre and James celebrated at the weekend as well. Why not? Their shares were at £4.90 and David had assured them all that they would reach £10. On Saturday morning David ordered his first bespoke suit from Aquascutum, Stephen tuttutted his way through the end-of-vacation examination papers he had set his freshmen students, Robin attended his sons’ prep school Sports Day, Jean-Pierre reframed a Renoir, and James Brigsley went shooting, convinced that at last he had one in the eye for his father.

Chapter Three

DAVID ARRIVED AT the office at 9 A.M. on Monday to find that the front door was locke

d. He could not understand it. The secretaries were supposed to be in by 8:45.

After waiting around for over an hour, he walked to the nearest telephone box and dialed Bernie Silverman’s home number. There was no reply. He then rang Richard Elliott at home: the ringing tone continued. He rang the Aberdeen office with the same result. He decided to return to the office. There must be a simple explanation, he thought. Was he daydreaming? Or was it Sunday? No—the streets were jammed with people and cars.

When he arrived back at the office a young man was nailing up a board. “2,500 sq. ft. to let. Apply Conrad Ritblat.”

“What in hell’s name are you up to?” David demanded.

“The old tenants have given notice and left. We’re looking for new ones. Are you interested in looking over the property?”

“No,” said David, backing away in panic. “No, thank you.”

He raced down the street, sweat beginning to show on his forehead, praying that the telephone box would still be empty.

He flicked quickly through the L-R directory and looked up Bernie Silverman’s secretary, Judith Lampson. This time there was a reply.

“Judith, in God’s name, what’s going on?” His voice could have left her in 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 slowly beginning to dawn on him although he still wanted to believe there was some simple explanation. Whom 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: