Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

On Wednesday morning, dreading what he knew he was bound to hear, David once again rang the broker. The shares had collapsed to £1 and there was no longer a market for them. He left the flat and walked over to Lloyd’s bank where he closed his account and drew out the remaining £1,345. The cashier smiled at him as she passed over the notes, thinking what a successful young man he must be.

David picked up the final edition of the Evening Standard (the one marked “7RR” in the right-hand corner). Prospecta Oil had dropped again, this time to 25 pence. Numbed, he returned to his flat. The housekeeper was on the stairs.

“The police have been around inquiring after you, young man,” she said haughtily.

David climbed the stairs, trying to look unperturbed.

“Thank you, Mrs. Pearson. I guess it’s another parking fine I forgot to pay.”

Panic had now taken over completely: David never felt so small, so lonely and so sick in his life. He packed everything he owned into a suitcase, except the painting, which he left hanging on the wall, and booked a one-way ticket to New York.

Chapter Four

STEPHEN BRADLEY WAS delivering a lecture on group theory at the Mathematics Institute in Oxford to a class of third-year undergraduates the morning David left. Over breakfast he had read with horror in the Daily Telegraph of the collapse of Prospecta Oil. He had immediately rung his broker, who was still trying to find out the full facts for him. He then phoned David Kesler, who seemed to have vanished without trace.

The lecture Stephen was delivering was not going well. He was preoccupied, to say the least. He could only hope that the undergraduates would misconstrue his absentmindedness as brilliance, rather than recognize it for what it was—total despair. He was at least thankful that it was his final lecture of the Hilary term.

Stephen looked at the clock at the back of the lecture theater every few minutes, until at last it pointed to the hour and he was able to return to his rooms in Magdalen College. He sat in his old leather chair wondering where to start. Why the hell had he put everything into one basket? How could he, normally so logical, so calculating, have been so recklessly stupid and greedy? He had trusted David, and still found it hard to believe that his friend was in any way involved with the collapse. Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken for granted that someone he had befriended at Harvard must automatically be right. There had to be a simple explanation. Surely he must be able to get all his money back. The telephone rang. Perhaps it was his broker with more concrete news.

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

“Stephen Bradley.”

“Good morning, sir. I am sorry to bother you. 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 that he might have done something criminal by investigating in Prospecta Oil.

“Certainly, Inspector,” he replied uncertainly, “would you like me to travel to London?”

“No, sir,” replied the Inspector, “we’ll come to you. We can be in Oxford by 4 P.M., if that’s convenient.”

“I’ll expect you then. Good-bye, Inspector.”

Stephen replaced the receiver. What could 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 as a professor. Stephen was even beginning to wonder if that would materialize.

The Detective Inspector was about 5 ft. 11 in. in height, and somewhere between forty-five and fifty. His hair was turning gray at the sides, but brilliantine toned it in with the original black. His shabby suit, Stephen suspected, was more indicative of a policeman’s pay than of the Inspector’s personal taste. 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 the man behind the arrest of international defrauders. He had a tired look that came from years of putting men behind bars for major crimes, only to see them freed again shortly after and living comfortably off the spoils of their shady transactions. In his opinion, crime did pay. The department was so understaffed that some of the smaller fry even got away scot-free; often the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions would decide it would be too expensive to follow the case through to a proper conclusion. On other occasions, the Fraud Squad simply did not have the back-up staff to finish the job properly.

The Detective Inspector was accompanied by Detective Sergeant Ryder, a considerably younger man—6 ft. 1 in., thin in body and face. His large brown eyes had a more innocent look against his sallow skin. He was at least a little better dressed than the Inspector, but then, thought Stephen, he probably wasn’t married.

“I’m 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 inquiries into a company called Prospecta Oil. Now before you say anything, sir, we realize that you had no personal involvement in the running of this company or indeed its subsequent collapse. 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 have you just give me a general assessment. I must tell you, sir, you don’t have to answer any of my questions if you don’t want to.”

Stephen nodded.

“First, sir, what made you invest such a large amount in Prospecta 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.

“The advice of a friend,” replied Stephen.

“Mr. David Kesler, no doubt?”

“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.”