Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

Corporation of London,

Barbican Estate Office,

London EC2

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 payment of rent in advance.

We should be pleased if you would kindly deposit the keys to this office at your earliest convenience.

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 dialed his stockbrokers.

“What price are Prospecta Oil this morning?”

“They’ve dipped to £3.80,” replied the broker.

“Why have they fallen?”

“I’ve no idea, but I’ll make some inquiries and ring you back.”

“Please put my 500 shares on the market immediately.”

“500 Prospecta Oil at market price. Yes, sir.”

David put the phone down. It rang a few minutes later. It was his broker.

“They’ve only made £3.50—exactly what you paid for them.”

“Would you credit the sum to my account at Lloyd’s Bank, Moorgate Branch?”

“Of course, sir.”

David did not leave the flat for the rest of the day or night. He lay on his bed chain-smoking, wondering what he ought 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 more news on Prospecta Oil?” His voice was tense and weary now.

“The news is bad, sir. There’s been a spate of heavy selling and the shares have dropped to £2.80 on the opening of business this morning.”

“Why? What the hell’s going on?” His voice rose with every word.

“I’ve no idea, sir,” replied a calm voice that always made one percent, win or lose.

David replaced the receiver. All those years at Harvard were about to be blown away in a puff of smoke. An hour passed, but he did not notice it.

He ate lunch in an inconspicuous restaurant and read a disturbing report in the London Evening Standard by its City Editor, David Malbert, headlined “The Mystery of Prospecta Oil.” By the close of the Stock Exchange at 4 P.M. the shares had fallen to £1.60.

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