“On second thought she ought to be seriously considered if her touch in bed is half as deft as it is in the kitchen.”
“You’re not going to get the chance to be the judge of that, Jean-Pierre. Content yourself with admiring her French dressing.”
“You were quite outstanding this morning, James,” said Stephen, steering the conversation away from Jean-Pierre’s pet subject. “You should go on the stage. As a member of the British aristocracy, your talent’s simply wasted.”
“I’ve always wanted to, but my old pa is against it. Those who live in expectation of a large inheritance must expect to have to toe the filial line.”
“Why don’t we let him play all four parts in Monte Carlo?” suggested Robin.
The mention of Monte Carlo sobered them up.
“Back to work,” said Stephen. “We have so far received $447,560. Expenses with the picture and an unexpected night at the Dorchester were $11,142 so Metcalfe still owes us $563,582. Think of what we’ve still lost, not of what we’ve gained. Now for the Monte Carlo operation, which depends upon split-second timing and our ability to sustain our roles for several hours. Robin will bring us up to date.”
Robin retrieved the green dossier from the briefcase by his side and studied his notes for a few moments.
“Jean-Pierre, you must grow a beard, starting today, so that in three weeks’ time you’ll be unrecognizable. You must also cut your hair very short.” Robin grinned unsympathetically at Jean-Pierre’s grimace. “Yes, you’ll look absolutely revolting.”
“That,” said Jean-Pierre, “will not be possible.”
“How are the baccarat and blackjack coming on?” continued Robin.
“I have lost $37 in five weeks, which includes my member’s fee at the Claremont and the Golden Nugget.”
“It all goes on expenses,” said Stephen. “That puts the bill up to $563,619.”
The others laughed. Only Stephen’s lips did not move. He was in sober earnest.
“James, how is your handling of the van going?”
“I can reach Harley Street from St. Thomas’s in 14 minutes. I should be able to do the actual run in Monte Carlo in about 11 minutes, though naturally I shall want to do some practice runs the day before. To start with I’ll have to master driving on the wrong side of the road.”
“Strange how everybody except the British drives on the wrong side of the road,” observed Jean-Pierre.
James ignored him.
“I’m not sure of all the continental road signs either.”
“They are detailed in the Michelin guide that I gave you as part of my dossier.”
“I know, but I’ll still feel easier when I’ve experienced the actual run and not just studied maps. There are quite a few one-way streets in Monaco and I don’t want to be stopped going down the wrong one with Harvey Metcalfe unconscious in the back.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll have ample time when we’re there. So, that only leaves Stephen, who’s about the most competent medical student I’ve ever had. You’re confident of your newly acquired knowledge, I hope?”
“About as confident as I am with your American accent, Robin. Anyway, I trust that Harvey Metcalfe will be in no state of mind to worry about such trivialities by the time we meet up.”
“Don’t worry, Stephen. Believe me, he wouldn’t even register who you were if you introduced yourself as Herr Drosser with a Van Gogh under both arms.”
Robin handed around the final schedule of rehearsals for Harley Street and St. Thomas’s, and once again consulted the green file.
“I’ve booked four single rooms on different floors at the Hôtel de Paris and confirmed all the arrangements with the Centre Hospitalier Princesse Grace. The hotel is reputed to be one of the best in the world—it’s certainly expensive enough—but it’s convenient for the Casino. We fly to Nice on Monday, the day after Harvey is due to arrive on his yacht.”
“What do we do for the rest of the week?” inquired James innocently.
Stephen resumed control:
“We master the green dossier backward, frontward and sideways for a full dress rehearsal on Friday. The most important thing for you, James, is to get a grip of yourself and let us know what you intend to do.”
James sunk back into gloom.