“New York Times, I should imagine,” said Compton-Miller. “Come on, we’ll give Terry Robards a visit.”
The New York Times office in London was also on the fifth floor of The Times building in Printing House Square. Stephen thought of the vast New York Times building on 43rd Street and wondered if the London Times had a reciprocal arrangement, and was secreted away in their basement. Terry Robards turned out to be a wiry American wearing a perpetual smile. Terry immediately made Stephen feel at ease, a knack he had developed almost subconsciously over the years and which was a great asset when digging a little deeper for stories.
Stephen repeated his piece about Metcalfe. Terry laughed.
“Harvard isn’t too fussy where they get their money from, are they? That guy has discovered more legal ways of stealing money than the Internal Revenue Service.”
“You don’t say,” said Stephen innocently.
The New York Times file on Harvey was voluminous. “Metcalfe’s Rise from Messenger Boy to Millionaire,” as one headline put it, was documented admirably. Stephen took further careful notes. The details of Sharpley & Son fascinated him, as did the facts on some wartime arms dealing and the background of his wife Arlene and their daughter Rosalie. There was a picture of both of them, but the daughter was only fifteen at the time. There were also long reports of two court cases some twenty-five years past, in which Harvey had been charged with fraud but never convicted, and a more recent case in 1956 concerning a share transfer scheme in Boston. Again Harvey had escaped the law, but the District Attorney had left the jury in little doubt of his views on Mr. Metcalfe. The most recent press stories were all in the gossip columns: Metcalfe’s paintings, his horses, his orchids, his daughter’s success at Vassar and his trips to Europe. Of Prospecta Oil there was not a word. Stephen had to admire Harvey’s ability to conceal his more dubious activities from the press.
Terry invited his fellow expatriate to lunch. Newsmen always like new contacts and Stephen looked like a promising one. He asked the cabby to go to Whitfield Street. As they inched their way out of the City into the West End, Stephen hoped that the meal would be worth the journey. He was not disappointed.
Lacy’s restaurant was airy and bedecked with clean linen and young daffodils. Terry said it was greatly favored by press men. Margaret Costa, the cookery writer and her chef husband, Bill Lacy, certainly knew their onions. Over delicious watercress soup followed by Médaillons de veau à la crême au Calvados and a bottle of Château de Péronne 1972, Terry became quite expansive on the subject of Harvey Metcalfe. He had interviewed him once at Harvard on the occasion of the opening of Metcalfe Hall, which included a gymnasium and four indoor tennis courts.
“Hoping to get himself an honorary degree one day,” said Terry cynically, “but not much hope, even if he gives a billion.”
Stephen noted the words thoughtfully.
“I guess you could get some more facts on the guy at the American Embassy,” said Terry. He glanced at his watch. “No, hell, the library closes at 4 P.M. Too late today. Time I got back to the office now America’s awake.”
Stephen wondered if press men ate and drank like that every day. They made University dons look positively celibate—and however did they manage to get a paper out?
Stephen fought his way onto the 5:15 train to return with the Oxford-bound commuters, and only when he was alone in his room did he begin to study the results of his day’s work. Though exhausted, he forced himself to sit at his desk until he had prepared the first neat draft of a dossier on Harvey Metcalfe.
Next day Stephen again caught the 8:17 to London, this time buying a second-class ticket. The ticket collector repeated his piece about leaving the restaurant car after he had finished his meal.
“Sure,” said Stephen, as he toyed with the remains of his coffee for the rest of the hour-long journey, never shifting from first class. He was pleased with himself: he had saved £2, and that was exactly how Harvey Metcalfe would have behaved.
At Paddington he followed Terry Robards’s advice and took a taxi to the American Embassy, a vast monolithic building which sprawls over 250,000 square feet and is nine stories high, stretching the entire length of one side of Grosvenor Square. It was not, however, as elegant as the American Ambassador’s magnificent official residence, Winfield House in Regents Park, where Stephen had been summoned to drinks last year, which was once the private home of Barbara Hutton before it was sold to the American government in 1946. Certainly, either of them was large enough for seven husbands, thought Stephen.
The entrance to the Embassy Reference Library on the ground floor was firmly shut. Stephen was reduced to a close study of the plaques on the wall in the corridor outside, honoring recent Ambassadors to the Court of St. James. Reading backward from Walter Annenberg, he had reached Joseph Kennedy when the doors of the library swung open, not unlike a bank. The prim girl behind a sign marked “Inquiries” was not immediately forthcoming on the subject of Harvey Metcalfe.
“Why do you require this information?” she asked sharply.
This threw Stephen for a moment, but he quickly recovered. “I’m returning to Harvard in the fall as a professor and I feel I should know more about his involvement with the university. I’m at present a Visiting Fellow at Magdalen College, Oxford.”
Stephen’s answer motivated the girl to immediate action and she produced a file within a few minutes. Though by no means as racy as the New York Times’s, it did put figures on the amounts Harvey Metcalfe had donated to charity and gave precise details of his gifts to the Democratic Party. Most people do not divulge the exact amount they give to political parties, but Harvey only knew about lights—no one seemed to have told him about bushels.
Having finished his research at the Embassy, Stephen took a taxi to the Cunard offices in St. James’s Square and spoke to a booking clerk and from there on to Claridge’s in Brook Street, where he spent a few minutes with the duty manager. A telephone call to Monte Carlo completed his research. He traveled back to Oxford on the 5:15.
Stephen returned to his college rooms. He felt he now knew as much about Harvey Metcalfe as anyone, except perhaps for Arlene and Detective Inspector Clifford Smith of the Fraud Squad. Once again he stayed up into the early hours completing his dossier, which now ran to over forty typewritten pages.
When the dossier was finally completed he went to bed and fell into a deep sleep. He rose again early in the morning, strolled across the Cloisters to a Common Room breakfast and helped himself to eggs, bacon, coffee and toast. He then took his dossier to the Bursar’s office where he made four copies of every document, ending up with five dossiers in all. He strolled back across Magdalen Bridge, admiring as always the trim flower beds of the University Botanic Gardens beneath him on his right, and called in at Maxwell’s Bookshop on the other side of the bridge.
Stephen returned to his rooms with five smart files all of different colors. He then placed the five dossiers in the separate files and put them in a drawer of his desk which he kept locked. Stephen had a tidy and methodical mind, as a mathematician must: a mind the like of which Harvey Metcalfe had never yet come up against.
Stephen then referred to the notes he had written after his interview with Detective Inspector Smith and rang Directory Inquiries, asking for the London addresses and telephone numbers of Dr. Robin Oakley, Jean-Pierre Lamanns and Lord Brigsley. Directory Inquiries refused to give him more than two numbers at any one time. Stephen wondered how the GPO expected to make a profit. In the States the Bell Telephone Company would happily have given him a dozen telephone numbers and still ended with the inevitable “You’re welcome.”
The two he managed to wheedle out of his reluctant informant were Dr. Robin Oakley at 122 Harley Street, London W1, and Jean-Pierre Lamanns at the Lamanns Gallery, 40 New Bond Street, W1. Stephen then dialed Directory Inquiries a second time and requested the number and address of Lord Brigsley.
“No one under Brigsley in Central London,” said the
operator. “Maybe he’s ex-Directory. That is, if he really is a lord,” she sniffed.
Stephen left his study for the Senior Common Room, where he thumbed through the latest copy of Who’s Who and found the noble lord:
BRIGSLEY, Viscount; James Clarence Spencer; b. 11 Oct. 1942; Farmer; s and heir of 5th Earl of Louth, cr 1764, qv. Educ: Harrow; Christ Church, Oxford (BA). Pres. Oxford University Dramatic Society. Lt. Grenadier Guards 1966–68. Recreations: polo (not water), shooting. Address: Tathwell Hall, Louth, Lincs. Clubs: Garrick, Guards.
Stephen then strolled over to Christ Church and asked the secretary in the Treasurer’s office if she had in her records a London address for James Brigsley, matriculated 1963. It was duly supplied as 119 King’s Road, London SW3.
Stephen was beginning to warm to the challenge of Harvey Metcalfe. He left Christ Church by Peckwater and the Canterbury Gate, out into the High and back to Magdalen, hands in pockets, composing a brief letter in his mind. Oxford’s nocturnal slogan-writers had been at work on a college wall again: “Deanz meanz feinz” said one neatly painted graffito. Stephen, the reluctant Junior Dean of Magdalen, responsible for undergraduate discipline, smiled. If they were funny enough he would allow them to remain for one term, if not, he would have the porter scrub them out immediately. Back at his desk, he wrote down what had been in his mind.
Magdalen College,
Oxford.
April 15th
Dear Dr. Oakley,
I am holding a small dinner party in my rooms next Thursday evening for a few carefully selected people.
I would be delighted if you could spare the time to join me, and I think you would find it worth your while to be present.
Yours sincerely,
Stephen Bradley
PS: I am sorry David Kesler is unable to join us. Black Tie. 7:30 for 8 P.M.
Stephen changed the sheet of letter paper in his old Remington typewriter and addressed similar letters to Jean-Pierre Lamanns and Lord Brigsley. Then he sat thinking for a little while before picking up the internal telephone.
“Harry?” he said to the head porter. “If anyone rings the lodge to ask if the college has a fellow called Stephen Bradley, I want you to say, ‘Yes, sir, a new Mathematics Fellow from Harvard, already famous for his dinner parties.’ Is that clear, Harry?”
“Yes, sir,” said Harry Woodley, the head porter. He had never understood Americans—Dr. Bradley was no exception.
All three men did ring and inquire, as Stephen had anticipated they might. He himself would have done the same in the circumstances. Harry remembered his message and repeated it carefully, although the callers still seemed a little baffled.
“No more than me, or is it I?” muttered the head porter.
Stephen received acceptances from all three during the next week, James Brigsley’s arriving last, on the Friday. The crest on his letter paper announced a promising motto: ex nibilo omnia.
The butler to the Senior Common Room and the college chef were consulted, and a meal to loosen the tongues of the most taciturn was planned:
Everything was ready; all Stephen could do now was wait for the appointed hour.
On the stroke of 7:30 P.M. on the appointed Thursday Jean-Pierre arrived. Stephen admired the elegant dinner jacket and large floppy bow tie that his guest wore, while he fingered his own little clip-on, surprised that Jean-Pierre Lamanns, who had such obvious savoir faire, could also have fallen victim to Prospecta Oil. Stephen plunged into a monologue on the significance of the isosceles triangle in modern art while Jean-Pierre stroked his mustache. It was not a subject Stephen would normally have chosen to speak on without a break for five minutes, and he was only saved from the inevitability of more direct questions from Jean-Pierre by the arrival of Dr. Robin Oakley. Robin had lost a few pounds in the past month, but Stephen could see why his practice in Harley Street was a success. He was, in the words of H. H. Munro, a man whose looks made it possible for women to forgive any other trifling inadequacies. Robin studied his shambling host, wondering whether he dared to ask immediately if they had ever met before. No, he decided; he would leave it a little and hope perhaps some clue as to why he had been invited would materialize during dinner. The David Kesler P.S. worried him.
Stephen introduced him to Jean-Pierre and they chatted while their host checked the dinner table. Once again the door opened, and with a little more respect than previously displayed, the porter announced, “Lord Brigsley.” Stephen walked forward to greet him, suddenly unsure whether he should bow or shake hands. Although James did not know anyone present at the strange gathering, he showed no signs of discomfort and entered easily into the conversation. Even Stephen was impressed by James’s relaxed line of small talk, although he couldn’t help recalling his academic results when at Christ Church and wondered whether the noble lord would in fact be an asset to his plans.
The culinary efforts of the chef worked their intended magic. No guest could possibly have asked his host why the dinner party was taking place while such delicately garlic-flavored lamb, such tender almond pastry, such excellent wine, were still to hand.
Finally, when the servants had cleared the table and the port was on its way around for the second time, Robin could stand it no longer:
“If it’s not a rude question, Dr. Bradley.”
“Do call me Stephen.”
“Stephen, may I ask what is the purpose of this select little gathering?”
Six eyes bored into him demanding an answer to the same question.
Stephen rose and surveyed his guests. He walked around the table twice before speaking and then started his discourse by recalling the entire history of the past few weeks. He told them of his meeting in that very room with David Kesler, his investment in Prospecta Oil, followed soon afterward by the visit of the Fraud Squad, and their disclosure about Harvey Metcalfe. He ended his carefully prepared speech with the words, “Gentlemen, the truth is that the four of us are in the same bloody mess.” He felt that sounded suitably British.
Jean-Pierre reacted even before Stephen could finish what he was saying.
“Count me out. I couldn’t be involved in anything quite so ridiculous as that. I am a humble art dealer, not a speculator.”
Robin Oakley also jumped in before Stephen was given the chance to reply:
“I’ve never heard anything so preposterous. You must have contacted the wrong man. I’m a Harley Street doctor—I don’t know the first thing about oil.”
Stephen could see why the Fraud Squad had had trouble with these two and why they had been so thankful for his cooperation. They all looked at Lord Brigsley, who raised his eyes and said very quietly:
“Absolutely right on every detail, Dr. Bradley, and I’m in more of a pickle than you. I borrowed £150,000 to buy the shares against the security of my small farm in Hampshire and I don’t think it will be long before the bank insists that I dispose of it. When they do and my dear old pa, the fifth earl, finds out, it’s curtains for me unless I become the sixth earl overnight.”
“Thank you,” said Stephen. As he sat down, he turned to Robin and raised his eyebrows interrogatively.
“What the hell,” said Robin. “You’re quite right—I was involved. David Kesler was a patient of mine and in a rash moment I invested £100,000 in Prospecta Oil as a temporary advance against my securities. God only knows what made me do it. As the shares are only worth 50 pence I’m stuck with them. I have a shortfall at my bank which they’re beginning to fuss about. I also have a large mortgage on my country home in Berkshire and a heavy rent on my Harley Street consultingroom, a wife with expensive tastes and two boys at the best private prep school in England. I’ve hardly slept a wink since Detective Inspector Smith visited me two weeks ago.” He looked up. His face had drained of color and the suave self-confidence of Harley Street had gone. Slowly, they all turned and stared at Jean-Pierre.
“All right, all right,” he admitted, “me too. I was in Paris when the damned thing folded
under me, so now, I’m stuck with the useless shares. £80,000 borrowed against my stock at the gallery. And what’s worse, I advised some of my friends to invest in the bloody company too.”
Silence enveloped the room. It was Jean-Pierre who broke it again:
“So what do you suggest, Professor,” he said sarcastically. “Do we hold an annual dinner to remind us what fools we’ve been?”
“No, that was not what I had in mind.” Stephen hesitated, realizing that what he was about to suggest was bound to cause even more commotion. Once again he rose to his feet, and said quietly and deliberately:
“We have had our money stolen by a very clever man who has proved to be an expert in share fraud. None of us is knowledgeable about stocks and shares, but we are all experts in our own fields. Gentlemen, I therefore suggest we steal it back.
—NOT A PENNY MORE AND NOT A PENNY LESS.”
A few seconds’ silence was followed by uproar.
“Just walk up and take it I suppose?” said Robin.
“Kidnap him,” mused James.
“Why don’t we just kill him and claim the life insurance?” said Jean-Pierre.
Several moments passed. Stephen waited until he had complete silence again, and then he handed around the four dossiers marked “Harvey Metcalfe” with each of their names below. A green dossier for Robin, a blue one for James and a yellow for Jean-Pierre. The red master copy Stephen kept for himself. They were all impressed. While they had been wringing their hands in unproductive dismay, it was obvious that Stephen Bradley had been hard at work.
Stephen continued:
“Please read your dossier carefully. It will brief you on everything that is known about Harvey Metcalfe. Each of you must take the document away and study the information, and then return with a plan of how we are, between us, to extract $1,000,000 from him without his ever being aware of it. All four of us must come up with a separate plan. Each may involve the other three in his own operation. We will return here in fourteen days’ time and present our conclusions. Each member of the team will put $10,000 into the kitty as a float and I, as the mathematician, will keep a running account. All expenses incurred in retrieving our money will be added to Mr. Metcalfe’s bill, starting with your journey down here this evening and the cost of the dinner tonight.”