Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

“No, but as I said we would like to question him. He bought and sold 500 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 inquiries, 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 made such fools of themselves as I did?”

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 Prospecta Oil. Perhaps if he released their names it might bring them out in some way.

“Yes, sir, but…you must understand that you never heard about them from me.”

Stephen nodded.

“For your own interest you could find out what you need to know by making some

discreet inquiries through the Stock Exchange. There were four main punters, of whom you were one. Between the four of you you lost approximately $1 million. The others were a Harley Street doctor, Robin Oakley, a London art dealer called Jean-Pierre Lamanns, and a farmer, the unluckiest of all, really. As far as I can gather, he mortgaged his farm to put up the money. Titled young gentleman: Viscount Brigsley. Metcalfe’s snatched the silver spoon out of his mouth, all right.”

“No other big investors?”

“Two or three banks burned their fingers badly, but there were no other private investors above £10,000. What you, the banks and the other big investors did was to keep the market buoyant long enough for Metcalfe to off-load his entire holding.”

“I know, and worse, I foolishly advised some of my friends to invest in the company as well.”

“Er…there are two or three small investors from Oxford, yes sir,” said the Inspector, looking down at the sheet of paper in front of him, “but don’t worry—we won’t be approaching them. Well, that seems to be all. It only leaves me to thank you for your cooperation and say we may be in touch again some time in the future. In any case, we’ll keep you informed of developments, and I hope you’ll 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.

Stephen could never recall if it was while 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 dupers. His grandfather’s advice to him, when as a small child he failed to win their nightly game of chess, floated across his mind: Stevie, don’t get cross, get even. He was pleased he had given his final lecture and finished work for the term, and as he fell asleep at 3 A.M. only one name was on his lips: Harvey Metcalfe.

Chapter Five

STEPHEN AWOKE AT about 5:30 A.M. He seemed to have been heavily, dreamlessly asleep, but as soon as he came to, the nightmare started again. He forced himself to use his mind constructively, to put the past firmly behind him and see what could be done about the future. He washed, shaved, dressed and missed college breakfast, occasionally murmuring to himself “Harvey Metcalfe.” He then pedaled to Oxford station on an ancient bicycle, his preferred mode of transport in a city blocked solid with juggernaut lorries and full of unintelligible 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 other railway stations.

He caught the 8:17 train so favored by those who commute from Oxford to London every day. All the people at 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.

“You’ll have to return 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 as he watched the flat Berkshire countryside jolt past, and his coffee cup lurched unsampled in its saucer before he turned his mind to the morning papers. The Times carried no news of Prospecta Oil that morning. It was, he supposed, an insignificant story, even a dull one. Not kidnap, not arson, not even rape; just another shady business enterprise collapsing—nothing there to hold the attention of the front page for more than one day. Not a story he would have given a second thought to himself 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, glad that he had chosen the closeted life of a university or, more accurately, that it had chosen him. Stephen had never come to terms with London—he found the city large and impersonal, and he always took a taxi everywhere for fear of getting lost on the buses or the underground. Why didn’t the English 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. He had once been told that cabdrivers 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 proceeded to swing 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. What was the lead story he had read over so inattentively in the train? Ah yes, a meeting of Commonwealth leaders. He supposed he must allow the world to go about its daily business as usual.

Stephen was unsure how to tackle the problem of checking Harvey Metcalfe out. Back at Harvard he would have had no trouble, first making a beeline for his father’s old friend Hank Swaltz, the business correspondent of the Herald American. Hank would be sure to have supplied him with the inside dope. The diary correspondent of The Times, Richard Compton-Miller, was by no means as appropriate a contact, but he was the only British press man Stephen had ever met. Compton-Miller had been visiting Magdalen the previous spring to write a feature on the time-honored observance of May Day in Oxford. The choristers on the top of the College tower had sung the Miltonian salute as the sun peeped over the horizon on May 1st:

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 had clearly been inspired.

Later, Stephen had been more embarrassed than flattered by his appearance in the resulting piece written by Compton-Miller for The Times diary: academics are sparing with the word brilliant, but journalists are not. The more self-important of Stephen’s Senior Common Room colleagues had not been 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 sculpture by Henry Moore. The Times and the Observer shared a building with separate entrances, The Times’s by far the more prestigious. Stephen asked the sergeant behind the desk for Richard Compton-Miller, and was directed to the fifth floor and then to his little private cubicle at the end of the corridor.

It was only a little after 10 A.M. when Stephen arrived, and the building was practically deserted. Compton-Miller later explained that a national newspaper does not begin to wake up until 11 A.M. and generally indulges itself in a long lunch hour until about 3. 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 complete change of staff, staggered from 5 P.M. onward, whose job it is to watch for major news stories breaking during the night. They always have to keep a wary eye on what is happening in America, because if the President makes an important statement in the afternoon in Washington they are already going to press in London. Sometimes the front page can change as often as five times during the night; in the case of the assassination of President Kennedy, news of which first reached England about 7 P.M. on the evening of November 22nd, 1963, the entire front page had to be scrapped to make way for the tragedy.

“Richard, it was kind of you to come in early for me. I didn’t realize that you started work so late. I rather take my daily paper for granted.”

Richard laughed. “That’s O.K. We must seem a lazy bunch to you, but this place will be buzzing at midnight when you’re tucked up in bed and sound asleep. Now, how can I help you?”