Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

4

Stephen Bradley was delivering a lecture on group theory at the Mathematics Institute in Oxford to a class of third-year undergraduates the morning David left. Over breakfast he had read with horror in the Daily Telegraph of the collapse of Prospecta Oil. He had immediately rung his broker, who was still trying to find out the full facts for him. He then phoned David Kesler, who seemed to have vanished without trace.

The lecture Stephen was delivering was not going well. He was preoccupied, to say the least. He could only hope that the undergraduates would misconstrue his absentmindedness as brilliance, rather than recognize it for what it was — total despair. He was at least thankful that it was his final lecture of the Hilary term.

Stephen looked at the clock at the back of the lecture theater every few minutes, until at last it pointed to the hour and he was able to return to his rooms in Magdalen College. He sat in his old leather chair wondering where to start. Why the hell had he put everything into one basket? How could he, normally so logical, so calculating, have been so recklessly stupid and greedy? He had trusted David, and still found it hard to believe that his friend was in any way involved with the collapse. Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken for granted that someone he had befriended at Harvard must automatically be right. There had to be a simple explanation. Surely he must be able to get all his money back. The telephone rang. Perhaps it was his broker with more concrete news.

As he picked up the phone, he realized for the first time that the palms of his hands were slippery with sweat.

‘Stephen Bradley.’

‘Good morning, sir. I am sorry to bother you. My name is Detective Inspector Clifford Smith of the Fraud Squad, Scotland Yard. I was wondering if you would be kind enough to see me this afternoon?’

Stephen hesitated, thinking wildly for a minute that he might have done something criminal by investigating in Prospecta Oil.

‘Certainly, Inspector,’ he replied uncertainly, ‘would you like me to travel to London?’

‘No, sir,’ replied the Inspector, ‘we’ll come to you. We can be in Oxford by 4 pm, if that’s convenient.’

‘I’ll expect you then. Good-bye, Inspector.’

Stephen replaced the receiver. What could they want? He knew little of English law and hoped he was not going to be involved with the police as well. All this just six months before he was due to return to Harvard as a professor. Stephen was even beginning to wonder if that would materialize.

The Detective Inspector was about 5 ft 11 in in height, and somewhere between forty-five and fifty. His hair was turning gray at the sides, but brilliantine toned it in with the original black. His shabby suit, Stephen suspected, was more indicative of a policeman’s pay than of the Inspector’s personal taste. His heavy frame would have fooled most people into thinking he was rather slow. In fact, Stephen was in the presence of one of the few men in England who fully understood the criminal mind. Time and time again he had been the man behind the arrest of international defrauders. He had a tired look that came from years of putting men behind bars for major crimes, only to see them freed again shortly after and living comfortably off the spoils of their shady transactions. In his opinion, crime did pay. The department was so understaffed that some of the smaller fry even got away scot-free; often the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions would decide it would be too expensive to follow the case through to a proper conclusion. On other occasions, the Fraud Squad simply did not have the back-up staff to finish the job properly.

The Detective Inspector was accompanied by Detective Sergeant Ryder, a considerably younger man — 6 ft 1 in, thin in body and face. His large brown eyes had a more innocent look against his sallow skin. He was at least a little better dressed than the Inspector, but then, thought Stephen, he probably wasn’t married.

‘I’m sorry about this intrusion, sir,’ began the Inspector, after he had settled himself comfortably in the large armchair usually occupied by Stephen, ‘but I’m making inquiries into a company called Prospecta Oil. Now before you say anything, sir, we realize that you had no personal involvement in the running of this company or indeed its subsequent collapse. But we do need your help, and I would prefer to ask you a series of questions which will bring out the points I need answered, rather than have you just give me a general assessment. I must tell you, sir, you don’t have to answer any of my questions if you don’t want to.’

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 am only one name was on his lips: Harvey Metcalfe.