“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.”
“I’ll pick him up as he comes into Berkeley Square, Stephen. Robin, can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I spot him. You stay put at the Royal Academy.”
“Right you are,” said Robin.
Harvey strolled around Berkeley Square, down into Piccadilly and through the Palladian arches of Burlington House. With a bad grace, he stood and queued with the assorted humanity in the forecourt, shuffling past the Astronomical Society and the Society of Antiquaries. He did not see another young man opposite standing in the entrance of the Chemical Society, deep in a copy of Chemistry in Britain. Finally, Harvey made it up the red-carpeted ramp into the Royal Academy itself. He handed the cashier £5.00 for a season ticket, realizing that he would probably want to return at least three or four times. He spent the rest of the morning studying the 1,182 pictures, none of which had been exhibited anywhere else in the world before the opening day, in accordance with the stringent rules of the Academy. Despite that ruling, the Hanging Committee had still had over 5,000 pictures to choose from.
On the opening day of the exhibition the month before, Harvey had acquired, through his agent, a watercolor by Alfred Daniels of the House of Commons for £350 and two oils by Bernard Dunstan of English provincial scenes for £125 each. The Summer Exhibition was still, in Harvey’s estimation, the best value in the world. Even if he did not want to keep all the pictures himself, they made wonderful presents when he returned to the States. The Daniels reminded him of a Lowry he had bought some twenty years before at the Academy for £80: that had turned out to be another shrewd investment.
Harvey made a special point of looking at the Bernard Dunstans in the Exhibition. Of course, they were all sold. Dunstan was one of the artists whose pictures always sold in the first minutes of the opening day. Although Harvey had not been in London on that day, he had had no difficulty in buying what he wanted. He had planted a man at the front of the queue, who had obtained a catalog and marked those artists he knew Harvey could resell easily if he made a mistake and keep if his judgment were right. When the Exhibition opened on the dot of 10 A.M., the agent had gone straight to the purchasing desk and acquired the five or six pictures he had marked in the catalog before he or anyone other than the Academicians had seen them. Harvey studied his vicarious purchases with care. On this occasion he was happy to keep them all. If there had been one that did not quite fit in with his collection, he would have returned the picture for resale, undertaking to purchase it if nobody else showed any interest. In twenty years he had acquired over a hundred pictures by this method and returned a mere dozen, never once failing to secure a resale. Harvey had a system for everything.
At 1 P.M., after a thoroughly satisfactory morning, he left the Royal Academy. The white Rolls Royce was waiting for him in the forecourt.
“Wimbledon.”
“Shit.”
“What did you say?” queried Stephen.
“S.H.I.T. He’s gone to Wimbledon, so today’s down the drain,” said Robin.
That meant Harvey would not return to Claridge’s until at least seven or eight that evening. A rota had been fixed for watching him, and Robin accordingly picked up his Rover 3500 V8 from a parking meter in St. James’s Square and headed off to Wimbledon. James had obtained two tickets for every day of the Championships opposite Harvey Metcalfe’s debenture box.
Robin arrived at Wimbledon a few minutes after Harvey and took his seat in the Centre Court, far enough back in the sea of faces to remain inconspicuous. The atmosphere was already building up for the opening match. Wimbledon seemed to be getting more popular every year and the Centre Court was packed to capacity. Princess Alexandra and the Prime Minister were in the Royal Box awaiting the entrance of the gladiators. The little green scoreboards at the southern end of the court were flashing up the names of Kodeš and Stewart as the umpire took his seat on the high chair in the middle of the court directly overlooking the net. The crowd began to applaud as the two athletes, both dressed in white, entered the court carrying four rackets each. Wimbledon does not allow its competitors to dress in any color other than white, although they had relaxed a little by permitting the trimming of the ladies’ dresses to be colored.
Robin enjoyed the opening match between Kodeš and an unseeded player from the United States, who gave the champion a hard time before losing to the Czech 6–3, 6–4, 9–7. Robin was sorry when Harvey decided to leave in the middle of an exciting doubles match. Back to duty, he told himself, and followed the white Rolls at a safe distance to Claridge’s. On arriving, he telephoned James’s flat, which was being used as the Team’s headquarters in London, and briefed Stephen.
“May as well call it a day,” said Stephen. “We’ll try again tomorrow. Poor old Jean-Pierre’s heartbeat reached 150 this morning. He may not last many days of false alarms.”
When Harvey left Claridge’s the following morning he went through Berkeley Square into Bruton Street and then on into Bond Street, stopping only 50 yards from Jean-Pierre’s gallery. But he turned east instead of west and slipped into Agnew’s, where he had an appointment with Sir Geoffrey Agnew, the head of the family firm, for news of Impressionist pictures on the market. Sir Geoffrey was anxious to get away to another meeting and could only spend a few minutes with Harvey. He had nothing worthwhile to offer him.
Harvey left Agnew’s soon afterward clutching a small consolation prize of a maquette by Rodin, a mere bagatelle at £800.
“He’s coming out,” said Robin, “and heading in the right direction.” Jean-Pierre held his breath, but Harvey stopped once again, this time at the Marlborough Gallery to study their latest exhibition of Barbara Hepworth. He spent over an hour appreciating her beautiful work, but decided the prices were now outrageous. He had bought two Hepworths only ten years before for £800. The Marlborough was now asking between £7,000 and £10,000 for her work. So he left and continued up Bond Street.
“Jean-Pierre?”
“Yes,” replied a nervous voice.
“He’s reached the corner of Conduit Street and he’s about 50 yards away from your front door.”
Jean-Pierre prepared his window, removing the Graham Sutherland watercolor of the Thames and the Boatman.
“He’s turned left, the bastard,” said James, who was stationed opposite the gallery. “He’s walking down Bruton Street on the right-hand side.”
Jean-Pierre put the Sutherland back on the easel in the window and retired to the lavatory, muttering to himself:
“I can’t cope with two shits at once.”
Harvey meanwhile stepped into an inconspicuous entrance on Bruton Street and climbed the stairs to Tooths, more hopeful of finding something in a gallery which had become famous for its Impressionists. A Klee, a Picasso and two Salvador Dalis—not what Harvey was looking for. Though very well executed, the Klee was not as good as the one in his dining room in Lincoln, Massachusetts. Besides, it might not fit in with any of Arlene’s decorative schemes. Nicholas Tooth, the managing director, promised to keep his eyes open and ring Harvey at Claridge’s should anything of interest turn up.
“He’s on the move again, but I think he’s heading back to Claridge’s.”
James willed him to turn around and return in the direction of Jean-Pierre’s gallery, but Harvey strode purposefully toward Berkeley Square, only making a detour to the O’Hana Gallery. Albert, the head doorman, had told him there was a Renoir in the window, and indeed there was. But it was only a half-finished canvas which Renoir had obviously used for a practice run or had disliked enough to leave unfinished. Harvey was curious as to the price and entered the gallery.
“£30,000,” said the assistant, as if it was $10 and a snip at that.
Harvey whistled through the gap between his front teeth. It never ceased to amaze him that an inferior picture by a first-rank nam
e could fetch £30,000 and an outstanding picture by an artist with no established reputation could only bring a few hundred dollars. He thanked the assistant and left.
“A pleasure, Mr. Metcalfe.”
Harvey was always flattered by people who remembered his name. But hell, they ought to remember—he had purchased a Monet from them last year for £62,000.
“He’s definitely on his way back to the hotel,” said James.
Harvey spent only a few minutes in Claridge’s, picking up one of their famous specially prepared luncheon hampers of caviar, beef, ham and cheese sandwiches and chocolate cake for later consumption at Wimbledon.
James was next on the rota for the Championships and decided to take Anne with him. Why not—she knew the truth. It was Ladies’ Day and the turn of Billie Jean King, the vivacious American champion, to take the court. She was up against the unseeded American, Kathy May, who looked as if she was in for a rough time. The applause Billie Jean received was unworthy of her abilities, but for some reason she had never become a Wimbledon favorite. Harvey was accompanied by a guest who James thought had a faintly mid-European look.
“Which one is your victim?” asked Anne.
“He’s almost exactly opposite us talking to the man in a light gray suit who looks like a government official from the EEC.”
“The short fat one?” asked Anne.
“Yes,” said James.
Whatever comments Anne made were interrupted by the umpire’s call of “Play” and everyone’s attention focused on Billie Jean. It was exactly 2 P.M.
“Kind of you to invite me to Wimbledon, Harvey,” said Jörg Birrer. “I never seem to get the chance for much relaxation nowadays. You can’t leave the market for more than a few hours without some panic breaking out somewhere in the world.”
“If you feel that way it’s time for you to retire,” said Harvey.
“No one to take my place,” said Birrer. “I’ve been chairman of the bank for ten years now and finding a successor is turning out to be my hardest task.”