“Put on a bit of weight since those photographs you supplied,” said Jean-Pierre.
“Hard to believe he’s real after all this preparation,” remarked Robin.
“The bastard’s real enough,” said Jean-Pierre, “and a million dollars richer because of our stupidity.”
James said nothing. He was still in disgrace after his futile efforts and excuses at the last full briefing, although the other three had to admit that they did receive good service wherever they went with him. Claridge’s was proving to be no exception.
“Wimbledon tomorrow,” said Jean-Pierre. “I wonder who’ll win the first round?”
“You will of course,” chipped in James, hoping to soften Jean-Pierre’s acid comments about his own feeble efforts.
“We can only win your round, James, if we ever fill in an entry form.”
James sank back into silence.
“I must say, looking at the size of Metcalfe we ought to get away with your plan, Robin,” said Stephen.
“If he doesn’t die of cirrhosis of the liver before we’re given the chance,” replied Robin. “How do you feel about Oxford now you’ve seen him, Stephen?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll feel better when I’ve belled the cat at Ascot. I want to hear him speak, watch him in his normal environment, get the feel of the man. You can’t do all that from the other side of the dining room.”
“You may not have to wait too long. This time tomorrow we may know everything we need to know—or all be in West End Central Police Station,” said Robin. “Maybe we won’t even pass Go, let alone collect £200.”
“We have to—I can’t afford bail,” said Jean-Pierre.
When Harvey had downed a large snifter of Rémy Martin V.S.O.P. he left his table, slipping the head waiter a crisp new pound note.
“The bastard,” said Jean-Pierre with great feeling. “It’s bad enough knowing he’s stolen our money, but it’s humiliating having to watch him spend it.”
The four of them prepared to leave, the object of their outing achieved. Stephen paid the bill and carefully added the sum to the list of expenses against Harvey Metcalfe. Then they left the hotel separately and as inconspicuously as possible. Only James found this difficult as all the waiters and porters insisted on saying “Good night, my lord.”
Harvey took a stroll around Berkeley Square and did not even notice the tall young man slip into the doorway of Moyses Stevens, the florists, for fear of being spotted by him. Harvey could never resist asking a policeman the way to Buckingham Palace, just to compare his reaction with that of a New York cop, leaning on a lamp post, chewing gum, holster on hip. As Lenny Bruce had said on being deported from England, “Your pigs is so much better than our pigs.” Yes, Harvey liked England.
He arrived back at Claridge’s at about 11:15 P.M., showered and went to bed—a large double bed with that glorious feel of clean linen sheets. There would be no women for him at Claridge’s or, if there were, it would be the last time he would find the Royal Suite available to him during Wimbledon or Ascot. The room moved just a little, but then after five days on an ocean liner it was unlikely to be still for a couple of nights. He slept well in spite of it, without a worry on his mind.
Chapter Ten
HARVEY ROSE AT 7:30 A.M., a habit he could not break, but he did allow himself the holiday luxury of breakfast in bed. Ten minutes after he had called room service, the waiter arrived with a trolley laden with half a grapefruit, bacon and eggs, toast, steaming black coffee, a copy of the previous day’s Wall Street Journal, and the morning edition of The Times, Financial Times and International Herald Tribune.
Harvey was not sure how he would have survived on a European trip without the International Herald Tribune, known in the trade as the “Trib.” This unique paper, published in Paris, is jointly owned by the New York Times and the Washington Post. Although only one edition of 120,000 copies is printed, it does not go to press until the New York Stock Exchange is closed. Therefore, no American need wake up in Europe out of touch. When the New York Herald Tribune folded in 1966, Harvey had been among those who advised John H. Whitney to keep the International Herald Tribune going in Europe. Once again, Harvey’s judgment had been proved sound. The International Herald Tribune went on to absorb its faltering rival, the New York Times, which had never been a success in Europe. From then on the paper went from strength to strength.
Harvey ran an experienced eye down the Stock Exchange lists in the Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times. His bank now held very few shares as he, like Jim Slater in England, had suspected that the Dow-Jones Index would collapse and had therefore gone almost entirely liquid, holding only some South African gold shares and a few well-chosen stocks about which he had inside information. The only monetary transaction he cared to undertake with the market so shaky was to sell the dollar short and buy gold, so that he caught the dollar on the way down and gold on the way up. There were already rumors in Washington that the President of the United States had been advised by his Secretary of the Treasury, George Schultz, to allow the American people to buy gold on the open market later that year or early the following year. Harvey had been buying gold for the past fifteen years: all the President was going to do was to stop him from breaking the law. Harvey was of the opinion that the moment the Americans were able to buy gold, the bubble would burst and the price of gold would recede—the real money would be made while the speculators anticipated the rise, and Harvey intended to be out of gold well before it came onto the American market. Once the President made it legal, Harvey couldn’t see a profit in it.
Harvey checked the commodity market in Chicago. He had made a killing in copper a year before. Inside information from an African ambassador had made this possible—information the ambassador had imparted to too many people. Harvey had not been surprised to read that he had later been recalled to his homeland and shot.
He could never resist checking the price of Prospecta Oil, now at an all-time low of $1/8: there could be no trading in the stock, simply because there would only be sellers and no buyers. The shares were virtually worthless. He smiled sardonically and turned to the sports page of The Times.
Rex Bellamy’s article on the forthcoming Wimbledon Championships tipped John Newcombe as favorite and Jimmy Connors, the new American star who had just won the Italian Open, as the best outside bet. The British press wanted the 39-year-old Ken Rosewall to win. Harvey could well remember the epic final between Rosewall and Drobny in 1954, which had run to 58 games. Like most of the crowd, he had supported the 33-year-old Drobny, who had finally won after three hours of play, 13–11, 4–6, 6–2, 9–7. This time, Harvey wanted history to repeat itself and Rosewall to win, though he felt the popular Australian’s chance had slipped by during the ten years when the professionals were barred from. Wimbledon. Still, he saw no reason why the fortnight should not be a pleasant break, and perhaps there might be an American victor even if Rosewall couldn’t manage it.
Harvey had time for a quick glance at the art reviews before finishing his breakfast, leaving the papers strewn over the floor. The quiet Regency furniture, the elegant service and the Royal Suite did nothing for. Harvey’s habits. He padded into the bathroom for a shave and shower. Arlene told him that most people did it the other way around—showered and then ate breakfast. But, as Harvey pointed out to her, most people did things the other way around from him, and look where it got them.
Harvey habitually spent the first morning of Wimbledon fortnight visiting the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy in Piccadilly. He would then follow this with visits to most of the West End’s major galleries—Agnew’s, Tooths, the Marlborough, Wildenstein—all within easy walking distance of Claridge’s. This morning would be no exception. If Harvey was anything, he was a creature of habit, which was something the Team were quickly learning.
After he had dressed and bawled out room service for not leaving enough whiskey in his cabinet, he headed down the staircase, emerged through the swing door onto Davies Street and strode off toward Berkeley Square. Harvey did not observe a studious young man with a two-way radio on the other side of the road.
“He’s l
eft the hotel by the Davies Street entrance,” said Stephen quietly to his little Pye Pocketfone, “and he’s heading toward you, James.”