Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

“Where is it most painful?”

Harvey touched the right side of his stomach. Stephen pressed down the tip of the ninth rib, making Harvey bellow with pain.

“Ah,” said Stephen, “a positive Murphy’s sign. You probably have an acutely inflamed gall bladder. I’m afraid that may mean gallstones.” He continued to palpate the massive abdomen gently. “It looks as if a stone has come out of your gall bladder and is passing down the tube to your intestine—it’s the squeezing of that tube that’s giving you such dreadful pain. I’m afraid your gall bladder and the stone must be removed at once. I can only hope there is someone at the hospital who can perform an emergency operation.”

Jean-Pierre came in bang on cue:

“Doctor Wiley Barker is staying at my hotel.”

“Wiley Barker, the American surgeon?”

“Yes, yes,” said Jean-Pierre. “The chap who’s been taking care of Nixon.”

“My God, what a piece of luck. We couldn’t have anyone better, but he’s very expensive.”

“I don’t give a damn about the expense,” wailed Harvey.

“Well, it might be as high as $50,000.”

“I don’t care if it’s $100,000,” screamed Harvey. At that moment he would have been willing to part with his entire fortune.

“Right,” said Stephen. “You, sir,” looking at Jean-Pierre, “ring for an ambulance and then contact Doctor Barker and ask if he can get to the hospital immediately. Tell him it’s an emergency. This gentleman requires a surgeon of the highest qualifications.”

“You’re damn right I do,” said Harvey, and passed out.

Jean-Pierre left the Casino and called over his transmitter:

“Action stations. Action stations.”

Robin left the Hôtel de Paris and took a taxi. He would have given $100,000 to change places with the driver, but the car was already moving relentlessly toward the hospital. It was too late to turn back now.

James smashed the ambulance into first gear and rushed to the Casino, siren blaring. He was luckier than Robin. With so much to concentrate on he didn’t have time to consider the consequences of what he was doing.

Eleven minutes and forty-one seconds later he arrived, leaped out of the driver’s seat, opened the back door, gathered the stretcher and rushed up the Casino steps in his long white coat. Jean-Pierre was standing expectantly on the top step waiting for him. No words passed between them as he guided James quickly through the Salon des Amériques where Stephen was bending over Harvey. The stretcher was placed on the floor. It took all three of them to lift Harvey Metcalfe’s 227 lbs. onto the canvas. Stephen and James picked up the stretcher and took him quickly through to the waiting ambulance, followed by Jean-Pierre.

“Where are you going with my boss?” demanded a voice.

Startled, the three of them turned around. It was Harvey Metcalfe’s chauffeur, standing by the white Rolls Royce. After a moment’s hesitation, Jean-Pierre took over.

“Mr. Metcalfe has collapsed and has to go to hospital for an emergency operation. You must return to the yacht immediately, tell the staff to have his cabin ready and await further instructions.”

The chauffeur touched his cap and ran to the Rolls Royce. James leaped behind the wheel, while Stephen and Jean-Pierre joined Harvey in the back of the vehicle.

“Hell, that was close. Well done, Jean-Pierre. I was speechless,” admitted Stephen.

“It was nothing,” said Jean-Pierre, sweat pouring down his face.

The ambulance shot off like a scalded cat. Stephen and Jean-Pierre both replaced their jackets with the long white laboratory coats left on the seat and Stephen put the stethoscope around his neck.

“It looks to me as if he’s dead,” said Jean-Pierre.

“Robin says he isn’t,” said Stephen.

“How can he tell from four miles away?”

“I don’t know. We’ll just have to take his word for it.”

James screeched to a halt outside the entrance to the hospital. Stephen and Jean-Pierre hurried their patient through to the operating theater. James returned the ambulance to the car park and quickly joined the others in the theater.