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?”
“From you, Wiley,” she smiled, “they will not be improper.”
Harvey made a talkative recovery, and Robin removed the stitches gravely on the sixth day.
“That seems to have healed very cleanly, Mr. Metcalfe. Take it easy, and you should be back to normal by the middle of next week.”
“Great. I have to get over to England right away for Ascot week. You know, my horse Rosalie is favorite this year. I suppose you can’t join me as my guest? What if I have a relapse?”
Robin suppressed a smile.
“Don’t worry. You’re getting along fine. Sorry I can’t stay to see how Rosalie performs at Ascot.”
“So am I, Doc. Thanks again, anyway. I’ve never met a surgeon like you before.”
And you’re not likely to again, thought Robin, his American accent beginning to fray at the edges. He bid his adieus to Harvey with relief and to Angeline with regret, and sent the chauffeur back from the hotel with a copperplate bill:
Dr. Wiley Franklin Barker
presents his Compliments to
Mr. Harvey Metcalfe
and begs to inform him that the Bill for
Professional Services rendered is
$80,000
in respect of surgery and postoperative treatment.
The chauffeur was back within the hour with a cash check for $80,000. Robin bore it back to London in triumph.
Two down and two to go.
Chapter Thirteen
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Friday, Stephen sat on Robin’s examination couch in Harley Street and addressed the troops.
“The Monte Carlo operation was a total success in every way, thanks to Robin keeping his cool. The expenses were fairly high, though. The hospital and hotel bills totaled $11,351, while we received $80,000. Therefore, we’ve had $527,560 returned to us, and expenses so far have come to $22,530, which leaves Mr. Metcalfe still in debt to the tune of $494,970. Does everyone agree with that?”
There was a general murmur of approval. Their confidence in Stephen’s arithmetic was unbounded, although in fact, like all algebraists, he found working with figures somewhat tedious.
“Incidentally, Robin, however did you manage to spend $73.50 on dinner last Wednesday night? What did you have, caviar and champagne?”
“Something a little out of the ordinary,” admitted Robin. “It seemed to be called for at the time.”
“I’d bet more than I laid out in Monte Carlo that I know who joined you for dinner, and I bet she shared more than a table with you too,” said Jean-Pierre, taking his wallet out of his pocket. “Here you are, Stephen, 219 francs—my winnings from the Casino on Wednesday night. If you’d left me alone in peace, we needn’t have bothered with Robin’s butchery. I could have won the whole amount back on my own. I think the least I deserve is Nurse Faubert’s telephone number.”
Jean-Pierre’s remarks went straight over Stephen’s head.
“Well done, Jean-Pierre, it’ll all come off expenses. At today’s exchange rate, your 219 francs,” he paused for a moment and tapped out on his calculator, “is worth $46.76. That brings the expenses down to $22,483.24.
“Now, my plans for Ascot are simple. James has acquired two badges for the Members’ Enclosure at a cost of $10. We know that Harvey Metcalfe also has a badge, as all owners do, so as long as we get our timing right and make it look natural, he should once again fall into our trap. James will keep us briefed on the walkie-talkie and will follow the movements of Metcalfe from his arrival to his leaving. Jean-Pierre will wait by the entrance of the Members’ Enclosure and follow him in. Robin will send the telegram from Heathrow Airport at 1 P.M., so Harvey ought to receive it during lunch in his private box. That part of the plan is easy. It’s if we manage to lure him to Oxford that we all have to be on our toes. I must confess, it’d make a pl
easant change if Ascot were to work first time.”
Stephen grinned widely.
“That would give us much needed extra time to go over the Oxford plan again. Any questions?”
“You don’t need us for part (a) of the Oxford plan, only (b)?” asked Robin, checking Stephen’s notes.
“That’s right. I can manage part (a) on my own. In fact, it will be better if you all remain in London on that night, well out of the way. Our next priority must be to think up some ideas for James or he might, heaven preserve us, even think up something for himself. I’m becoming very concerned about this,” continued Stephen, “because once Harvey returns to America we’ll have to deal with him on his own ground. To date he’s always been at the venue of our choosing. James would stick out like a sore thumb in Boston, even though he’s the best actor of the four of us. In Harvey’s words, ‘It would be a whole different ball game.’”
James sighed lugubriously and studied the Axminster carpet.
“Poor old James—don’t worry, you drove that ambulance like a trooper,” said Robin.
“Perhaps you could learn to fly a plane and then we could hijack him,” suggested Jean-Pierre.
Miss Meikle did not approve of the laughter coming from Doctor Oakley’s room and she was glad to see the oddly assorted trio leave. When she had closed the door finally on James she returned to Robin’s room.
“Will you see your patients now, Doctor Oakley?”
“Yes, if I must, Miss Meikle.”
Miss Meikle pursed her lips. Whatever had come over him? It must be those dreadful types he had started mixing with lately. He had become so unreliable.
“Mrs. Wentworth-Brewster—Doctor Oakley will see you now, and I’ll have the pills for your trip to Italy ready for you when you come out.”
Stephen returned for a few days’ recuperation to Magdalen College. He had started the entire exercise eight weeks before and two of the Team had succeeded far beyond his expectations. He was conscious that he must crown their efforts with something that would live on in the legends of Oxford long after his departure.
Jean-Pierre returned to work in his gallery in Bond Street. Since he only had to deliver one sentence at Ascot he was not going to be overtaxed, although part (b) of Stephen’s Oxford plan kept him nightly in front of a mirror rehearsing his role.
James took Anne down to Stratford-upon-Avon for the weekend. The Royal Shakespeare Company obliged with a sparkling performance of Much Ado about Nothing and afterward, walking along the banks of the Avon, James proposed. Only the royal swans could have heard her reply. The diamond ring James had noticed in the window of Cartier while he had been waiting for Harvey Metcalfe to join Jean-Pierre in the gallery looked even more beautiful on her slender finger. James’s happiness seemed complete. If only he could come up with a plan and shock them all, he would want for nothing. He discussed it with Anne again that night, considering new ideas and old ones, still getting nowhere.
But an idea was beginning to formulate in her mind.
Chapter Fourteen
ON MONDAY MORNING, James drove Anne back to London and changed into the most debonair of his suits. Anne had to return to work, despite James’s suggestion that she should accompany him to Ascot. She felt the others would not approve of her presence and would suspect that James had confided in her.
Although James had not told her the details of the Monte Carlo exercise, Anne knew every step of the planned proceedings at Ascot and she could tell that James was nervous. Still, she would be seeing him that night and would know the worst by then. James looked lost. Anne was only thankful that Stephen, Robin and Jean-Pierre held the baton most of the time in this relay team—but the idea that was taking shape in her mind just might surprise them all.
Stephen rose early and admired his gray hair in the mirror. The result had been expensively achieved the previous day in the hairdressing salon of Debenhams. He dressed carefully, putting on his one respectable gray suit and blue checked tie. These were brought out for all special occasions, ranging from a talk to students at Sussex University to a dinner with the American Ambassador. No one had told him the colors clashed and the suit sagged unfashionably at the elbow and knees, because by Stephen’s standards it was elegance itself. He traveled from Oxford to Ascot by train, while Jean-Pierre came from London by car. They met up with James at the Belvedere Arms at 11 A.M., almost a mile from the course.
Stephen immediately telephoned Robin to confirm that all three of them had arrived and asked for the telegram to be read over to him.
“That’s perfect, Robin. Now travel to Heathrow and send it at exactly 1 P.M.”
“Good luck, Stephen. Grind the bastard into the dust.”
Stephen returned to the others and confirmed that Robin had the London end under control.
“Off you go, James, and let us know the minute Harvey arrives.”
James downed a bottle of Carlsberg and departed. The problem was that he kept bumping into friends and he could hardly explain why he was prevented from joining them.
Harvey arrived at the members’ car park just after midday, his white Rolls Royce shining like a Persil advertisement. The car was being stared at by all the racegoers with an English disdain which Harvey mistook for admiration. He led his party to the private box. His newly tailored suit had taxed the ingenuity of Bernard Weatherill to the utmost. A red carnation in his buttonhole and a hat to cover his bald head left him nearly unrecognizable, and James might have missed him had it not been for the white Rolls Royce. James followed the little group at a careful distance until he saw Harvey enter a door marked “Mr. Harvey Metcalfe and Guests.”
“He’s in his private box,” said James.
“Where are you?” asked Jean-Pierre.
“Directly below him on the ground level by a course bookmaker called Sam O’Flaherty.”
“No need to be rude about the Irish, James,” said Jean-Pierre. “We’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
James stared up at the vast white stand, which accommodated 10,000 spectators in comfort and gave an excellent view of the racecourse. He was finding it hard to concentrate on the job in hand as once again he had to avoid relations and friends. First was the Earl of Halifax, and then that frightful girl he had so unwisely agreed to take to Queen Charlotte’s Ball last spring. What was the creature’s name? Ah yes. The Hon. Selina Wallop. How appropriate. She was wearing a miniskirt that was a good four years out of fashion and a hat which looked as if it could never come into fashion. James jammed his trilby over his ears, looked the other way and passed the time by chatting to Sam O’Flaherty about the 3:20, the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes. O’Flaherty quoted the latest odds on the favorite at the top of his voice:
“Rosalie at 6:4, owned by that American, Harvey Metcalfe, and ridden by Pat Eddery.”
Eddery was on the way to becoming the youngest-ever champion jockey—and Harvey always backed winners.
Stephen and Jean-Pierre joined James at the side of Sam O’Flaherty’s bag. His tick-tack man was standing on an upturned orange box beside him and swinging his arms like a semaphore sailor aboard a sinking ship.
“What’s your fancy, gentlemen?” Sam asked the three of them.
James ignored Stephen’s slight frown of disapproval.
“£5 each way on Rosalie,” he said, and handed over a crisp £10 note, receiving in return a little green card with the series number and “Sam O’Flaherty” stamped right across the middle.
“I must presume, James, this is an integral part of your as yet undisclosed plan,” said Jean-Pierre. “What I should like to know is, if it works, how much do we stand to make?”
“£9.10 after tax if Rosalie wins,” chipped in Sam O’Flaherty, his stub cigar bobbing up and down in his mouth as he spoke.
“Hardly a great contribution toward $1 million, James. Well, we’re off to the Members’ Enclosure. Let us know the moment Harvey leaves his box. My guess is that around 1:45 he’ll come and
look at the runners and riders for the two o’clock, so that gives us a clear hour.”
The waiter opened another bottle of Krug 1964 and began pouring it for Harvey’s guests: three bankers, two economists, a couple of ship owners and a distinguished City journalist.
Preferring his guests to be famous and influential, Harvey always invited people who would find it almost impossible to refuse because of the business he might put their way. He was delighted with the company he had assembled for his big day. Senior among them was Sir Howard Dodd, the aging chairman of the merchant bank that bore his name, but which actually referred to his great-grandfather. Sir Howard was 6 ft. 2 in., as straight as a ramrod, and looked more like a Grenadier Guard than a respectable banker. The only thing he had in common with Harvey was the hair, or lack of hair, on his balding head. His young assistant, Jamie Clark, accompanied him. Just over thirty and extremely bright, he was there to be sure his chairman did not commit the bank to anything he might later regret. Although he had a sneaking admiration for Harvey, Clark did not think him the sort of customer the bank should do business with. Nevertheless, he was far from averse to a day at the races.
The two economists, Mr. Colin Emson and Dr. Michael Hogan from the Hudson Institute, were there to brief Harvey on the parlous state of the British economy. They could not have been more different. Emson was a totally self-made man who had left school at fifteen and educated himself. Using his social contacts, he had built up a company specializing in taxation, which had been remarkably successful thanks to the British Government’s habit of putting through a new Finance Act every few weeks. Emson was 6 ft. tall, solid and genial, game to help the party along whether Harvey lost or won. Hogan, in contrast, had been to all the right places—Winchester, Trinity College, Oxford, and the Wharton Business School in Pennsylvania. A spell with McKinsey, the management consultants, in London had made him one of the best-informed economists in Europe. Those who observed his slim, sinewy body would not have been surprised to learn that he had been an international squash player. Dark-haired, with brown eyes that rarely left Harvey, he found it hard not to show his contempt; this was his fifth invitation to Ascot—Harvey, it seemed, was never going to take no for an answer.