Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

Robin thought fast.

“I’m afraid I’m not free to do that, Mr. Metcalfe. My holiday finishes today and I have to return to California. Nothing urgent: just a few elective surgeries and a rather heavy lecture schedule.” He shrugged deprecatingly. “Not exactly earth-shattering but it helps me keep up a way of life I have grown accustomed to.”

Harvey sat bolt upright, tenderly holding his stomach.

“Now you listen to me, Doctor Barker. I don’t give a damn about a few students. I’m a sick man and I need you here until I’ve fully recovered. I’ll make it worth your while to stay, don’t you worry. I never grudge the money where my health is concerned, and what’s more if it will persuade you, I’ll make the check out to cash. The last thing I want Uncle Sam to know is how much I’m worth.”

Robin coughed delicately, wondering how American doctors approached the ticklish subject of fees with their patients.

“The cost could be rather high if I’m not to be out of pocket by staying. It might be as much as $80,000.” Robin drew a deep breath.

Harvey didn’t blink.

“Sure. You’re the best. That’s not a lot of money to stay alive.”

“Very well. I’ll get back to my hotel and see if it’s possible to rearrange my schedule for you.”

Robin retreated from the sickroom and the white Rolls Royce took him back to the hotel. In room 217 they all sat staring at Robin in disbelief as he completed his story.

“Stephen, for Christ’s sake, the man’s a raving hypochondriac. He wants me to stay on here while he convalesces. None of us planned for that.”

Stephen looked up coolly:

“You’ll stay here and play ball. Why not give him value for money—at his own expense, of course. Go on, get on the blower and tell him you’ll be around to hold his hand every day at 11 A.M. We’ll just have to go back without you. And keep the hotel bill down, won’t you?”

Robin picked up the telephone…

Three young men left the Hôtel de Paris after a long lunch in room 217, allowing themselves another bottle of Krug ’64, and then returned to Nice Airport in a taxi, catching BA flight 012 at 16:10 to London Heathrow. They were once again in separate seats. One sentence remained on Stephen’s mind from Robin’s reported conversation with Harvey Metcalfe.

“If ever I can do anything for you, don’t hesitate to call me at any time.”

Robin visited his patient once a day, borne in the white Corniche with white-walled tires and a chauffeur in a white uniform. Only Harvey could be quite so brash, he thought. On the third, Nurse Faubert asked for a private word with him.

“My patient,” she said plaintively, “is making improper advances when I change his dressing.”

Robin allowed Dr. Wiley Barker the liberty of an unprofessional remark.

“Can’t say I altogether blame him. Still, be firm, Nurse. I’m sure you must have encountered that sort of thing before.”

“Naturellement, but never from a patient only three days after major surgery. His constitution, it must be formidable.”

“I tell you what, let’s catheterize him for a couple of days. That’ll cramp his style.” She smiled. “It must be pretty boring for you cooped up here all day,” Robin continued. “Why don’t you come and have a spot of supper with me after Mr. Metcalfe has gone to sleep tonight?”

“I should love to, Docteur. Where shall I meet you?”

“Room 217, Hôtel de Paris,” said Robin unblushingly. “Say 9 P.M.”

“I’ll look forward to it, Doctor.”

“A little more Chablis, Angeline?”

“No more, thank you, Wiley. That was a meal to remember. I think, maybe, you have not yet had everything you want?”

She got up, lit two cigarettes and put one in his mouth. Then she moved away, her long skirt swinging slightly from the hips. She wore no bra under her pink shirt. She exhaled smokily and watched him.

Robin thought of the blameless Doctor Barker in Australia, of his wife and children in Newbury, and the rest of the Team in London. Then he put them all out of his mind.

“Will you complain to Mr. Metcalfe if I make improper advances to you?”