Stephen nodded.
“First, sir, what made you invest such a large amount in Prospecta Oil?”
The Inspector had in front of him a sheet of paper with a list of all the investments made in the company over the past four months.
“The advice of a friend,” replied Stephen.
“Mr. David Kesler, no doubt?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know Mr. Kesler?”
“We were students at Harvard together and when he took up his appointment in England to work for an oil company, I invited him down to Oxford for old times’ sake.”
Stephen went on to detail the full background of his association with David, and the reason he had been willing to invest such a large amount. He ended his explanation by asking if the Inspector thought that David was criminally involved in the rise and fall of Prospecta Oil.
“No, sir. My own view is that Kesler, who incidentally has made a run for it and left the country, is no more than the dupe of bigger men. But we would still like to question him, so if he contacts you, please let me know immediately. Now, sir,” the Inspector continued, “I’m going to read you a list of names and I would be obliged if you could tell me whether you have ever met, spoken to or heard of any of them…Harvey Metcalfe?”
“No,” said Stephen.
“Bernie Silverman?”
“I’ve never met or spoken to him, but David did mention his name in conversation when he dined with me here in college.”
The Detective Sergeant was writing down everything Stephen said, slowly and methodically.
“Richard Elliott?”
“The same applies to him as Silverman.”
“Alvin Cooper?”
“No,” said Stephen.
“Have you had any contact with anyone else who was involved in the company?”
“No.”
For well over an hour the Inspector quizzed Stephen on minor points, but he was unable to give him very much help, although he had kept a copy of the geologist’s report.
“Yes, we are in possession of one of those documents, sir,” said the Inspector, “but it’s cleverly worded. I doubt if we’ll be able to rely much on that for evidence.”
Stephen sighed and offered the two men some whiskey and poured himself a donnish dry sherry.
“Evidence against whom or for what, Inspector?” he said as he returned to his chair. “It’s clear to me that I’ve been taken for a sucker. I probably don’t need to tell you what a fool I’ve made of myself. I put my shirt on Prospecta Oil because it sounded like a sure-fire winner, and ended up losing everything I had without having a clue what to do about it. What in heaven’s name has been going on in Prospecta Oil?”
“Well, sir,” said the Inspector, “you’ll appreciate there are aspects of the case I’m not at liberty to discuss with you. Indeed, there are some things that aren’t very clear to us yet. But the game isn’t a new one, and this time it’s been played by an old pro, a very cunning old pro. It works something like this: a company is set up or taken over by a bunch of villains who acquire the majority of the shares. They invent a plausible story about a new discovery or super product that will send the shares up, whisper it in a few willing ears, release their own shares onto the market and let them be snapped up by the likes of you, sir, at a higher price. Then they clear off with the profit they have made, after which the shares collapse because the company has no real substance. As often as not, it ends with dealings in the shares being suspended on the stock market, and finally in the compulsory liquidation of the company. That hasn’t happened yet in this case, and it may not. The London Stock Exchange is only just recovering from the Caplanfiasco and they don’t want another scandal on their hands. I’m sorry to say that we can hardly ever recover the money, even if we produce enough evidence to nail the villains. They have it all stashed away all over the world before you can say Dow-Jones Index.”
Stephen groaned. “My God, you make it all sound so appallingly simple, Inspector. The geologist’s report was a fake, then?”
“Not exactly, sir. Very impressively worded and well presented, but with plenty of ifs and buts; and one thing is for certain; the D.P.P.’s office is hardly likely to spend millions finding out if there is any oil in that part of the North Sea.”
Stephen buried his head in his hands and mentally cursed the day he met David Kesler.
“Tell me, Inspector, who put Kesler up to this? Who was the real brains behind it all?”
The Inspector realized only too well the terrible agony Stephen was going through. During his career he had faced many men in the same position, and he was grateful for Stephen’s cooperation.
“I’ll answer any questions I feel cannot harm my own inquiry,” said the Inspector. “But it’s no secret that the man we’d like to nail is Harvey Metcalfe.”
“Who’s Harvey Metcalfe, for God’s sake?”
“He’s a first generation American who’s had his fingers in more dubious deals in Boston than you’ve had hot dinners. Made himself a multi-millionaire and a lot of other people bankrupt on the way. His style is so professional and predictable now we can smell the man a mile off. It will not amuse you to learn that he is a great benefactor of Harvard—does it to ease his conscience, no doubt. We’ve never been able to pin anything on him in the past, and I doubt if we’ll be able to this time either. He was never a director of Prospecta Oil, and he only bought and sold shares on the open market. He never, as far as we know, even met David Kesler. He hired Silverman, Cooper and Elliott to do the dirty work, and they found a bright enthusiastic young man all freshly washed behind the ears to sell their story for them. I’m afraid it was a bit unlucky for you, sir, that the young man in question was your friend, David Kesler.”
“Never mind him, poor sod,” said Stephen. “What about Harvey Metcalfe? Is he going to get away with it again?”
“I fear so,” said the Inspector. “We have warrants out for the arrest of Silverman, Elliott and Cooper. They all beat it off to South America. After the Ronald Biggs fiasco I doubt if we’ll ever get an extradition order to bring them back, even though the American and Canadian police also have warrants out for them. They were fairly cunning too. They closed the London office of Prospecta Oil, surrendered the lease and returned it to Conrad Ritblat, the estate agents, and gave notice to both secretaries with one month’s pay in advance. They cleared the bill on the oil rig with Reading & Bates. They paid off their hired hand, Mark Stewart in Aberdeen, and took the Sunday morning flight to Rio de Janeiro, where there was $1 million in a private account waiting for them. Another two or three years, after they’ve spent all the money, and they’ll undoubtedly turn up again with different names and a different company. Harvey Metcalfe rewarded them well and left David Kesler holding the baby.”
“Clever boys,” said Stephen.
“Oh, yes,” said the Inspector, “it was a neat little operation. Worthy of the talents of Harvey Metcalfe.”
“Are you trying to arrest David Kesler?”
“No, but as I said we would like to question him. He bought and sold 500 shares, but we think that was only because he believed in the oil strike story himself. In fact, if he was wise, he would return to England and help the police with their inquiries, but I fear the poor man has panicked under pressure and made a bolt for it. The American police are keeping an eye out for him.”
“One last question,” said Stephen. “Are there any other people who made such fools of themselves as I did?”
The Inspector gave this question long consideration. He had not had as much success with the other big investors as he had had with Stephen. They had all been evasive about their involvement with Kesler and Prospecta Oil. Perhaps if he released their names it might bring them out in some way.
“Yes, sir, but…you must understand that you never heard about them from me.”
Stephen nodded.
“For your own interest you could find out what you need to know by making some
discreet inquiries through the Stock Exchange. There were four main punters, of whom you were one. Between the four of you you lost approximately $1 million. The others were a Harley Street doctor, Robin Oakley, a London art dealer called Jean-Pierre Lamanns, and a farmer, the unluckiest of all, really. As far as I can gather, he mortgaged his farm to put up the money. Titled young gentleman: Viscount Brigsley. Metcalfe’s snatched the silver spoon out of his mouth, all right.”
“No other big investors?”
“Two or three banks burned their fingers badly, but there were no other private investors above £10,000. What you, the banks and the other big investors did was to keep the market buoyant long enough for Metcalfe to off-load his entire holding.”
“I know, and worse, I foolishly advised some of my friends to invest in the company as well.”
“Er…there are two or three small investors from Oxford, yes sir,” said the Inspector, looking down at the sheet of paper in front of him, “but don’t worry—we won’t be approaching them. Well, that seems to be all. It only leaves me to thank you for your cooperation and say we may be in touch again some time in the future. In any case, we’ll keep you informed of developments, and I hope you’ll do the same for us.”
“Of course, Inspector. I do hope you have a safe journey back to town.” The two policemen downed their drinks and left.
Stephen could never recall if it was while sitting in his armchair looking out at the Cloisters, or later in bed that night, that he decided to employ his academic mind to carry out a little research on Harvey Metcalfe and his fellow dupers. His grandfather’s advice to him, when as a small child he failed to win their nightly game of chess, floated across his mind: Stevie, don’t get cross, get even. He was pleased he had given his final lecture and finished work for the term, and as he fell asleep at 3 A.M. only one name was on his lips: Harvey Metcalfe.
Chapter Five
STEPHEN AWOKE AT about 5:30 A.M. He seemed to have been heavily, dreamlessly asleep, but as soon as he came to, the nightmare started again. He forced himself to use his mind constructively, to put the past firmly behind him and see what could be done about the future. He washed, shaved, dressed and missed college breakfast, occasionally murmuring to himself “Harvey Metcalfe.” He then pedaled to Oxford station on an ancient bicycle, his preferred mode of transport in a city blocked solid with juggernaut lorries and full of unintelligible one-way systems. He left Ethelred the Unsteady padlocked to the station railings. There were as many bicycles standing in the ranks as there are cars in other railway stations.
He caught the 8:17 train so favored by those who commute from Oxford to London every day. All the people at breakfast seemed to know each other and Stephen felt like an uninvited guest at someone else’s party. The ticket collector bustled through the buffet car and clipped Stephen’s first-class ticket. The man opposite Stephen produced a second-class ticket from behind his copy of the Financial Times. The collector clipped it grudgingly.
“You’ll have to return to a second-class compartment when you’ve finished your breakfast, sir. The restaurant car is first class, you know.”
Stephen considered the implication of these remarks as he watched the flat Berkshire countryside jolt past, and his coffee cup lurched unsampled in its saucer before he turned his mind to the morning papers. The Times carried no news of Prospecta Oil that morning. It was, he supposed, an insignificant story, even a dull one. Not kidnap, not arson, not even rape; just another shady business enterprise collapsing—nothing there to hold the attention of the front page for more than one day. Not a story he would have given a second thought to himself but for his own involvement, which gave it all the makings of a personal tragedy.
At Paddington he pushed through the ants rushing around the forecourt, glad that he had chosen the closeted life of a university or, more accurately, that it had chosen him. Stephen had never come to terms with London—he found the city large and impersonal, and he always took a taxi everywhere for fear of getting lost on the buses or the underground. Why didn’t the English number their streets so Americans would know where they were?
“The Times office, Printing House Square.”
The cabby nodded and moved his black Austin deftly down the Bayswater Road, alongside a rain-sodden Hyde Park. The crocuses at Marble Arch looked sullen and battered, splayed wetly on the close grass. Stephen was impressed by London cabs: they never had a scrape or mark on them. He had once been told that cabdrivers are not allowed to pick up fares unless their vehicles are in perfect condition. How different from New York’s battered yellow monsters, he thought. The cabby proceeded to swing down Park Lane to Hyde Park Corner, past the House of Commons and along the Embankment. The flags were out in Parliament Square. Stephen frowned. What was the lead story he had read over so inattentively in the train? Ah yes, a meeting of Commonwealth leaders. He supposed he must allow the world to go about its daily business as usual.
Stephen was unsure how to tackle the problem of checking Harvey Metcalfe out. Back at Harvard he would have had no trouble, first making a beeline for his father’s old friend Hank Swaltz, the business correspondent of the Herald American. Hank would be sure to have supplied him with the inside dope. The diary correspondent of The Times, Richard Compton-Miller, was by no means as appropriate a contact, but he was the only British press man Stephen had ever met. Compton-Miller had been visiting Magdalen the previous spring to write a feature on the time-honored observance of May Day in Oxford. The choristers on the top of the College tower had sung the Miltonian salute as the sun peeped over the horizon on May 1st:
Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire
Mirth and youth and warm desire.
On the banks of the river beneath Magdalen bridge where Compton-Miller and Stephen had stood, several couples had clearly been inspired.
Later, Stephen had been more embarrassed than flattered by his appearance in the resulting piece written by Compton-Miller for The Times diary: academics are sparing with the word brilliant, but journalists are not. The more self-important of Stephen’s Senior Common Room colleagues had not been amused to see him described as the brightest star in a firmament of moderate luminescence.
The taxi pulled into the forecourt and came to a stop by the side of a massive hunk of sculpture by Henry Moore. The Times and the Observer shared a building with separate entrances, The Times’s by far the more prestigious. Stephen asked the sergeant behind the desk for Richard Compton-Miller, and was directed to the fifth floor and then to his little private cubicle at the end of the corridor.
It was only a little after 10 A.M. when Stephen arrived, and the building was practically deserted. Compton-Miller later explained that a national newspaper does not begin to wake up until 11 A.M. and generally indulges itself in a long lunch hour until about 3. Between then and putting the paper to bed, about 8:30 P.M. for all but the front page, the real work is done. There is usually a complete change of staff, staggered from 5 P.M. onward, whose job it is to watch for major news stories breaking during the night. They always have to keep a wary eye on what is happening in America, because if the President makes an important statement in the afternoon in Washington they are already going to press in London. Sometimes the front page can change as often as five times during the night; in the case of the assassination of President Kennedy, news of which first reached England about 7 P.M. on the evening of November 22nd, 1963, the entire front page had to be scrapped to make way for the tragedy.
“Richard, it was kind of you to come in early for me. I didn’t realize that you started work so late. I rather take my daily paper for granted.”
Richard laughed. “That’s O.K. We must seem a lazy bunch to you, but this place will be buzzing at midnight when you’re tucked up in bed and sound asleep. Now, how can I help you?”
“I’m trying to do a little research on a fellow countryman of mine called Harvey Metcalfe. He’s a substantial benefactor of Harvard, and I want to flatter the old boy by knowing all
about him when I return.” Stephen didn’t care very much for the lie, but these were strange circumstances he now found himself in.
“Hang on here and I’ll go and see if we have anything in the cutting room on him.”
Stephen amused himself by reading the headlines pinned up on Compton-Miller’s board—obviously stories he had taken some pride in: “Prime Minister to Conduct Orchestra at Royal Festival Hall,” “Miss World loves Tom Jones,” “Muhammad Ali says ‘I will be Champion Again.’”
Richard returned fifteen minutes later, carrying a thickish file.
“Have a go at that, Descartes. I’ll be back in an hour and we can have some coffee.”
Stephen nodded and smiled gratefully. Descartes never had to solve the problems he was facing.
Everything Harvey Metcalfe wanted the world to know was in that file, and a little bit he didn’t want the world to know. Stephen learned of his yearly trips to Europe to visit Wimbledon, of the success of his horses at Ascot and of his pursuit of Impressionist pictures for his private art collection. William Hickey of the Daily Express had on one occasion titillated his readers with a plump Harvey clad in Bermuda shorts and a report that he spent two or three weeks a year on his private yacht at Monte Carlo, gambling at the Casino. Hickey’s tone was something less than fulsome. The Metcalfe fortune was in his opinion too new to be respectable. Stephen wrote down meticulously all the facts he thought relevant and was studying the photographs when Richard returned.
He took Stephen off to have some coffee in the canteen on the same floor. Cigarette smoke swirled mistily around the girl at the cashier’s desk at the end of the self-service counter.
“Richard, I don’t quite have all the information I might need. Harvard wants to touch this man for quite a large sum: I believe they are thinking in terms of about $1 million. Where could I find out some more about him?”