Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

2

Davis pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and read the advertisement in the Business Section of the Boston Globe again, to make sure he was not dreaming. It could have been tailor-made for him:

Knowing it could lead to other openings in an expanding industry, David thought it sounded like a challenge and wondered if they would consider him experienced enough. He recalled what his tutor in European affairs used to say: ‘If you must work in Great Britain, better make it the North Sea. With their union problems, there’s nothing else great about the country.’

David Kesler was a lean, clean-shaven young American, with a crew cut which would have been better suited to a lieutenant in the Marines, a fresh complexion and an unquenchable earnestness. David wanted to succeed in business with all the fervor of the new Harvard Business School graduate. He had spent six years in all at Harvard, the first four studying mathematics for his Bachelor degree, and the last two across the Charles River at the Business School. Recently graduated and armed with a B.A. and an M.B.A., he was looking for a job that would reward him for the exceptional capacity for hard work he knew he possessed. Never a brilliant scholar, he envied those natural academics among his classmates who mastered post-Keynesian economic theories like children learning their multiplication tables. David had worked ferociously for six years, only lifting his nose far enough from the grindstone to fit in a daily workout at the gymnasium and the occasional weekend watching Harvard Jocks defending the honor of the university on the football field or on the basketball court. He would have enjoyed playing himself, but that would have meant less time for study.

He read the advertisement again, and then typed a carefully prepared letter to the box number. A few days passed before a reply came, summoning him for an interview at a local hotel on the following Wednesday at 3.00.

David arrived at 2.45 pm at the Copley Hotel on Huntingdon Avenue, the adrenaline pumping through his body. He repeated the Harvard Business School motto to himself as he was ushered into a small private room: look British, think Yiddish.

Three men, who introduced themselves as Silverman, Cooper and Elliott, interviewed him. Bernie Silverman, a short, gray-haired, check-tied New Yorker with a solid aura of success, was in charge. Cooper and Elliott sat and watched David silently.

Silverman spent a considerable time giving David an enticing description of the company’s background and its future aims. Harvey had trained Silverman carefully and he had at his well-manicured fingertips all the glib expertise needed by the right-hand man in a Metcalfe coup.

‘So there you have it, Mr Kesler. We’re involved in one of the biggest commercial opportunities in the world, drilling for oil in the North Sea off Scotland. Our company, Prospecta Oil, has the backing of a group of banks in America. We have been granted licenses from the British Government and we have the financing. But companies are made not by money, Mr Kesler, but by people — it’s as simple as that. We’re looking for a man who will work night and day to help put Prospecta Oil on the map, and we’ll pay the right man a top salary to do just that. If we offer you the position, you’ll be working in our London office under the immediate direction of our Managing Director, Mr Elliott.’

‘Where are the company headquarters?’

‘New York, but we have offices in Montreal, San Francisco, London, Aberdeen, Paris and Brussels.’

‘Is the company looking for oil anywhere else?’

‘Not at the moment,’ answered Silverman. ‘We’re sinking millions into the North Sea after B.P.’s successful strike, and the fields around us have so far had a one-in-five success ratio, which is very high in our business.’

‘When would you want the successful applicant to start?’

‘Some time in January, when he’s completed a government training course on management in oil,’ said Richard Elliott. The slim, sallow No. 2 sounded as if he was from Georgia. The government course was a typical Harvey Metcalfe touch — maximum credibility for minimum expense.

‘And the company apartment,’ said David, ‘where’s that?’

Cooper spoke:

‘You’ll have one of the company flats in the Barbican, a few hundred yards away from our London City office.’

David had no more questions — Silverman had covered everything and seemed to know exactly what he wanted.

Ten days later David received a telegram inviting him to join Silverman for lunch at the 21 Club in New York. When David arrived at the restaurant, he recognized a host of well-known faces at nearby tables and felt new confidence: his host obviously knew what he was about. Their table was in one of the small alcoves selected by businessmen who prefer their conversations to remain confidential.

Silverman was genial and relaxed. He stretched the conversation out a little, discussing irrelevancies, but finally, over a brandy, offered David the position in London. David was delighted: $25,000 a year, and the chance to be involved with a company which obviously had such an exciting future. He did not hesitate in agreeing to start his new appointment in London on January 1st.

David Kesler had never been to England before: how green the grass was, how narrow the roads, how closed in by hedges and fences were the houses! It felt like Toy Town after the vast highways and large automobiles of New York. The small flat in the Barbican was clean and impersonal and, as Mr Cooper had said, convenient for the office a few hundred yards away in Threadneedle Street.

Prospecta’s offices consisted of seven rooms on one floor of a large Victorian building; Silverman’s was the only office with a prestigious air about it. There was a tiny reception area, a telex room, two rooms for secretaries, a larger room for Mr Elliott and another small one for himself. It seemed very poky to David, but as Silverman was quick to point out, office rent in the City of London was $30 a square foot compared with $10 in New York.

Bernie Silverman’s secretary, Judith Lampson, ushered David through to the well-appointed office of the Chief Executive. Silverman sat in a large black swivel chair behind a massive desk, which made him look like a midget. By his side were positioned four telephones, three white and one red. David was later to learn that the important-looking red telephone was directly connected to a number in the States, but he never actually discovered to whom.

‘Good morning, Mr Silverman. Where would you like me to start?’

‘Bernie, please call me Bernie. Take a seat. Notice the change in the price of the company’s shares in the last few days?’

‘Oh, yes,’ enthused David. ‘Up a half to nearly $6. I suppose it’s because of our new bank backing and the other companies’ successful strikes?’

‘No,’ said Silverman in a low tone designed to give the impression that no one else must hear this part of the conversation, ‘the truth is that we’ve made a big strike ourselves, but we haven’t yet decided when to announce it. It’s all in this geologist’s report.’ He threw a smart, colorful document over his desk.

David whistled under his breath. ‘What are the company’s plans at the moment?’

‘We’ll announce the strike,’ said Silverman quietly, picking at his india rubber as he talked, ‘in about three weeks’ time, when we’re certain of the full extent and capacity of the hole. We want to make some plans for coping with the publicity and the sudden inflow of money. The shares will go through the roof, of course.’

‘The shares have already climbed steadily. Perhaps some people already know?’

‘I guess that’s right,’ said Silverman. ‘The trouble with that black stuff is once it comes out of the ground you can’t hide it.’ Silverman laughed.

‘Is there any harm in getting in on the act?’ asked David.

‘No, as long as it doesn’t harm the company in any way. Just let me know if anyone wants to invest. We don’t have the problems of inside information in England — none of the restrictive laws we have in America.’

‘How high do you think the shares will go?’

Silverman looked him straight in the eye and then said casually, ‘$20.’

Back in his own office, David carefully read the geologist’s report that Silverman had given him: it certainly looked as if Prospecta Oil had made a successful strike, but the extent of the find was not, as yet, entirely certain. When he had completed the report, he glanced at his watch and cursed. The geologist’s file had totally absorbed him. He threw the report into his briefcase and took a taxi to Paddington Station, only just making the 6.15 train. He was due in Oxford for dinner with an old classmate from Harvard.

On the train down to the university city he thought about Stephen Bradley, who had been a friend in his Harvard days and had generously helped David and other students in mathematics classes that year. Stephen, now a visiting Fellow at Magdalen College, was undoubtedly one of the most brilliant scholars of David’s generation. He had won the Kennedy Memorial Scholarship to Harvard and later in 1970 the Wister Prize for Mathematics, the most sought-after award in the mathematical faculty. Although in monetary terms this award was a derisory $80 and a medal, it was the reputation and job offers it brought with it that made the competition so keen. Stephen had won it with consummate ease and nobody was surprised when he was successful in his application for a Fellowship at Oxford. He was now in his third year of research at Magdalen. His papers on Boolean algebra appeared at short intervals in the Proceedings of the London Mathematical Society, and it had just been announced that he had been elected to a Chair in Mathematics back at his alma mater, Harvard, to commence in the fall.

The 6.15 train from Paddington arrived in Oxford an hour later and the short taxi ride from the station down New College Lane brought him to Magdalen at 7.30. One of the College porters escorted David to Stephen’s rooms, which were spacious, ancient, and comfortably cluttered with books, cushions and prints. How unlike the antiseptic walls of Harvard, thought David. Stephen was there to greet him. He didn’t seem to have changed one iota. His suit seemed to hang off his tall, thin, ungainly body; no tailor would ever have employed him as a dummy. His heavy eyebrows protruded over his out-of-date round-rimmed spectacles, which he almost seemed to hide behind in his shyness. He ambled over to David and welcomed him, one minute an old man, the next younger than his thirty years. Stephen poured David a Jack Daniels and they settled down to chat. Although Stephen never looked upon David as a close friend at Harvard, he had enjoyed coaching him and always found him eager to learn; besides, he always welcomed an excuse to entertain Americans at Oxford.

‘It’s been a memorable three years, David,’ said Stephen, pouring him a second drink. ‘The only sad event was the death of my father last winter. He took such an interest in my life at Oxford and gave my academic work so much support. He’s left me rather well off, actually... Bath plugs were obviously more in demand than I realized. You might be kind enough to advise me on how to invest some of the money, because at the moment it’s just sitting on deposit in the bank. I never seem to have the time to do anything about it, and when it comes to investments I haven’t a clue.’

That started David off about his demanding new job with Prospecta Oil.

‘Why don’t you invest your money in my company, Stephen. We’ve had a fantastic strike in the North Sea, and when they announce it the shares are going to go through the roof. The whole operation would only take a month or so and you could make the killing of a lifetime. I only wish I had some of my own money to put into it.’

‘Have you had the full details of the strike?’

‘No, but I’ve seen the geologist’s report, and that makes pretty good reading. The shares are already going up fast and I’m convinced they’ll reach $20. The problem is that time is already running out.’

Stephen glanced at the geologist’s report, thinking he would study it carefully later.

‘How does one go about an investment of this sort?’ he asked.

‘Well, you find a respectable stockbroker, buy as many shares as you can afford and then wait for the strike to be announced. I’ll keep you informed on how things are going and advise you when I feel is the best time to sell.’

‘That would be extremely thoughtful of you, David.’

‘It’s the least I can do after all the help you gave me with math at Harvard.’

‘Oh, that was nothing. Let’s go and have some dinner.’

Stephen led David to the college dining hall, an oblong, oak-paneled room covered in pictures of past Presidents of Magdalen, bishops and academics. The long wooden tables at which the undergraduates were eating filled the body of the hall, but Stephen shuffled up to the High Table and offered David a more comfortable seat. The students were a noisy, enthusiastic bunch — Stephen didn’t notice them, but David was enjoying the whole experience.

The seven-course meal was formidable and David wondered how Stephen kept so thin with such daily temptations. When they reached the port, Stephen suggested they return to his rooms rather than join the crusty old dons in the Senior Common Room.

Late into the night, over the rubicund Magdalen port, they talked about North Sea oil and Boolean algebra, each admiring the other for his mastery of his subject. Stephen, like most academics, was fairly credulous outside the bounds of his own discipline. He began to think that an investment in Prospecta Oil would be a very astute move on his part.

In the morning, they strolled down Addison’s Walk near Magdalen Bridge, where the grass grows green and lush by the Cherwell. Reluctantly, David caught a taxi at 9.45 leaving Magdalen behind him and passing New College, Trinity, Balliol and finally Worcester, where he saw scrawled across the college wall, ‘c’est magnifique mais ce n’est pas la gare.’ He caught the 10.00 am train back to London. He had enjoyed his stay at Oxford and hoped he had been able to help his old Harvard friend, who had done so much for him in the past.

‘Good morning, David.’

‘Good morning, Bernie. I thought I ought to let you know I spent the evening with a friend at Oxford, and he may invest some money in the company. It might be as much as $250,000.’

‘That’s fine, David, keep up the good work. You’re doing a great job.’

Silverman showed no surprise at David’s news, but once back in his own office he picked up the red telephone.

‘Harvey?’

‘Yes.’

‘Kesler seems to have been the right choice. He may have talked a friend of his into investing $250,000 in the company.’

‘Good. Now listen carefully. Brief my broker to put 40,000 shares on the market at just over $6 a share. If Kesler’s friend does decide to invest in the company, mine will be the only large block of shares immediately available.’

After a further day’s consideration, Stephen noticed that the shares of Prospecta Oil moved from £2.75 to £3.05 and decided the time had come to invest in what he was now convinced must be a winner. He trusted David, and had been impressed by the glossy geologist’s report. He rang Kitcat & Aitken, a firm of stockbrokers in the City, and instructed them to buy $250,000 worth of shares in Prospecta Oil. Harvey Metcalfe’s broker released 40,000 shares when Stephen’s request came onto the floor of the stock exchange and the transaction was quickly completed. Stephen’s purchase price was £3.10.

After investing his father’s inheritance, Stephen spent the next few days happily watching the shares climb to £3.50, even before the expected announcement. Though Stephen didn’t realize it, it was his own investment that had caused the shares to rise. He began to wonder what he would spend the profit on even before he had realized it. He decided not to cash in immediately, but hold on; David thought the shares would reach $20, and in any case he had promised to tell him when to sell.

Meanwhile, Harvey Metcalfe began to release a few more shares onto the market, because of the interest created by Stephen’s investment. He was beginning to agree with Silverman that David Kesler, young, honest, and with all the enthusiasm of a man in his first appointment, had been an excellent choice. It was not the first time Harvey had used this ploy, keeping himself well away from the action while placing the responsibility on inexperienced, innocent shoulders.

At the same time, Richard Elliott, acting as the company spokesman, leaked stories to the press about large buyers coming into the market, which in itself occasioned a flood of small investors and kept the price steady.

One lesson a man learns in the Harvard Business School is that an executive is only as good as his health. David never felt happy without a regular medical check-up; he rather enjoyed being told he was in good shape, but perhaps should take things a little easier. His secretary, Miss Rentoul, had therefore made an appointment for him with a Harley Street doctor.

Dr Robin Oakley was by anyone’s standards a successful man. At thirty-seven he was tall and handsome, with a head of dark hair that looked as if it would never recede. He had a classic strong face and the self-assurance that came from proven success. He still played squash twice a week, which helped him look enviably younger than his contemporaries. Robin had remained fit since his Cambridge days, which he left with a Rugby Blue and an upper-second-class degree. He had gone on to complete his medical training at St Thomas’s, where once again his Rugby football rather than his medical skill brought him into prominence with those who decide the future careers of young men. When he qualified, he went to work as an assistant to a highly successful Harley Street practitioner, Dr Eugene Moffat. Dr Moffat was successful not so much in curing the sick as in charming the rich, especially middle-aged women, who came to see him again and again however little seemed to be wrong with them. At fifty guineas a visit that had to be regarded as success.

Moffat had chosen Robin Oakley as his assistant for exactly those qualities which he himself displayed, and which had made him so sought-after. Robin Oakley was unquestionably good-looking, personable, well-educated — and just clever enough. Robin settled very well into Harley Street and the Moffat system, and when the older man died suddenly in his early sixties, he took over his mantle with the ease with which a crown prince would take over a throne. Robin continued to build up the practice, losing none of Moffat’s ladies other than by natural causes, and did remarkably well for himself. He had a wife and two sons, a comfortable country house a few miles outside Newbury in Berkshire, and a considerable saving in blue chip securities. He never complained at his good fortune and enjoyed life, at the same time being, he had to confess, a little bored with it all. He was beginning to find that the bland role of sympathetic doctor was almost intolerably cloying. Would the world come to an end if he admitted that he neither knew nor cared just what was causing the minute patches of dermatitis on Lady Fiona Fisher’s diamond-studded hands? Would the Heavens descend if he told the dreaded Mrs Page-Stanley that she was a malodorous old woman in need of nothing more medically taxing than a new set of dentures? And would he be struck off if he personally administered to the nubile Miss Lydia de Villiers a good dose of what she so clearly indicated she desired?

David Kesler arrived on time for his appointment. He had been warned by Miss Rentoul that in England doctors and dentists cancel if you are late and still charge you.

He stripped and lay on Robin Oakley’s couch. The doctor took his blood pressure, listened to his heart, and made him put out his tongue, an organ that seldom stands up well to public scrutiny. As he tapped and poked his way over David’s body, they chatted.

‘What brings you to work in London, Mr Kesler?’

‘I’m with an oil company in the City. I expect you’ve heard of us — Prospecta Oil?’

‘No,’ said Robin. ‘Can’t say I have. Bend your legs up please.’ He hit David’s kneecaps smartly, one after the other, with a patella hammer. The legs jumped wildly.

‘Nothing wrong with those reflexes.’

‘You will, Dr Oakley, you will. Things are going very well for us. Watch out for our progress in the papers.’

‘Why?’ said Robin, smiling. ‘Struck oil, have you?’

‘Yes,’ said David quietly, pleased with the impression he was creating. ‘As a matter of fact, we’ve done just that.’

Robin prodded David’s abdomen for a few seconds. ‘Good muscular wall, not fat, no sign of an enlarged liver. Young man, you’re in good physical shape.’

Robin left him in the examination room to get dressed and thoughtfully wrote out a brief report on Kesler for his records, while his mind dwelt on deeper things. An oil strike.

Harley Street doctors, although they routinely keep private patients waiting for three-quarters of an hour in a gas-fired waiting-room equipped with one out-of-date copy of Punch, never let them feel rushed once they are in the consulting room. Robin had no intention of rushing Mr Kesler.

‘There’s very little wrong with you, Mr Kesler. Some signs of anemia, which I suspect are caused by nothing more than overwork and your recent rushing about. I’m going to give you some iron tablets which should quickly take care of that. Take two a day, morning and night.’ He scribbled an illegible prescription for the tablets and handed it to David.

‘Many thanks. It’s kind of you to give me so much of your time.’

‘Not at all. How are you finding London?’ asked Robin. ‘Very different from America, I expect.’

‘Sure — the pace is much slower. Once I’ve mastered how long it takes to get something done here I’ll be halfway to victory.’

‘Do you have many friends in London?’

‘No,’ replied David, ‘I have one or two buddies at Oxford from my Harvard days, but I haven’t yet made contact with many people in London.’

Good, thought Robin, here is a chance for me to find out a little more about the oil game, and spend some time with a man who makes most of my patients look as if they had both feet in the grave. It might even shake me out of my lethargy. He continued. ‘Would you care to join me for lunch later in the week? You might like to see one of our antique London clubs.’

‘How very kind of you.’

‘Excellent. Will Friday suit you?’

‘It certainly will.’

‘Then let’s say one o’clock at the Athenaeum Club in Pall Mall.’

David returned to his City desk, picking up his tablets on the way. He took one immediately. He was beginning to enjoy his stay in London. Silverman seemed pleased with him, Prospecta Oil was doing well and he was already meeting some interesting people. Yes, he felt this was going to be a very happy period in his life.

On Friday at 12.45 pm, David arrived at the Athenaeum, a massive white building on the corner of Pall Mall, overlooked by a statue of the Duke of York. David was amazed by the size of the rooms and his commercial mind could not help wondering what price they would fetch as office space. The place appeared to be full of moving waxworks who, Robin later assured him, were in fact distinguished generals and diplomats.

They lunched in the Coffee Room, dominated by a Rubens of Charles II, and talked about Boston, London, squash, and their shared passion for Katherine Hepburn. Over coffee, David readily told Robin the details of the geologist’s findings on the Prospecta Oil site. The shares had now climbed to £3.60 on the London Stock Exchange, and were still going up.

‘Sounds like a good investment,’ said Robin, ‘and as it’s your own company, it might be worth the risk.’

‘I don’t think there’s much of a risk,’ said David, ‘as long as the oil is actually there.’

‘Well, I’ll certainly consider it most seriously over the weekend.’

They parted on the steps of the Athenaeum, David to a conference on the Energy Crisis organized by the Financial Times, Robin to his home in Berkshire. His two young sons were back from prep school for the weekend and he was looking forward to seeing them again. How quickly they had passed from babies to toddlers, to boys; soon they would be young men, he thought. And how reassuring to know their future was secure. Perhaps he should make that future a little more secure by investing in David Kesler’s company. He could always put the money back into blue chip shares once the strike had been announced.

Bernie Silverman was also pleased to hear the possibility of a further investment.

‘Congratulations, my boy. We’re going to need a lot of capital to finance the pipe-laying operations, you know. Pipe-laying can cost $2 million per mile. Still, you’re playing your part. I’ve just had word from head office that we are to give you a $5,000 bonus for your efforts. Keep up the good work.’

David smiled. This was business in the proper Harvard tradition. If you bring home the results, you get the rewards.

‘When will the strike be officially announced?’ he asked.

‘Some time in the next few days.’

David left Silverman’s office with a glow of pride.

Silverman immediately contacted Harvey Metcalfe on the red phone, and he set the routine in motion once again. Metcalfe’s brokers released onto the market 35,000 shares at £3.73 and approximately 5,000 each day onto the open market, always being able to feel when the market had taken enough and thus keeping the price steady. Once again, the shares climbed when Dr Oakley invested heavily in the market, this time to £3.90, keeping David, Robin and Stephen all happy. They were not to know that Harvey was releasing more shares each day because of the interest they had caused, and that this was now creating a market of its own.

David decided to spend some of his bonus on a painting for his little flat in the Barbican, which he felt was rather gray. About $2,000, he thought, something that was going to appreciate in value. David quite enjoyed art for art’s sake, but he liked it even more for business’s sake. He spent Friday afternoon tramping around Bond Street, Cork Street and Bruton Street, the home of the London art galleries. The Wildenstein was too expensive for his pocket and the Marlborough too modern for his taste. The painting he finally picked out was at the Lamanns Gallery in Bond Street.

The gallery, just three doors away from Sotheby’s, consisted of one vast room with a worn gray carpet and red faded wallpaper. As David was later to learn, the more worn the carpet, the more faded the walls, the greater the success and reputation of the gallery. There was a staircase at the far end of the room, against which some unregarded paintings were stacked, backs to the world. David sorted through them on a whim and found, to his delight, something that appealed to him.

It was an oil by Leon Underwood called Venus in the Park. The large, rather somber canvas contained about six men and women sitting on metal chairs at circular tea tables. Among them, in the foreground, was a comely naked woman with generous breasts and long hair. Nobody was paying her the slightest attention and she sat gazing out of the picture, face inscrutable, a symbol of warmth and love in indifferent surroundings. David found her utterly compelling.

The gallery proprietor, Jean-Pierre Lamanns, advanced on him, adorned in an elegantly tailored suit, as befitted a man who rarely received checks for less than a thousand pounds. At thirty-five, he could afford the little extravagances of life, and his Gucci shoes, Yves St Laurent tie, Turnbull & Asser shirt and Piaget watch left no one, especially women, in any doubt that he knew what he was about. He was an Englishman’s vision of a Frenchman, slim and neat with longish, dark wavy hair and deep brown eyes that hinted at being a little sharp. He was capable of being persnickety and demanding, with a wit that was often as cruel as it was amusing, which may have been one of the reasons why he had not married. There certainly had been no shortage of applicants. Customers, however, saw only his charming side. As David wrote out his check, Jean-Pierre rubbed his forefinger backward and forward over his fashionable mustache, only too happy to discuss the picture.

‘Underwood is one of the greatest sculptors and artists in England today. He even tutored Henry Moore, you know. I believe he is underestimated because of his dislike of journalists and the press, whom he describes as nothing more than drunken scribblers.’

‘Hardly the way to endear oneself to the media,’ murmured David, as he handed over the check for £850, feeling agreeably prosperous. Although it was the most expensive purchase he had ever made, he felt the picture was a good investment and, more important, he liked it.

Jean-Pierre took David downstairs to show him the Impressionist and Modern collection he had built up over many years, continuing to enthuse about Underwood. They celebrated David’s first acquisition over a whiskey in Jean-Pierre’s office.

‘What line of business are you in, Mr Kesler?’

‘I work with a small oil company called Prospecta Oil, who are exploring prospects in the North Sea.’

‘Had any success?’ inquired Jean-Pierre, a little too innocently.

‘Well, between the two of us, we’re rather excited about the future. It’s no secret that the company shares have gone from £2 to nearly £4 in the last few weeks, but no one knows the real reason.’

‘Would it be a good investment for a poor little art dealer like myself?’ asked Jean-Pierre.

‘I’ll tell you how good an investment I think it is,’ said David. ‘I am putting $3,000 in the company on Monday, which is all I have left in the world — now that I’ve captured Venus, that is. We’ll shortly be making a rather important announcement.’

A twinkle came into Jean-Pierre’s eye. To one of his Gallic subtlety, a nod was as good as a wink. He did not pursue the line of conversation any further.

‘When’s the strike going to be announced, Bernie?’

‘I’m expecting it early next week. We’ve had a few problems. Nothing we can’t lick, though.’

That gave David some relief, as he had taken up 500 shares himself that morning, investing the remaining $3,000 from his bonus. Like the others, he was hoping for a quick profit.

‘Rowe Rudd.’

‘Frank Watts, please. Jean-Pierre Lamanns.’

‘Good morning, Jean-Pierre. What can we do for you?’

‘I want to buy 25,000 Prospecta Oil.’

‘Never heard of them. Hold on a minute... New company, very low capital. A bit risky, J.-P. I wouldn’t recommend it.’

‘It’s all right, Frank, I only want them for two or three weeks, then you can sell. I’ve no intention of holding on to them. When did the account start?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Right. Buy this morning and sell them before the end of the account, or earlier. I’m expecting an announcement next week, so once they go over £5 you can get rid of them. No need to be greedy, but buy them in my company name; I don’t want the deal traced back to me — it might embarrass the informant.’

‘Right, sir. Buy 25,000 Prospecta Oil at market price and sell before the last day of the account, or sooner if instructed.’

‘Correct. I’ll be in Paris all next week looking at pictures, so don’t hesitate to sell once they go over £5.’

‘Right, J.-P. Have a good trip.’

The red telephone rang.

‘Rowe Rudd are looking for a substantial block of shares. Do you know anything about it?’

‘No idea, Harvey. It must be David Kesler again. Do you want me to speak to him?’

‘No, say nothing. I’ve released another 25,000 shares at £3.90. Kesler’s only got to do one more big one and I’ll be out. Prepare our plan for seven days before the end of this Stock Exchange account.’

‘Right, boss. You know quite a few people are also buying in small amounts.’

‘Yes, just as before, they all have to tell their friends they’re on to a good thing. Say nothing to Kesler.’

‘You know, David,’ said Richard Elliott, ‘you work too hard. Relax. We’re going to have enough work on our hands when the announcement’s made.’

‘I guess so,’ said David. ‘Work’s just a habit with me now.’

‘Well, why don’t you take tonight off and join me for a spot of something at Annabel’s?’

David was flattered by the invitation to London’s most exclusive nightclub and accepted enthusiastically.

David’s hired Ford Cortina looked somewhat out of place that evening in Berkeley Square among the double-parked Rolls Royces and Mercedes. He made his way down the little iron staircase into the basement, which at one time must have been no more than the servants’ quarters for the elegant town house above. Now it was a splendid club, with a restaurant, discotheque and a small elegant bar, the walls covered in old prints and pictures. The main dining room was dimly lit and crowded with small tables, most of them already occupied. The décor was Regency and extravagant. Mark Birley, the owner, had in the short period of ten years made Annabel’s the most sought-after club in London, with a waiting list for membership of well over a thousand. The discotheque was playing in the far corner of a crowded dance floor, on which you couldn’t have parked two Cadillacs. Most of the couples were dancing very close to each other — they had little choice. David was somewhat surprised to observe that nearly all of the men on the floor were about twenty years older than the girls they held in their arms. The head waiter, Louis, showed David to Richard Elliott’s table, realizing it was David’s first visit to the club by the way he stared at all the personalities of the day. Oh well, thought David, perhaps one day they’ll be staring at me.

After an exceptionally good dinner Richard Elliott and his wife joined the crowd on the dance floor, while David returned to the little bar surrounded by comfortable red settees and struck up a conversation with someone who introduced himself as James Brigsley. Even if he did not treat the whole world as such, Mr Brigsley certainly treated Annabel’s as a stage. Tall, blond and aristocratic, his eyes alight with good humor, he seemed at ease with everyone around him. David admired his assured manner, something he had never acquired and feared he never would. His accent, even to David’s untutored ears, was resonantly upperclass.

David’s new acquaintance talked of his visits to the States, flattering him by remarking how much he had always liked the Americans. After some time, David was able quietly to ask the head waiter who the Englishman was.

‘He’s Lord Brigsley, the eldest son of the Earl of Louth, sir.’

What do you know, thought David, lords look like anyone else, especially when they’ve had a few drinks. Lord Brigsley was tapping David’s glass.

‘Would you care for another?’

‘Thank you very much, my lord,’ said David.

‘Don’t bother with all that nonsense. The name’s James. What are you doing in London?’

‘I work for an oil company. You probably know my Chairman, Lord Hunnisett. I’ve never met him myself, to tell you the truth.’

‘Sweet old buffer,’ said James. ‘His son and I were at Harrow together. If you’re in oil, perhaps you can tell me what to do with my Shell and B.P. shares.’

‘Hold on to them,’ said David. ‘It’s sensible to remain in any commodities, especially oil, as long as the British Government doesn’t get greedy and try to take control of the assets themselves.’

Another double whiskey arrived. David was beginning to feel just slightly tipsy.

‘What about your own company?’ inquired James.

‘We’re rather small,’ said David. ‘But our shares have gone up more than any other oil company in the last three months. Even so, I suspect they’ve nowhere near reached their zenith.’

‘Why?’ demanded James.

David glanced round and lowered his voice to a confidential whisper.

‘Well, I expect you realize that if you make an oil strike in a big company it can only put the percentage of your profits up by a tiny amount. But if you make a strike in a small company, naturally that profit will be reflected as a considerably larger percentage of the whole.’

‘Are you telling me you’ve made a strike?’

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that,’ said David. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d treat that remark in confidence.’

David could not remember how he arrived home or who put him to bed, and he appeared rather late in the office the next morning.

‘I am sorry, Bernie, I overslept after a very good evening with Richard at Annabel’s.’

‘Doesn’t matter a bit. Glad you enjoyed yourself.’

‘I hope I wasn’t indiscreet, but I told some lord, whose name I can’t even remember, that he ought to invest in the company. I may have been a little too enthusiastic.’

‘Don’t worry, David, we’re not going to let anyone down and you need the rest. You’ve been working your ass off.’

James Brigsley left his London flat in Chelsea and took a taxi to his bank, Williams & Glyn’s. James was an extrovert by nature and at Harrow his only real love had been acting; but when he had left school, his father had refused to allow him to go on the stage and insisted that he complete his education at Christ Church, Oxford, where again he took a greater interest in the Dramatic Society than in gaining a degree in his chosen subject of Politics, Philosophy and Economics. James had never mentioned to anyone since leaving Oxford the class of degree he managed to secure, but for better or worse the fourth-class Honours degree was later abolished. After Oxford he joined the Grenadier Guards, which gave him considerable scope for his histrionic talents. This was indeed to be James’s introduction to society life in London, and he succeeded as well as a personable, rich young viscount might be expected to do in the circumstances.

When he had completed his two years in the Guards, the earl gave him a 250-acre farm in Hampshire to occupy his time, but James did not care for the coarser country life. He left the running of the farm to a manager and once again concentrated on his social life in London. He would dearly have liked to go on the stage, but he knew the old man still considered Mrs Worthington’s daughter’s ambition an improper one for a future peer of the realm. The fifth earl didn’t think a great deal of his eldest son one way and another, and James did not find it easy to persuade his father that he was shrewder than he was given credit for. Perhaps the inside information David Kesler had let slip after a few drinks would give him the opportunity to prove his old dad wrong.

In Williams & Glyn’s fine old building in Birchin Lane, James was ushered into the manager’s office.

‘I should like to borrow some money against my farm in Hampshire,’ said Lord Brigsley.

Philip Izard, the manager, knew Lord Brigsley well and was also acquainted with his father. Although he had respect for the earl’s judgment, he did not have a great deal of time for the young lord. Nevertheless, it was not for him to query a customer’s request, especially when the customer’s family was one of the longest-standing in the bank’s history.

‘Yes, my lord, what sum do you have in mind?’

‘Well, it seems that farmland in Hampshire is worth about £1,000 an acre and is still climbing. Why don’t we say £150,000? I should then like to invest the money in shares.’

‘Will you agree to leave the deeds with the bank as security?’ inquired Izard.

‘Yes, of course. What difference does it make to me where they are?’

‘Then I am sure we will find it acceptable to advance you a loan of £150,000 at 2 per cent above base rate.’

James was not at all sure what base rate was, but he knew that Williams & Glyn’s were as competitive as everyone else in such matters and that their reputation was beyond dispute.

‘Thank you,’ said James. ‘Please acquire for me 35,000 shares in a company called Prospecta Oil.’

‘Have you checked carefully into this company, my lord?’ inquired Izard.

‘Yes, of course I have,’ said Lord Brigsley, very sharply. He was not in awe of the bank-managerial class.

In Boston, Harvey Metcalfe was briefed over the telephone by Silverman of the meeting in Annabel’s between David Kesler and a nameless peer who seemed to have more money than sense. Harvey released 40,000 shares onto the market at £4.80. Williams & Glyn’s acquired 35,000 of them and, once again, the remainder was taken up by small investors. The shares rose a little. Harvey Metcalfe was now left with only 30,000 shares of his own, and over the next four days he was able to dispose of them all. It had taken him fourteen weeks to off-load his entire stock in Prospecta Oil at a profit of just over $6 million.

On Friday morning, the shares stood at £4.90 and Kesler had, in all innocence, occasioned four large investments: Harvey Metcalfe studied them in detail before putting through a call to Jörg Birrer.

Stephen Bradley had bought 40,000 shares at $6.10

Dr Robin Oakley had bought 35,000 shares at $7.23

Jean-Pierre Lamanns had bought 25,000 shares at $7.80

James Brigsley had bought 35,000 shares at $8.80

David Kesler himself had bought 500 shares at $7.25.

Among them they had purchased 135,500 shares at a cost of just over $1 million. They had also kept the price rising, giving Harvey the chance to off-load all his own stock onto a natural market.

Harvey Metcalfe had done it again. His name was not on the letterhead and now he possessed no shares. Nobody would be able to place any blame on him. He had done nothing illegal; even the geologist’s report contained enough ifs and buts to pass in a court of law. As for David Kesler, Harvey could not be blamed for his youthful overenthusiasm. He had never even met the man. Harvey Metcalfe opened a bottle of Krug Privée Cuvée 1964, imported from Hedges and Butler of London. He sipped it slowly, then lit a Romeo y Julieta Churchill, and settled back for a mild celebration.

David, Stephen, Robin, Jean-Pierre and James celebrated at the weekend as well. Why not? Their shares were at £4.90 and David had assured them all that they would reach £10. On Saturday morning David ordered his first bespoke suit from Aquascutum, Stephen tut-tutted his way through the end-of-vacation examination papers he had set his freshmen students, Robin attended his sons’ prep school Sports Day, Jean-Pierre re-framed a Renoir, and James Brigsley went shooting, convinced that at last he had one in the eye for his father.