Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

10

Harvey rose at 7.30 am, a habit he could not break, but he did allow himself the holiday luxury of breakfast in bed. Ten minutes after he had called room service, the waiter arrived with a trolley laden with half a grapefruit, bacon and eggs, toast, steaming black coffee, a copy of the previous day’s Wall Street Journal, and the morning edition of The Times, Financial Times and International Herald Tribune.

Harvey was not sure how he would have survived on a European trip without the International Herald Tribune, known in the trade as the ‘Trib.’ This unique paper, published in Paris, is jointly owned by the New York Times and the Washington Post. Although only one edition of 120,000 copies is printed, it does not go to press until the New York Stock Exchange is closed. Therefore, no American need wake up in Europe out of touch. When the New York Herald Tribune folded in 1966, Harvey had been among those who advised John H. Whitney to keep the International Herald Tribune going in Europe. Once again, Harvey’s judgment had been proved sound. The International Herald Tribune went on to absorb its faltering rival, the New York Times, which had never been a success in Europe. From then on the paper went from strength to strength.

Harvey ran an experienced eye down the Stock Exchange lists in the Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times. His bank now held very few shares as he, like Jim Slater in England, had suspected that the Dow-Jones Index would collapse and had therefore gone almost entirely liquid, holding only some South African gold shares and a few well-chosen stocks about which he had inside information. The only monetary transaction he cared to undertake with the market so shaky was to sell the dollar short and buy gold, so that he caught the dollar on the way down and gold on the way up. There were already rumors in Washington that the President of the United States had been advised by his Secretary of the Treasury, George Schultz, to allow the American people to buy gold on the open market later that year or early the following year. Harvey had been buying gold for the past fifteen years: all the President was going to do was to stop him from breaking the law. Harvey was of the opinion that the moment the Americans were able to buy gold, the bubble would burst and the price of gold would recede — the real money would be made while the speculators anticipated the rise, and Harvey intended to be out of gold well before it came onto the American market. Once the President made it legal, Harvey couldn’t see a profit in it.

Harvey checked the commodity market in Chicago. He had made a killing in copper a year before. Inside information from an African ambassador had made this possible — information the ambassador had imparted to too many people. Harvey had not been surprised to read that he had later been recalled to his homeland and shot.

He could never resist checking the price of Prospecta Oil, now at an all-time low of $1/8: there could be no trading in the stock, simply because there would only be sellers and no buyers. The shares were virtually worthless. He smiled sardonically and turned to the sports page of The Times.

Rex Bellamy’s article on the forthcoming Wimbledon Championships tipped John Newcombe as favorite and Jimmy Connors, the new American star who had just won the Italian Open, as the best outside bet. The British press wanted the 39-year-old Ken Rosewall to win. Harvey could well remember the epic final between Rosewall and Drobny in 1954, which had run to 58 games. Like most of the crowd, he had supported the 33-year-old Drobny, who had finally won after three hours of play, 13–11, 4–6, 6–2, 9–7. This time, Harvey wanted history to repeat itself and Rosewall to win, though he felt the popular Australian’s chance had slipped by during the ten years when the professionals were barred from. Wimbledon. Still, he saw no reason why the fortnight should not be a pleasant break, and perhaps there might be an American victor even if Rosewall couldn’t manage it.

Harvey had time for a quick glance at the art reviews before finishing his breakfast, leaving the papers strewn over the floor. The quiet Regency furniture, the elegant service and the Royal Suite did nothing for. Harvey’s habits. He padded into the bathroom for a shave and shower. Arlene told him that most people did it the other way around — showered and then ate breakfast. But, as Harvey pointed out to her, most people did things the other way around from him, and look where it got them.

Harvey habitually spent the first morning of Wimbledon fortnight visiting the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy in Piccadilly. He would then follow this with visits to most of the West End’s major galleries — Agnew’s, Tooths, the Marlborough, Wildenstein — all within easy walking distance of Claridge’s. This morning would be no exception. If Harvey was anything, he was a creature of habit, which was something the Team were quickly learning.

After he had dressed and bawled out room service for not leaving enough whiskey in his cabinet, he headed down the staircase, emerged through the swing door onto Davies Street and strode off toward Berkeley Square. Harvey did not observe a studious young man with a two-way radio on the other side of the road.

‘He’s left the hotel by the Davies Street entrance,’ said Stephen quietly to his little Pye Pocketfone, ‘and he’s heading toward you, James.’

‘I’ll pick him up as he comes into Berkeley Square, Stephen. Robin, can you hear me?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll let you know as soon as I spot him. You stay put at the Royal Academy.’

‘Right you are,’ said Robin.

Harvey strolled around Berkeley Square, down into Piccadilly and through the Palladian arches of Burlington House. With a bad grace, he stood and queued with the assorted humanity in the forecourt, shuffling past the Astronomical Society and the Society of Antiquaries. He did not see another young man opposite standing in the entrance of the Chemical Society, deep in a copy of Chemistry in Britain. Finally, Harvey made it up the red-carpeted ramp into the Royal Academy itself. He handed the cashier £5.00 for a season ticket, realizing that he would probably want to return at least three or four times. He spent the rest of the morning studying the 1,182 pictures, none of which had been exhibited anywhere else in the world before the opening day, in accordance with the stringent rules of the Academy. Despite that ruling, the Hanging Committee had still had over 5,000 pictures to choose from.

On the opening day of the exhibition the month before, Harvey had acquired, through his agent, a watercolor by Alfred Daniels of the House of Commons for £350 and two oils by Bernard Dunstan of English provincial scenes for £125 each. The Summer Exhibition was still, in Harvey’s estimation, the best value in the world. Even if he did not want to keep all the pictures himself, they made wonderful presents when he returned to the States. The Daniels reminded him of a Lowry he had bought some twenty years before at the Academy for £80: that had turned out to be another shrewd investment.

Harvey made a special point of looking at the Bernard Dunstans in the Exhibition. Of course, they were all sold. Dunstan was one of the artists whose pictures always sold in the first minutes of the opening day. Although Harvey had not been in London on that day, he had had no difficulty in buying what he wanted. He had planted a man at the front of the queue, who had obtained a catalog and marked those artists he knew Harvey could resell easily if he made a mistake and keep if his judgment were right. When the Exhibition opened on the dot of 10 am, the agent had gone straight to the purchasing desk and acquired the five or six pictures he had marked in the catalog before he or anyone other than the Academicians had seen them. Harvey studied his vicarious purchases with care. On this occasion he was happy to keep them all. If there had been one that did not quite fit in with his collection, he would have returned the picture for resale, undertaking to purchase it if nobody else showed any interest. In twenty years he had acquired over a hundred pictures by this method and returned a mere dozen, never once failing to secure a resale. Harvey had a system for everything.

At 1 pm, after a thoroughly satisfactory morning, he left the Royal Academy. The white Rolls Royce was waiting for him in the forecourt.

‘Wimbledon.’

‘Shit.’

‘What did you say?’ queried Stephen.

‘S.H.I.T. He’s gone to Wimbledon, so today’s down the drain,’ said Robin.

That meant Harvey would not return to Claridge’s until at least seven or eight that evening. A rota had been fixed for watching him, and Robin accordingly picked up his Rover 3500 V8 from a parking meter in St James’s Square and headed off to Wimbledon. James had obtained two tickets for every day of the Championships opposite Harvey Metcalfe’s debenture box.

Robin arrived at Wimbledon a few minutes after Harvey and took his seat in the Centre Court, far enough back in the sea of faces to remain inconspicuous. The atmosphere was already building up for the opening match. Wimbledon seemed to be getting more popular every year and the Centre Court was packed to capacity. Princess Alexandra and the Prime Minister were in the Royal Box awaiting the entrance of the gladiators. The little green scoreboards at the southern end of the court were flashing up the names of Kodeš and Stewart as the umpire took his seat on the high chair in the middle of the court directly overlooking the net. The crowd began to applaud as the two athletes, both dressed in white, entered the court carrying four rackets each. Wimbledon does not allow its competitors to dress in any color other than white, although they had relaxed a little by permitting the trimming of the ladies’ dresses to be colored.

Robin enjoyed the opening match between Kodeš and an unseeded player from the United States, who gave the champion a hard time before losing to the Czech 6–3, 6–4, 9–7. Robin was sorry when Harvey decided to leave in the middle of an exciting doubles match. Back to duty, he told himself, and followed the white Rolls at a safe distance to Claridge’s. On arriving, he telephoned James’s flat, which was being used as the Team’s headquarters in London, and briefed Stephen.

‘May as well call it a day,’ said Stephen. ‘We’ll try again tomorrow. Poor old Jean-Pierre’s heartbeat reached 150 this morning. He may not last many days of false alarms.’

When Harvey left Claridge’s the following morning he went through Berkeley Square into Bruton Street and then on into Bond Street, stopping only 50 yards from Jean-Pierre’s gallery. But he turned east instead of west and slipped into Agnew’s, where he had an appointment with Sir Geoffrey Agnew, the head of the family firm, for news of Impressionist pictures on the market. Sir Geoffrey was anxious to get away to another meeting and could only spend a few minutes with Harvey. He had nothing worthwhile to offer him.

Harvey left Agnew’s soon afterward clutching a small consolation prize of a maquette by Rodin, a mere bagatelle at £800.

‘He’s coming out,’ said Robin, ‘and heading in the right direction.’ Jean-Pierre held his breath, but Harvey stopped once again, this time at the Marlborough Gallery to study their latest exhibition of Barbara Hepworth. He spent over an hour appreciating her beautiful work, but decided the prices were now outrageous. He had bought two Hepworths only ten years before for £800. The Marlborough was now asking between £7,000 and £10,000 for her work. So he left and continued up Bond Street.

‘Jean-Pierre?’

‘Yes,’ replied a nervous voice.

‘He’s reached the corner of Conduit Street and he’s about 50 yards away from your front door.’

Jean-Pierre prepared his window, removing the Graham Sutherland watercolor of the Thames and the Boatman.

‘He’s turned left, the bastard,’ said James, who was stationed opposite the gallery. ‘He’s walking down Bruton Street on the right-hand side.’

Jean-Pierre put the Sutherland back on the easel in the window and retired to the lavatory, muttering to himself:

‘I can’t cope with two shits at once.’

Harvey meanwhile stepped into an inconspicuous entrance on Bruton Street and climbed the stairs to Tooths, more hopeful of finding something in a gallery which had become famous for its Impressionists. A Klee, a Picasso and two Salvador Dalis — not what Harvey was looking for. Though very well executed, the Klee was not as good as the one in his dining room in Lincoln, Massachusetts. Besides, it might not fit in with any of Arlene’s decorative schemes. Nicholas Tooth, the managing director, promised to keep his eyes open and ring Harvey at Claridge’s should anything of interest turn up.

‘He’s on the move again, but I think he’s heading back to Claridge’s.’

James willed him to turn around and return in the direction of Jean-Pierre’s gallery, but Harvey strode purposefully toward Berkeley Square, only making a detour to the O’Hana Gallery. Albert, the head doorman, had told him there was a Renoir in the window, and indeed there was. But it was only a half-finished canvas which Renoir had obviously used for a practice run or had disliked enough to leave unfinished. Harvey was curious as to the price and entered the gallery.

‘£30,000,’ said the assistant, as if it was $10 and a snip at that.

Harvey whistled through the gap between his front teeth. It never ceased to amaze him that an inferior picture by a first-rank name could fetch £30,000 and an outstanding picture by an artist with no established reputation could only bring a few hundred dollars. He thanked the assistant and left.

‘A pleasure, Mr Metcalfe.’

Harvey was always flattered by people who remembered his name. But hell, they ought to remember — he had purchased a Monet from them last year for £62,000.

‘He’s definitely on his way back to the hotel,’ said James.

Harvey spent only a few minutes in Claridge’s, picking up one of their famous specially prepared luncheon hampers of caviar, beef, ham and cheese sandwiches and chocolate cake for later consumption at Wimbledon.

James was next on the rota for the Championships and decided to take Anne with him. Why not — she knew the truth. It was Ladies’ Day and the turn of Billie Jean King, the vivacious American champion, to take the court. She was up against the unseeded American, Kathy May, who looked as if she was in for a rough time. The applause Billie Jean received was unworthy of her abilities, but for some reason she had never become a Wimbledon favorite. Harvey was accompanied by a guest who James thought had a faintly mid-European look.

‘Which one is your victim?’ asked Anne.

‘He’s almost exactly opposite us talking to the man in a light gray suit who looks like a government official from the EEC.’

‘The short fat one?’ asked Anne.

‘Yes,’ said James.

Whatever comments Anne made were interrupted by the umpire’s call of ‘Play’ and everyone’s attention focused on Billie Jean. It was exactly 2 pm.

‘Kind of you to invite me to Wimbledon, Harvey,’ said Jörg Birrer. ‘I never seem to get the chance for much relaxation nowadays. You can’t leave the market for more than a few hours without some panic breaking out somewhere in the world.’

‘If you feel that way it’s time for you to retire,’ said Harvey.

‘No one to take my place,’ said Birrer. ‘I’ve been chairman of the bank for ten years now and finding a successor is turning out to be my hardest task.’

‘First game to Mrs King. Mrs King leads by one game to love in the first set.’

‘Now, Harvey, I know you too well to expect this invitation to have been just for pleasure.’

‘What an evil mind you have, Jörg.’

‘In my profession I need it.’

‘I just wanted to check how my three accounts stand and brief you on my plans for the next few months.’

‘Game to Mrs King. Mrs King leads by two games to love in the first set.’

‘Your No. 1 official account is a few thousand dollars in credit. Your numbered commodity account’ — at this point Birrer unfolded a small piece of unidentifiable paper with a set of neat figures printed on it — ‘is short by $3,726,000, but you are holding 37,000 ounces of gold at today’s selling price of $135 an ounce.’

‘What’s your advice on that?’

‘Hold on, Harvey. I still think your President is either going to announce a new gold standard or allow your fellow countrymen to buy gold on the open market some time next year.’

‘That’s my view too, but I’m still convinced we want to sell a few weeks before the masses come in. I have a theory about that.’

‘I expect you’re right, as usual, Harvey.’

‘Game to Mrs King. Mrs King leads by three games to love in the first set.’

‘What are your charges on my overdraft?’

‘1½ per cent above interbank rate, which at present is 13.25, and therefore we’re charging you 14.75 per cent per annum, while gold is rising in price at nearly 70 per cent per annum. It can’t go on that way; but there are still a few months left in it.’

‘O.K.,’ said Harvey, ‘hold on until November 1st and we’ll review the position again then. Coded telex as usual. I don’t know what the world would do without the Swiss.’

‘Just take care, Harvey. Do you know there are more specialists in our police force on fraud than there are for homicide?’

‘You worry about your end, Jörg, and I’ll worry about mine. The day I get uptight about a few underpaid bureaucrats from Zürich who haven’t got any balls, I’ll let you know. Now, enjoy your lunch and watch the game. We’ll have a talk about the other account later.’

‘Game to Mrs King. Mrs King leads by four games to love in the first set.’

‘They’re very deep in conversation,’ said Anne. ‘I can’t believe they’re enjoying the match.’

‘He’s probably trying to buy Wimbledon at cost price,’ laughed James. ‘The trouble with seeing the man every day is that one begins to have a certain respect for him. He’s the most organized man I’ve ever come across. If he’s like this on holiday, what the hell is he like at work?’

‘I can’t imagine,’ said Anne.

‘Game to Miss May. Mrs King leads by four games to one in the first set.’

‘No wonder he’s so overweight. Just look at him stuffing that cake down.’ James lifted his Zeiss binoculars. ‘Which reminds me to ask, darling, what have you brought for lunch?’

Anne dug into her hamper and unpacked a crisp salad in French bread for James. She contented herself with nibbling a stick of celery.

‘Getting far too fat,’ she explained. ‘I’ll never get into those winter clothes I’m supposed to be modeling next week.’ She touched James’s knee and smiled. ‘It must be because I’m so happy.’

‘Well, don’t get too happy. I prefer you thin.’

‘Game to Mrs King. Mrs King leads by five games to one in the first set.’

‘This is going to be a walkover,’ said James. ‘It so often is in the opening match. People only come to see if the champion’s in good form, and I think she’ll be very hard to beat this year now she’s after Helen Moody’s record of eight Wimbledon championships.’

‘Game and first set to Mrs King by six games to one. Mrs King leads one set to love. New balls, please. Miss May to serve.’

‘Do we have to watch him all day?’ asked Anne.

‘No, we must make sure he returns to the hotel and doesn’t change his plans suddenly or anything silly like that. If we miss our chance when he walks past Jean-Pierre’s gallery, we may not get another one.’

‘What do you do if he does decide to change his plans?’

‘God knows, or to be more accurate, Stephen knows — he’s the mastermind.’

‘Game to Mrs King. Mrs King leads by one game to love in the second set.’

‘Poor Miss May, she’s about as successful as you are, James. How is the Jean-Pierre operation looking?’

‘Awful. Metcalfe hasn’t been anywhere near the gallery. He was within 30 yards of the window today and marched off in the opposite direction. Poor Jean-Pierre nearly had heart failure. But we’re more hopeful of tomorrow. So far he seems to have covered Piccadilly and the top end of Bond Street, and the one thing we can be sure of with Harvey Metcalfe is that he’s thorough. So he’s almost bound to cover our bit of territory at one time or another.’

‘You should all have taken out life insurance for $1 million, naming the other three as beneficiaries,’ said Anne, ‘and then if one of you had a heart attack, the others would all get their money back.’

‘It’s no laughing matter, Anne. It’s bloody nerveracking while you’re hanging around, especially when you have to wait for him to make all the moves.’

‘Game to Mrs King. Mrs King leads by two games to love in the second set and by one set to love.’

‘How about your own plan?’

‘Nothing. Useless. And now we’ve started on the others I seem to have less time to concentrate on my own.’

‘Why don’t I seduce him?’

‘Not a bad idea, but you’d have to be pretty special to get £100,000 out of him, when he can hang around outside the Hilton or in Shepherd Market and get it for £30. If there’s one thing we’ve learned about that gentleman it’s that he expects value for money. At £30 a night it would take you just under fifteen years to repay my share, and I’m not sure the other three would be willing to wait that long. In fact, I’m not sure they’ll wait another fifteen days.’

‘We’ll think of something, don’t worry,’ said Anne.

‘Game to Miss May. Mrs King leads by two games to one and by one set to love.’

‘Well, well. Miss May has managed another game. Excellent lunch, Harvey.’

‘A Claridge’s special,’ said Harvey, ‘so much better than getting caught up with the crowds in the restaurant where you can’t even watch the tennis.’

‘Billie Jean is making mincemeat of the poor girl.’

‘No more than I expected,’ said Harvey. ‘Now, Jörg, to my second numbered account.’

Once again the unidentifiable piece of paper that bore a few numbers appeared. It is this discretion of the Swiss that leads half the world, from heads of state to Arab sheiks, to trust them with their money. In return the Swiss maintain one of the healthiest economies in the world. The system works, so why go elsewhere? Birrer spent a few seconds studying the figures.

‘On April 1st — only you could have chosen that day, Harvey — you transferred $7,486,000 to your No. 2 account, which was already in credit $2,791,428. On April 2nd, on your instructions, we placed $1 million in the Banco do Minas Gerais in the names of Mr Silverman and Mr Elliott. We covered the bill with Reading & Bates for the hire of the rig for $420,000 and several other bills amounting to $104,112, leaving your present No. 2 account standing at $8,753,316.’

‘Game to Mrs King. Mrs King leads three games to one in the second set and by one set to love.’

‘Very good,’ said Harvey.

‘The tennis or the money?’ said Birrer.

‘Both. Now, Jörg, I anticipate needing about $2 million over the next six weeks. I want to purchase one or two pictures in London. I have seen a Klee that I quite like and there are still a few galleries I want to visit. If I’d known the Prospecta Oil venture was going to be such a success, I’d have outbid Armand Hammer at the Sotheby-Parke Bernet for that Van Gogh last year. I shall also need some ready cash for some new horses at the Ascot Blood Stock Auctions. My stud’s running down and it’s still one of my greatest ambitions to win the King George and Elizabeth Stakes.’ (James would have winced if he could have heard Harvey describe the race so inaccurately.) ‘My best result so far, as you know, was third place, and that’s not good enough. This year I’ve entered Rosalie, my best filly for years. If I lose I’ll have to build up the stud again, but I’m damn well going to win this year.’

‘Game to Mrs King. Mrs King leads four games to one and by one set to love.’

‘So is Mrs King, it seems,’ said Birrer. ‘I’ll brief my senior cashier that you’re likely to be drawing large amounts over the next few weeks.’

‘Now I don’t wish the remainder to lie idle, so I want you to purchase more gold carefully over the next few months, with a view to off-loading it in the New Year. If the market does take a downward turn, I’ll phone you in Zürich. At the close of business each day you are to loan the outstanding balance on an overnight basis to first-class banks and triple “A” commercial names.’

‘What are you going to do with it all, Harvey, if those cigars don’t get you first?’

‘Oh, lay off, Jörg. You sound like my doctor. I’ve told you a hundred times, next year I retire, I quit, finito.’

‘I can’t see you dropping out of the rat race voluntarily, Harvey. It pains me to think how much you’re worth now.’

Harvey laughed.

‘I can’t tell you that, Jörg. It’s like Aristotle Onassis said — if you can count it, you haven’t got any.’

‘Game to Mrs King. Mrs King leads by five games to one and by one set to love.’

‘How’s Rosalie? We still have your instructions to pass the accounts on to her in Boston if anything should happen to you.’

‘She’s well. Phoned me this morning to tell me she won’t be able to join me at Wimbledon because she’s tied up with her work. I expect she’ll end up marrying some rich American and won’t need it. Enough of them have asked her. Can’t be easy for her to decide if they like her or my money. I’m afraid we had a row about that a couple of years back and she still hasn’t forgiven me.’

‘Game, set and match to Mrs King: 6–1, 6–1.’

Harvey, Jörg, James and Anne joined in the applause while the two women left the court, curtsying in front of the Royal Box to the President of the All England Club, His Royal Highness The Duke of Kent. Harvey and Jörg Birrer stayed for the next match, a doubles, and then returned to Claridge’s together for dinner.

James and Anne had enjoyed their afternoon at Wimbledon and when they had seen Harvey safely back to Claridge’s, accompanied by his mid-European friend, they returned to James’s flat.

‘Stephen, I’m back. Metcalfe is settled in for the night. On parade at 8.30 tomorrow morning.’

‘Well done, James. Maybe he’ll bite then.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

The sound of running water led James to the kitchen in search of Anne. She was elbow-deep in suds, attacking a soufflé dish with a scourer. She turned and brandished it at him.

‘Darling, I don’t want to be offensive about your daily, but this is the only kitchen I’ve ever been in where you have to do the washing up before you make the dinner.’

‘I know. She only ever cleans the clean bits of the flat. Her work load’s getting lighter by the week.’

He sat on the kitchen table, admiring her slim body.

‘Will you scrub my back like that if I go and have a bath before dinner?’

‘Yes, with a scourer.’

The water was deep and comfortably hot. James lay back in it luxuriously, letting Anne wash him. Then he stepped dripping out of the bath.

‘You’re a bit overdressed for a bathroom attendant, darling,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we do something about it?’

Anne slipped out of her clothes while James dried himself. When he went into the bedroom, Anne was already huddled under the sheets.

‘I’m cold,’ she said.

‘Fear not,’ said James. ‘You’re about to be presented with your very own six-foot hot water bottle.’

She took him in her arms.

‘Liar, you’re freezing.’

‘And you’re lovely,’ said James, trying to hold on to every part of her at once.

‘How’s your plan going, James?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ll tell you in about twenty minutes.’

She didn’t speak again for nearly half an hour, when she said:

‘Out you get. The baked cheese will be ready by now and in any case I want to remake the bed.’

‘No need to bother about that, you silly woman.’

‘Yes, there is. Last night I didn’t sleep at all. You pulled all the blankets over to your side and I just watched you huddled up like a self-satisfied cat while I froze to death. Making love to you isn’t at all what Harold Robbins promised it would be.’

‘When you’ve finished chattering, woman, set the alarm for 7 am.’

‘7 am? You don’t have to be at Claridge’s until 8.30.’

‘I know, but I want to go to work on an egg.’

‘James, you really must give up your undergraduate sense of humor.’

‘Oh, I thought it was rather funny.’

‘Yes, darling. Why don’t you get dressed before the dinner is burned to a cinder?’

James arrived at Claridge’s at 8.29 am Whatever his own inadequacies, he was determined not to fail the others in their plans. He tuned in to check that Stephen was in Berkeley Square and Robin in Bond Street.

‘Morning,’ said Stephen. ‘Had a good night?’

‘Bloody good,’ said James.

‘Sleep well, did you?’ asked Stephen.

‘Hardly a wink.’

‘Stop making us jealous,’ said Robin, ‘and concentrate on Harvey Metcalfe.’

James stood in the doorway of Slater’s, the furriers watching the early morning cleaners leave for home and the first of the office staff arriving.

Harvey Metcalfe was going through his normal routine of breakfast and the papers. Just before he had gone to bed he had a telephone call from his wife it Boston and another from his daughter during breakfast the next morning, which started his day well. He decided to continue his pursuit of an Impressionist picture in some of the other galleries in Cork Street and Bond Street. Perhaps Sotheby’s would be able to help him.

He left the hotel at 9.47 am at his usual brisk pace ‘Action stations.’

Stephen and Robin snapped out of their daydreaming.

‘He’s just entered Bruton Street. Now he’s heading for Bond Street.’

Harvey walked briskly down Bond Street, past the territory he had already covered.

‘Only 50 yards off now, Jean-Pierre,’ said James. ‘40 yards, 30 yards, 20 yards... Oh no, damn it, he’s gone into Sotheby’s. There’s only a sale of medieval painted panels on there today. Hell, I didn’t know he was interested in them.’

He glanced up the road at Stephen, padded out and aged to the condition of a wealthy, middle-aged businessman for the third day in a row. The cut of the collar and the rimless glasses proclaimed him as West German. Stephen’s voice came over the speaker:

‘I am going into Jean-Pierre’s gallery. James, you stay north of Sotheby’s on the far side of the street and report in every fifteen minutes. Robin, you go inside and dangle the bait under Harvey’s nose.’

‘But that’s not in the plan, Stephen,’ stammered Robin.

‘Use your initiative and get on with it otherwise all you’ll be doing is taking care of Jean-Pierre’s heart condition and receiving no fees. Right?’

‘Right,’ said Robin nervously.

Robin walked into Sotheby’s and made a surreptitious beeline for the nearest mirror. Yes, he was still unrecognizable. Upstairs, he spotted Harvey near the back of the sale room, and planted himself on a nearby seat in the row behind him.

The sale of medieval painted panels was well under way. Harvey knew he ought to like them, but could not bring himself to condone the Gothic partiality for jewelry and bright, gilded colors. Behind him, Robin hesitated but then struck up a quiet-voiced conversation with his neighbor.

‘Looks all very fine to me, but I’ve no knowledge of the period. I’m so much happier with the modern era. Still, I must think of something appropriate to say for my readers.’

Robin’s neighbor smiled politely.

‘Do you have to cover all the auctions?’

‘Almost all — especially when there may be surprises. In any case, at Sotheby’s you can always find out what’s going on everywhere else. Only this morning one of the assistants gave me a tip that the Lamanns Gallery may have something special in the Impressionist field.’

Robin beamed the whispered information carefully at Harvey’s right ear and then sat back and waited to see if it had created any effect. Shortly afterward, he was rewarded by the sight of Harvey squeezing out of his row to leave. Robin waited for three more lots to be auctioned, then followed him, fingers crossed.

Outside, James had been keeping a patient vigil.

‘10.30 — no sign of him.’

‘Roger.’

‘10.45 — still no sign of him.’

‘Roger.’

‘11.00 — he’s still inside.’

‘Roger.’

‘11.12 action stations, action stations.’

James slipped quickly into the Lamanns Gallery as Jean-Pierre once again removed from his window the Sutherland watercolor of the Thames and the Boatman, and replaced it with an oil by Van Gogh, as magnificent an example of the master’s work as a London gallery had ever seen. Now came the acid test: the litmus paper was walking purposefully down Bond Street toward it.

The picture had been painted by David Stein, who had achieved notoriety in the art world for faking 300 paintings and drawings by well-known Impressionists, for which he had received a total of $864,000 and, later, four years. He was only exposed when he put on a Chagall exhibition at the Niveaie Gallery on Madison Avenue in 1969. Unknown to Stein, Chagall himself was in New York at the time for an exhibition at the museum in Lincoln Center where two of his most famous works were on display. On being informed of the Niveaie exhibition, Chagall furiously reported the pictures to the District Attorney’s office as fakes. Stein had already sold one of the imitation Chagalls to Louis D. Cohen at a price of nearly $100,000, and to this day there is a Stein Chagall and a Stein Picasso at the Galleria d’Arte Moderna in Milan. Jean-Pierre was confident that what Stein had achieved in the past in New York and Milan he could now repeat in London.

Stein had continued to paint Impressionist pictures, but now signed them with his own name; thanks to his indubitable talent he was still making a handsome living. He had known and admired Jean-Pierre for several years and when he heard the story of Metcalfe and Prospecta Oil, he agreed to produce a Van Gogh for $10,000 and to sign the painting with the master’s famous ‘Vincent.’

Jean-Pierre had gone to considerable lengths to identify a Van Gogh that had vanished in mysterious circumstances, so that Stein could resurrect it to tempt Harvey. He had started with de la Faille’s comprehensive oeuvres catalog, The Works of Vincent Van Gogb, and selected from it three pictures that had hung in the National Gallery in Berlin prior to the Second World War. In de la Faille, they were entered under Nos. 485, Les Amoureux (The Lovers), 628, La Moisson (The Harvest), and 766, Le Jardin de Daubigny (The Garden of Daubigny). The last two were known to have been bought in 1929 by the Berlin Gallery, and Les Amoureux probably was bought around the same time. At the start of the war, all three had disappeared.

Jean-Pierre then contacted Professor Wormit of the Preussischer Kulturbesitz. The Professor, a world authority on missing works of art, was able to rule out one of the possibilities, Le Jardin de Daubigny; soon after the war it apparently had reappeared in the collection of Siegfried Kramarsky in New York, though how it got there remains a mystery. Kramarsky had subsequently sold the painting to the Nichido Gallery in Tokyo, where it now hangs. The Professor confirmed that the fate of the other two Van Goghs remained unknown.

Next Jean-Pierre turned to Madame Tellegen-Hoogendoorm of the Dutch Rijksbureau voor Kunsthistorische Documentatie. Madame Tellegen was the acknowledged authority on Van Gogh and gradually, with her expert help, Jean-Pierre pieced together the story of the missing paintings. They had been removed, along with many others, from the Berlin National Gallery in 1937 by the Nazis, despite vigorous protests from the Director, Dr Hanfstaengl, and the Keeper of Paintings, Dr Hentzen. The paintings, stigmatized by the philistinism of the National Socialists as degenerate art, were stored in a depot in the Kopenickerstrasse in Berlin. Hitler himself visited the depot in January 1938, and legalized the proceedings as an official confiscation.

What happened to the two Van Goghs after that, nobody knows. Many of the Nazi-confiscated works were quietly sold abroad by Joseph Angerer, an agent of Hermann Goering, to obtain much-needed foreign currency for the Führer. Some were disposed of in a sale organized by the Fischer Art Gallery in Lucerne on June 30th, 1939. But many of the works in the depot in the Kopenickerstrasse were simply burned, stolen, or are still missing.

Jean-Pierre managed to obtain black-and-white reproductions of Les Amoureux and La Moisson: no color positives survive, if they were ever made. It seemed to Jean-Pierre unlikely that any color reproductions of two paintings last seen in 1938 would exist anywhere. He therefore settled down to choose between the two.

Les Amoureux was the larger of the two, at 76 × 91 cm However, Van Gogh did not seem to have been satisfied with it. In October 1889 (letter No. 556) he referred to ‘a very poor sketch of my last canvas.’ Moreover, it was impossible to guess the color of the background. La Moisson, in contrast, had pleased Van Gogh. He had painted the oil in September 1889 and written of it, ‘I feel very much inclined to do the reaper once more for my mother’ (letter No. 604). He had in fact already painted three other very similar pictures of a reaper at harvest time. Jean-Pierre was able to obtain color transparencies of two of them, one from the Louvre and the other from the Rijksmuseum, where they now hang. He studied the sequence. The position of the sun, and the play of light on the scene, were practically the only points of difference. Jean-Pierre was therefore able to see in his mind’s eye what La Moisson must have looked like in color.

Stein agreed with Jean-Pierre’s final choice and he studied the black-and-white reproduction of La Moisson and the color transparencies of its sister paintings long and minutely before he set to work. He then found an insignificant late-nineteenth-century French work, and skillfully removed the paint from it, leaving a clean canvas except for a vital stamp on the back which even Stein could not have reproduced. He marked on the canvas the exact size of the picture, 48.5 × 53 cm and selected a palette knife and brush of the type that Van Gogh had favored. Six weeks later La Moisson was finished. Stein varnished it, and baked it for four days in an oven at a gentle 85°F. to age it. Jean-Pierre provided a heavy gilt Impressionist frame and it was well ready for Harvey Metcalfe’s scrutiny.

Harvey, acting on his overheard tip, could see no harm in dropping into the Lamanns Gallery. He was about five paces away when he first caught sight of the picture being taken out of the window. He could not believe his eyes. A Van Gogh, without a doubt, and a superlative one at that. La Moisson had actually been on display for only two minutes.

Harvey almost ran into the gallery, only to discover Jean-Pierre deep in conversation with Stephen and James. None of them took any notice of him. Stephen was addressing Jean-Pierre in a guttural accent.

‘170,000 guineas seems high, but it is a fine example. Can you be sure it is the picture that disappeared from Berlin in 1937?’

‘You can never be sure of anything, but you can see on the back of the canvas the stamp of the Berlin National Gallery, and the Bernheim Jeune have confirmed they sold it to the Germans in 1927. The rest of its history is well chronicled back to 1890. It seems certain that it was looted from the museum in the upheaval of the war.’

‘How did you come into possession of the painting?’

‘From the private collection of a member of the British aristocracy who wishes to remain anonymous.’

‘Excellent,’ said Stephen. ‘I would like to reserve it until 4 pm when I will bring around a check for 170,000 guineas from the Dresdner Bank A.G. Will that be acceptable?’

‘Of course, sir,’ replied Jean-Pierre. ‘I will place a red dot on it.’

James, in the sharpest of suits and a dashing trilby, hovered knowledgeably behind Stephen.

‘It certainly is a marvelous example of the master’s work,’ he remarked ingratiatingly.

‘Yes. I took it around to Julian Barron at Sotheby’s and he seemed to like it.’

James retreated mincingly to the end of the gallery, relishing his role as a connoisseur. At that moment Robin walked in, a copy of the Guardian sticking out of his pocket.

‘Good morning, Mr Lamanns. I heard a rumor at Sotheby’s about a Van Gogh which I’d always thought must be in Russia. I’d like to write a few paragraphs about the history of the painting and how you came into possession of it for tomorrow’s paper. Is that O.K. by you?’

‘I should be delighted,’ said Jean-Pierre, ‘although actually I have just reserved the picture for Herr Drosser, the distinguished German dealer, at 170,000 guineas.’

‘Very reasonable,’ said James knowingly from the end of the gallery. ‘I think it’s the best Van Gogh I have seen in London since Mademoiselle Revoux and I’m only sorry my house won’t be auctioning it. You’re a lucky man, Mr Drosser. If you ever decide to sell it, don’t hesitate to contact me.’ James handed Stephen a card and smiled at Jean-Pierre.

Jean-Pierre watched James. It was a fine performance. Robin began to take notes in what he hoped looked like shorthand and again addressed Jean-Pierre.

‘Do you have a photograph of the picture?’

‘Of course.’

Jean-Pierre opened a drawer and took out a color photograph of the picture with a typewritten description attached. He handed it to Robin.

‘Do watch the spelling of Lamanns, won’t you? I get so bored with being confused with a French motor car race.’

He turned to Stephen.

‘So sorry to keep you waiting, Herr Drosser. How would you like us to dispatch the picture?’

‘You can send it to me at the Dorchester tomorrow morning, room 120.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

Stephen started to leave.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Robin, ‘can I take the spelling of your name?’

‘D.R.O.S.S.E.R.’

‘And may I have permission to quote you in my article?’

‘You may. I am with my purchase very pleased. Good day, gentlemen.’

Stephen bowed his head smartly, and departed. He stepped out into Bond Street and to the horror of Jean-Pierre, Robin and James, Harvey, without a moment’s hesitation also walked out.

Jean-Pierre collapsed heavily on his Georgian mahogany desk and looked despairingly at Robin and James.

‘God Almighty, the whole thing’s a fiasco. Six weeks of preparation, three days of agony, and then he walks out on us.’ Jean-Pierre looked at La Moisson angrily.

‘I thought Stephen assured us that Harvey would stay and bargain with Jean-Pierre. It’s in his character,’ mimicked James plaintively. ‘He’d never let the picture out of his sight.’

‘Who the hell thought up this bloody silly enterprise?’ muttered Robin.

‘Stephen,’ they all cried together, and rushed to the window.

‘What an interesting maquette by Henry Moore,’ said an impeccably corseted middle-aged lady, her hand firmly placed on the bronze loin of a naked acrobat. She had slipped unnoticed into the gallery while the three had been grumbling. ‘How much are you asking for it?’

‘I will be with you in a minute, madam,’ said Jean-Pierre. ‘Oh hell, I think Metcalfe’s following Stephen. Get him on the pocket radio, Robin.’

‘Stephen, can you hear me? Whatever you do, don’t look back. We think Harvey’s only a few yards behind you.’

‘What the hell do you mean he’s only a few yards behind me? He’s meant to be in the gallery with you buying the Van Gogh. What are you all playing at?’

‘Harvey didn’t give us a chance. He walked straight out after you before any of us could continue as planned.’

‘Very clever. Now what am I meant to do?’

Jean-Pierre took over:

‘You’d better go to the Dorchester just in case he is actually following you.’

‘I don’t even know where the Dorchester is,’ yelped Stephen.

Robin came to his rescue:

‘Take the first right, Stephen, and that’ll bring you into Bruton Street; keep walking as straight as you can until you reach Berkeley Square. Stay on the line, but don’t look back or you may turn into a pillar of salt.’

‘James,’ said Jean-Pierre, thinking on his feet not for the first time in his life. ‘You take a taxi immediately to the Dorchester and book room 120 in the name of Drosser. Have the key ready for Stephen the moment he walks through the door, then make yourself scarce. Stephen, are you still there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you hear all that?’

‘Yes. Tell James to book 119 or 121 if 120 is not available.’

‘Roger,’ replied Jean-Pierre. ‘Get going, James.’

James bolted out of the gallery and barged in front of a woman who had just hailed a taxi, a thing he had never done before.

‘The Dorchester,’ he hollered, ‘as fast as you can go.’

The taxi shot off.

‘Stephen, James has gone and I’m sending Robin to follow Harvey so he can keep you briefed and guide you to the Dorchester. I’m staying put. Everything else O.K?’

‘No,’ said Stephen, ‘start praying. I’ve reached Berkeley Square. Where now?’

‘Across the garden then continue down Hill Street.’

Robin left the gallery and ran all the way to Bruton Street until he was only 50 yards behind Harvey.

‘Now about the Henry Moore,’ said the well-corseted lady.

‘Screw Henry Moore,’ said Jean-Pierre, not even looking around.

The steel-reinforced bosom heaved.

‘Young man, I have never been spoken to in...’

But Jean-Pierre had already reached the lavatory, and closed the door.

‘You’re crossing South Audley Street now, then continue into Deanery Street. Keep going, don’t turn right or left and don’t whatever you do look back. Harvey is still about 50 yards behind you. I’m a little more than 50 yards behind him,’ said Robin. Passersby stared at the man talking into his little instrument.

‘Is Room 120 free?’

‘Yes, sir, they checked out this morning, but I’m not sure if it’s ready for occupancy yet. I think the maid may still be clearing the room. I’ll have to check, sir,’ said the tall receptionist in the morning suit, which indicated that he was a senior member of the floor staff.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ said James, his German accent far better than Stephen’s. ‘I always have that room. Can you book me in for one night? Name’s Drosser, Herr... um... Helmut Drosser.’

He slipped a pound over the counter.

‘Certainly, sir.’

‘That’s Park Lane, Stephen. Look right — the big hotel on the corner straight in front of you is the Dorchester. The semicircle facing you is the main entrance. Go up the steps, past the big man in the green overcoat, and through the revolving door and you’ll find reception on your right. James ought to be there waiting for you.’

Robin was grateful that the annual dinner of the Royal Society for Medicine had been held at the Dorchester last year.

‘Where’s Harvey?’ bleated Stephen.

‘Only 40 yards behind you.’

Stephen quickened his pace, ran up the steps of the Dorchester and pushed through the revolving door so hard that the other residents coming out found themselves on the street faster than they had planned. Thank God, James was standing there holding a key.

‘The lift’s over there,’ said James, pointing. ‘You’ve only chosen one of the most expensive suites in the hotel.’

Stephen glanced in the direction James had indicated and turned back to thank him. But James was already heading off to the American Bar to be sure he was well out of sight when Harvey arrived.

Stephen left the lift at the first floor and found that the Dorchester, which he had never entered before, was as traditional as Claridge’s, its thick royal blue and golden carpets leading to a magnificently appointed corner suite which overlooked Hyde Park. He collapsed into an easy chair, not quite sure what to expect next. Nothing had gone as planned.

Jean-Pierre waited at the gallery, James sat in the American Bar and Robin loitered by the side of Barclays Bank, Park Lane, a mock-Tudor building fifty yards from the entrance of the Dorchester.

‘Have you a Mr Drosser staying at this hotel? I think it’s room 120,’ barked Harvey.

The receptionist looked through the card index.

‘Yes, sir. Is he expecting you?’

‘No, but I’ll have a word with him on the house phone.’

‘Of course, sir. If you’d be kind enough to go through the small archway on your left you will find five telephones. One of them is a house phone.’

Harvey marched through the archway as directed.

‘Room 120,’ he instructed the operator, who sat in his own little section, wearing the green Dorchester uniform with golden castles on the lapels.

‘Cubicle No. 1, please, sir.’

‘Mr Drosser?’

‘Speaking,’ said Stephen, summoning up his German accent for a sustained effort.

‘My name is Harvey Metcalfe. I wonder if I could come up and have a word with you? It’s about the Van Gogh you bought this morning.’

‘Well, it’s a little inconvenient at the moment. I am about to take a shower and I do have a lunch appointment.’

‘I won’t keep you more than a few minutes.’

Before Stephen could reply, the telephone had clicked. A few moments later there was a knock on the door. Stephen’s legs wobbled. He answered it nervously. He had changed into a white Dorchester dressing-gown and his brown hair was somewhat disheveled and darker than normal. It was the only disguise he could think of at such short notice as the original plan had not allowed for a face-to-face meeting with Harvey.

‘Sorry to intrude, Mr Drosser, but I had to see you immediately. I know you have just purchased a Van Gogh from the Lamanns Gallery and I was hoping that, as you are a dealer, you might be willing to sell it on for a quick profit.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Stephen, relaxing for the first time. ‘I’ve wanted a Van Gogh for my gallery in Munich for many years. I’m sorry, Mr Metcalfe, it’s not for sale.’

‘Listen, you paid 170,000 guineas for it. What’s that in dollars?’

Stephen paused.

‘Oh, about $435,000.’

‘I’ll give you $15,000 if you release the picture to me. All you have to do is ring the gallery and tell them that the picture is now mine and that I will cover the bill.’

Stephen sat silent, not sure how to handle the situation without blowing it. Think like Harvey Metcalfe, he told himself.

‘$20,000 in cash and you’ve got a deal.’

Harvey hesitated. Stephen’s legs wobbled again.

‘Done,’ said Harvey. ‘Ring the gallery immediately.’

Stephen picked up the telephone.

‘Can you get me the Lamanns Gallery in Bond Street as quickly as possible please — I have a lunch appointment.’

A few seconds later the call came through.

‘Lamanns Gallery.’

‘I would like to speak to Mr Lamanns.’

‘At last, Stephen. What the hell is happening your end?’

‘Ah, Mr Lamanns, this is Herr Drosser. You remember, I was in your gallery earlier this morning.’

‘Of course I remember, you fool. What are you going on about, Stephen? It’s me — Jean-Pierre.’

‘I have a Mr Metcalfe with me.’

‘Christ, I’m sorry, Stephen. I didn’t...’

‘And you can expect him in the next few minutes.’

Stephen looked toward Harvey who nodded his assent.

‘You are to release the Van Gogh I purchased this morning to Mr Metcalfe and he will give you a check for the full amount, 170,000 guineas.’

‘Out of disaster, triumph,’ said Jean-Pierre quietly.

‘I’m very sorry I shall not be the owner of the picture myself, but I have, as the Americans would say, had an offer I can’t refuse. Thank you for the part you played,’ said Stephen and put the telephone down.

Harvey was writing out a check to cash for $20,000.

‘Thank you, Mr Drosser. You have made me a happy man.’

‘I am not complaining myself,’ said Stephen honestly. He escorted Harvey to the door and they shook hands.

‘Good-bye, sir.’

‘Good day, Mr Metcalfe.’

Stephen closed the door and tottered to the chair, almost too weak to move.

Robin and James saw Harvey leave the Dorchester. Robin followed him in the direction of the gallery, his hopes rising with each stride. James took the lift to the first floor and nearly ran to Room 120. He banged on the door. Stephen jumped at the noise. He didn’t feel he could face Harvey again. He opened the door.

‘James, it’s you. Cancel the room, pay for one night and then join me in the cocktail bar.’

‘Why? What for?’

‘A bottle of Krug 1964 Privée Cuvée.’

One down and three to go.