Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

12

‘Passengers for flight 017 to Nice are now requested to board the aircraft at gate No. 7,’ boomed the loudspeaker at Heathrow’s No. 1 terminal.

‘That’s us,’ said Stephen.

The four of them took the escalator to the first floor, and walked down the long corridor. After being searched for guns, bombs, and whatever else terrorists are searched for, they proceeded down the ramp.

They sat separately, never speaking or even looking at each other. Stephen had warned them that the flight could well be sprinkled with Harvey’s friends, and each imagined himself to be sitting next to the closest of them.

James gazed moodily at the cloudless sky and brooded. He and Anne had read every book they could lay their hands on that even hinted at stolen money or successful duplicity, but they had found nothing they could plagiarize. Even Stephen, in between being undressed and practiced upon at St Thomas’s, was becoming daunted by the task of finding a winning plan for James.

The Trident touched down at Nice at 13.40, and the train journey from Nice to Monte Carlo took them a further twenty minutes. Each member of the Team made his own way to the elegant Hôtel de Paris in the Place du Casino. At 7 pm they were all present in room 217.

‘All settled into your rooms?’

The other three nodded. ‘So far, so good,’ said Robin. ‘Right, let’s go over the timing. Jean-Pierre, you will go to the Casino tonight and play a few hands of baccarat and blackjack. Try to acclimatize to the place and learn your way around. In particular, master any variations in the rules there might be from the Claremont, and be sure you never speak in English. Do you foresee any problems?’

‘No, can’t say I do, Robin. In fact I may as well go now and start rehearsing.’

‘Don’t lose too much of our money,’ said Stephen.

Jean-Pierre, resplendent in beard and dinner jacket, grinned and slipped out of room 217 and down the staircase, avoiding the lift. He walked the short distance from the hotel to the famous Casino.

Robin continued:

‘James, you take a taxi from the Casino to the hospital. On arrival you will leave the meter running for a few minutes and then return to the Casino. You can normally rely on a taxi to take the shortest route, but to be sure, tell the driver it’s an emergency. That’ll give you the opportunity of seeing which traffic lanes he uses under pressure. When he’s returned you to the Casino, walk the route from there to the hospital and back. Then you can assimilate it in your own time. After you’ve mastered that, repeat the same procedure for the route between the hospital and Harvey’s yacht. Never enter the Casino or even get close enough to the boat to be seen. Being seen now means being recognized later.’

‘What about my knowledge of the Casino on the night of the operation?’

‘Jean-Pierre will take care of that. He’ll meet you at the door because Stephen won’t be able to leave Harvey. I don’t think they will charge you the 12 franc entrance fee if you’re wearing a white coat and carrying a stretcher, but have it ready to be sure. When you’ve completed the walk, go to your room and stay there until our meeting at 11 am tomorrow. Stephen and I will also be going to the hospital to check that all the arrangements have been carried out as cabled from London. If at any time you see us, ignore us.’

As James left room 217, Jean-Pierre arrived at the Casino.

The Casino stands in the heart of Monte Carlo overlooking the sea, surrounded by the most beautiful gardens. The present building has several wings, the oldest of which was designed by Charles Garnier, the architect of the Paris Opera House. The gambling rooms, which were added in 1910, are linked by an atrium to the Salle Garnier in which operas and ballets are performed.

Jean-Pierre marched up the marble staircase to the entrance and paid his 12 francs. The gambling rooms are vast, full of the decadence and grandeur of Europe at the turn of the century. Massive red carpets, statues, paintings and tapestries give the building an almost regal appearance and the portraits lend an air of a country home still lived in. Jean-Pierre found the clientele were of all nationalities: Arabs and Jews played next to each other at the roulette wheel and chatted away with an ease that would have been unthinkable at the United Nations. Jean-Pierre felt totally relaxed in the unreal world of the wealthy. Robin had assessed his character accurately and given him a role he could master with aplomb.

Jean-Pierre spent over three hours studying the layout of the Casino — its gambling rooms, bars and restaurants, the telephones, the entrances and exits. Then he turned his attention to the gambling itself. He discovered that two shoes of baccarat were played in the Salons Privés at 3 pm and 11 pm, and learned from Pierre Cattalano, the head of the public relations department of the Casino, which of the private rooms Harvey Metcalfe preferred to play in.

Blackjack is played in the Salon des Amériques from 11 am daily. There are three tables, and Jean-Pierre’s informant told him that Harvey always played on table No. 2, seat No. 3. Jean-Pierre played a little blackjack and baccarat, to discover any slight variations in rules there might be from the Claremont. In fact there were none, as the Claremont still adheres to French rules.

Harvey Metcalfe arrived noisily at the Casino just after 11 pm, leaving a trail of cigar ash leading to his baccarat table. Jean-Pierre, inconspicuous at the bar, watched as the head croupier first showed Harvey politely to a reserved seat, and then walked through to the Salon des Amériques to the No. 2 blackjack table and placed a discreet white card marked ‘Réservé’ on one of the chairs. Harvey was clearly a favored client. The management knew as well as Jean-Pierre which games Harvey Metcalfe played. At 11.27 pm Jean-Pierre left quietly and returned to the solitude of his hotel room where he remained until 11 am the next day. He phoned no one and did not use room service.

James’s evening also went well. The taxi-driver was superb. The word ‘emergency’ brought out the Walter Mitty in him: he traveled through Monte Carlo as if it were nothing less than the Rally itself. When James arrived at the hospital in 8 minutes 44 seconds, he genuinely felt a little sick and had to rest for a few minutes in the Entrée des Patients before returning to the taxi.

‘Back to the Casino, but much slower, please.’

The journey back along the Rue Grimaldi took just over eleven minutes and James decided he would settle for trying to cover it in about ten. He paid off the taxi driver and carried out the second part of his instructions.

Walking to the hospital and back took just over an hour. The night air was gentle on his face, and the streets crowded with lively chattering people. Tourism is the chief source of income for the Principality, and the Monégasques take the welfare of their visitors very seriously. James passed innumerable little pavement restaurants and souvenir shops stocked with expensive trinkets of no significance that once bought would be forgotten or lost within a week. Noisy groups of holiday-makers strolled along the pavements, their multilingual babel forming a meaningless chorus to James’s thoughts of Anne. On arrival back at the Casino, James then took a taxi to the harbor to locate Messenger Boy, Harvey’s yacht, and from there once more to the hospital. He then walked the same route and, like Jean-Pierre, he was safely in his room before midnight, having completed his first task.

Robin and Stephen found the walk to the hospital from their hotel took a little over 40 minutes. On arrival Robin asked the receptionist if he could see the superintendent.

‘The night superintendent is now on duty,’ said a freshly starched French nurse. ‘Who shall I say is asking him for?’

Her English pronunciation was excellent and they both avoided a smile at her slight mistake.

‘Doctor Wiley Barker of the University of California.’

Robin began to pray that the French superintendent would not happen to know that Wiley Barker, President Nixon’s physician and one of the most respected surgeons in the world, was actually touring Australia at the time lecturing to the major universities.

‘Bon soir, Docteur Barker. Monsieur Bartise à votre service. Votre visite fait grand honneur à notre hôpital humble.’

Robin’s newly acquired American accent stopped any further conversation in French.

‘I would like to check the layout of the theater,’ said Robin, ‘and confirm that we have it provisionally booked for tomorrow from 11 pm to 4 am for the next five days.’

‘That is quite correct, Doctor Barker,’ said the superintendent, looking down at a clipboard. ‘The theater is off the next corridor. Will you follow me, please?’

The theater was not dissimilar to the one the four of them had been practicing in at St Thomas’s — two rooms with a rubber swing door dividing them. The main theater was well equipped and a nod from Robin showed Stephen that it had all the instruments he required. Robin was impressed. Although the hospital had only some 200 beds, the theater itself was of the highest standard. Rich men had obviously been ill there before.

‘Will you be requiring an anesthetist or any nurses to assist you, Doctor Barker?’

‘No,’ said Robin. ‘I have my own anesthetist and staff, but I will require a tray of laparotomy instruments to be laid out every night. However, I will be able to give you at least an hour’s warning before you need make any final preparations.’

‘That’s plenty of time. Will there be anything else, sir?’

‘Yes, the special vehicle I ordered. Can it be ready for my driver at 12 pm tomorrow?’

‘Yes, Doctor Barker. It will be in the small car park behind the hospital and your driver can pick up the keys from the reception.’

‘Can you recommend an agency from which I can hire an experienced nurse for postoperative care?’

‘Bien sûr, the Auxiliaire Médical of Nice will be only too happy to oblige — at a certain price, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Robin. ‘And that reminds me to ask, have all your expenses been dealt with?’

‘Yes, Doctor. We received a check from California last Thursday for $7,000.’

Robin had been very pleased with that touch. It had been so simple. Stephen had contacted his bank at Harvard and asked them to send a draft from the First National City Bank in San Francisco to the hospital secretary at Monte Carlo.

‘Thank you for all your help, Monsieur Bartise. You have been most obliging. Now you do understand that I am not quite sure which night I shall be bringing my patient in. He’s a sick man, although he doesn’t know it, and I have to prepare him for the operation.’

‘Of course, mon cher Docteur.’

‘Finally, I would appreciate it if you would tell as few people as possible that I am in Monte Carlo. I am trying to snatch a holiday at the same time as working.’

‘I understand, Doctor Barker. You can be assured of my discretion.’

Robin and Stephen bade farewell to Monsieur Bartise and took a taxi back to the hotel.

‘I’m always slightly humiliated by how well the French speak our language compared with our grasp of theirs,’ said Stephen.

‘It’s all the fault of you bloody Americans,’ said Robin.

‘No, it isn’t. If France had conquered America, your French would be excellent. Blame it on the Pilgrim Fathers.’

Robin laughed. Neither of them spoke again until they reached room 217 for fear of being overheard. Stephen had no doubts about the responsibility and risk they were taking with Robin’s plan.

Harvey Metcalfe was on the deck of his yacht, sunbathing and reading the morning papers. Nice-Matin, irritatingly enough, was in French. He read it laboriously, with the aid of a dictionary, to see if there were any social events to which he ought to get himself invited. He had gambled late into the night, and was enjoying the sun’s rays on his fleshy back. If money could have obtained it, he would have been 6 ft and 170 lb with a handsome head of hair, but no amount of suntan oil would stop his balding dome from burning, so he covered it with a cap inscribed with the words ‘I’m sexy.’ If Miss Fish could see him now...

At 11 am, as Harvey turned over and allowed the sun to see his massive stomach, James strolled into room 217 where the rest of the Team were waiting for him.

Jean-Pierre reported on the layout of the Casino and Harvey Metcalfe’s habits. James brought them up to date on the result of his race through the city the night before and confirmed that he thought he could cover the distance in just under eleven minutes.

‘Perfect,’ said Robin. ‘Stephen and I took 15 minutes by taxi from the hospital to the hotel so if Jean-Pierre warns me immediately the balloon goes up in the Casino, I should have enough time to see that everything is ready before you all arrive.’

‘I do hope the balloon will be going down, not up, in the Casino,’ remarked Jean-Pierre.

‘I have booked an agency nurse to be on call from tomorrow night. The hospital has all the facilities I require. It’ll take about two minutes to walk a stretcher from the front door to the theater, so from the moment James leaves the car park I should have at least 16 minutes to prepare myself. James, you’ll be able to pick up the vehicle from the hospital car park at 12 pm The keys have been left in reception in the name of Dr Barker. Do a couple of practice runs and no more. I don’t want you causing interest by looking conspicuous. And could you leave this parcel in the back, please.’

‘What is it?’

‘Three long white laboratory coats and a stethoscope for Stephen. While you’re at it, better check that you can unfold the stretcher easily. When you’ve finished the two runs, put the vehicle back in the car park and return to your room until 11 pm From then through to 4 am you’ll have to wait in the car park until you get the ‘action stations’ or ‘all clear’ signal from Jean-Pierre. Everybody buy new batteries for your transmitters. I don’t want the whole plan to collapse for the sake of a ten-penny battery. I’m afraid there’s nothing much for you to do, Jean-Pierre, until this evening, except relax. I hope you have some good books in your room.’

‘Can’t I go to the Princess Cinema and see François Truffaut’s La Nuit Américaine? I just adore Jacqueline Bisset. Vive la France.’

‘My dear Jean-Pierre, Miss Bisset’s from Reading,’ said James.

‘I don’t care. I still want to see her.’

‘A frog he would a-wooing go,’ said James mockingly.

‘But why not?’ said Robin. ‘The last thing Harvey will do is take in an intellectual French film with no subtitles. Hope you enjoy it — and good luck tonight, Jean-Pierre.’

Jean-Pierre left for his room as quietly as he had come, leaving the rest of them together in room 217.

‘Right, James. You can do your practice runs any time that suits you. Just make sure you’re wide awake tonight.’

‘Fine. I’ll go and pick up the keys from the hospital reception. Let’s just hope nobody stops me for a real emergency.’

‘Now, Stephen, let’s go over the details again. There’s more than money to lose if we get this one wrong. We’ll start from the top. What do you do if the nitrous oxide falls below five liters...’

‘Station check — station check — operation Metcalfe. This is Jean-Pierre. I am on the steps of the Casino. Can you hear me, James?’

‘Yes. I am in the car park of the hospital. Out.’

‘Robin here. I am on the balcony of room 217. Is Stephen with you, Jean-Pierre?’

‘Yes. He’s drinking on his own at the bar.’

‘Good luck and out.’

Jean-Pierre carried out a station check every hour on the hour from 7 pm until 11 pm, merely to inform Robin and James that Harvey had not arrived.

Eventually, at 11.16, he did show up, and took his reserved place at the baccarat table. Stephen stopped sipping his tomato juice and Jean-Pierre moved over and waited patiently by the table for one of the men seated on the left or right of Harvey to leave. An hour passed by. Harvey was losing a little, but continued to play. So did the tall thin American on his right and the Frenchman on his left. Another hour and still no movement. Then suddenly the Frenchman on the left of Metcalfe had a particularly bad run, gathered his few remaining chips and left the table. Jean-Pierre moved forward.

‘I am afraid, Monsieur, that that seat is reserved for another gentleman,’ said the banker. ‘We do have an unreserved place on the other side of the table.’

‘It’s not important,’ said Jean-Pierre, who backed away, not wanting to be remembered, cursing the deference with which the Monégasques treat the wealthy. Stephen could see from the bar what had happened and made furtive signs to leave. They were all back in room 217 just after 2 am.

‘What a bloody silly mistake. Merde, merde, merde. I should have thought of reservations the moment I knew Harvey had one.’

‘No, it was my fault. I don’t know anything about how casinos work and I should have queried it during rehearsals,’ said Robin, stroking his newly acquired mustache.

‘No one is to blame,’ chipped in Stephen. ‘We still have three more nights, so no need to panic. We’ll just have to work out how to overcome the seating problem, but for now we’ll all get some sleep and meet again in this room at 10 am’

They left, a little depressed. Robin had sat waiting in the hotel on edge for four hours. James was cold and bored in the hospital car park, Stephen was sick of tomato juice and Jean-Pierre had been on his feet by the baccarat table waiting for a seat that wasn’t even available.

Once again Harvey lounged in the sun. He was now a light pink and was hoping to be a better color toward the end of the week. According to his copy of the New York Times, gold was still climbing and the Deutschmark and the Swiss franc remained firm, while the dollar was on the retreat against every currency except sterling. Sterling stood at $2.42. Harvey thought a more realistic price was $1.80 and the sooner it reached that the better.

Nothing new, he thought, when the sharp ring of a French telephone roused him. He never could get used to the sound of foreign telephones. The attentive steward bustled out on deck with the instrument on an extension lead.

‘Hi, Lloyd. Didn’t know you were in Monte... why don’t we get together?... 8 pm?... Me too... I’m even getting brown... Must be getting old... What?... Great, I’ll see you then.’

Harvey replaced the receiver and asked the steward for a large whiskey on the rocks. He once again settled down happily to the morning’s financial bad news.

‘That seems to be the obvious solution,’ said Stephen.

They all nodded their approval.

‘Jean-Pierre will give up the baccarat table and book a place next to Harvey Metcalfe on his blackjack table in the Salon des Amériques and wait for him to change games. We know both the seat numbers Harvey plays at and we’ll alter our own plans accordingly.’

Jean-Pierre dialed the number of the Casino and asked to speak to Pierre Cattalano:

‘Réservez-moi la deuxième place à la table 2 pour le vingt-et-un ce soir et demain soir, s’il vous plaît.’

‘Je pense que cette place est déjà réservée, Monsieur. Un instant, s’il vous plaît, je vais vérifier.’

‘Peut-être que 100 francs la rendra libre,’ replied Jean-Pierre.

‘Mais certainement, Monsieur. Prèsentez-vous à moi dès votre arriveée, et le nécessaire sera fait.’

‘Merçi,’ said Jean-Pierre and replaced the receiver. ‘That’s under control.’

Jean-Pierre was visibly sweating, though had his call had no other outcome than to secure him a reserved seat, not a drop of perspiration would have appeared. They all returned to their rooms.

When the clock in the town square struck twelve, Robin was waiting quietly in room 217, James stood in the car park humming ‘I Get Along Without You Very Well,’ Stephen was at the bar of the Salon des Amériques toying with yet another tomato juice and Jean-Pierre was at seat No. 2 on table No. 2, playing blackjack. Both Stephen and Jean-Pierre saw Harvey come through the door, chatting to a man in a loud-checked jacket which only a Texan could have worn outside his own backyard. Harvey and his friend sat down together at the baccarat table. Jean-Pierre beat a hasty retreat to the bar.

‘Oh, no. I give up.’

‘No, you don’t,’ whispered Stephen. ‘Back to the hotel.’

Spirits were very low when they were all assembled in room 217, but it was agreed that Stephen had made the right decision. They could not risk the entire exercise being carefully observed by a friend of Harvey’s.

‘The first operation is beginning to look a bit too good to be true,’ said Robin.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Stephen. ‘We had two false alarms then, and the entire plan had to be changed at the last minute. We can’t expect him just to walk in and hand over his money. Now snap out of it, all of you, and go and get some sleep.’

They returned to their separate rooms, but not to much sleep. The strain was beginning to tell.

‘That’s enough I think, Lloyd. A goodish evening.’

‘For you, you mean, Harvey, not for me. You are one of nature’s winners.’

Harvey patted the checked shoulder expansively. If anything pleased him more than his own success, it was other people’s failure.

‘Do you want to spend the night on my yacht, Lloyd?’

‘No thanks. I must get back to Nice. I have a meeting in Paris, France, tomorrow lunch. See you soon, Harvey — take care of yourself.’ He dug Harvey in the ribs jocularly. ‘That’s a fair-sized job.’

‘Good night, Lloyd,’ said Harvey, a little stiffly.

The next evening Jean-Pierre did not arrive at the Casino until 11 pm Harvey Metcalfe was already at the baccarat table minus Lloyd. Stephen was at the bar looking angry, and Jean-Pierre glanced at him apologetically as he took his seat at the blackjack table. He played a few hands to get the feel, trying to keep his losses fairly limited without drawing attention to the modesty of his stakes. Suddenly Harvey left the baccarat table and stalked into the Salon des Amériques, glancing at the roulette tables as he passed more out of curiosity than interest. He detested games of pure chance, and considered baccarat and blackjack games of skill. He headed to table No. 2 seat No. 3, on Jean-Pierre’s left. Jean-Pierre felt his adrenaline start pumping around and his heartbeat rise up to 120 again. Stephen left the Casino for a few minutes to warn James and Robin that Harvey had moved to the blackjack table and was now sitting next to Jean-Pierre. He then returned to the bar and waited.

There were seven punters at the blackjack table. On box No. 1, a middle-aged lady smothered in diamonds, who looked as if she might be passing time while her husband played roulette or perhaps baccarat. On box No. 2, Jean-Pierre. On Box No. 3, Harvey. On Box No. 4, a dissipated young man with the world-weariness that usually goes with a large unearned income. On box No. 5, an Arab in full robes. On box No. 6, a not-unattractive actress who was clearly resting, Jean Pierre suspected, with the occupant of box No. 5; and on box No. 7, an elderly, straight-backed aristocratic Frenchman in evening dress.

‘A large black coffee,’ Harvey drawled to the slim waiter in his smart brown jacket.

Monte Carlo does not allow hard liquor to be sold at the tables or girls to serve the customers. In direct contrast to Las Vegas, the Casino’s business is gambling, not booze or women. Harvey had enjoyed Vegas when he was younger, but the older he became the more he appreciated the sophistication of the French. He had grown to prefer the formal atmosphere and decorum of this particular Casino. Although at the No. 3 table only he, the aristocratic Frenchman and Jean-Pierre wore dinner jackets, it was frowned upon by the management to be dressed in any way that might be described as casual.

A moment later, piping hot coffee in a large golden cup arrived at Harvey’s side. Jean-Pierre eyed it nervously while Harvey placed 100 francs on the table next to Jean-Pierre’s 3-franc chip, the minimum and maximum stake allowed. The dealer, a tall young man of not more than thirty, who was proud of the fact that he could deal a hundred hands in an hour, slipped the cards deftly out of the shoe. A king for Jean-Pierre, a four for Harvey, a five for the young man on Harvey’s left and a six for the dealer. Jean-Pierre’s second card was a seven. He stuck. Harvey drew a ten and also stuck. The young man on Harvey’s left also drew a ten and asked the dealer to twist again. It was an eight — bust.

Harvey despised amateurs in any field and even fools know you don’t twist if you have twelve or more when the dealer’s card face up is a three, four, five or six. He grimaced slightly. The dealer dealt himself a ten and a six. Harvey and Jean-Pierre were winners. Jean-Pierre ignored the fate of the other players.

The next round was unwinnable. Jean-Pierre stuck at eighteen, two nines which he chose not to split as the dealer had an ace. Harvey stuck on eighteen, an eight and a jack, and the young man on the left bust again. The bank drew a queen — ‘Black Jack’ — and took the table.

The next hand gave Jean-Pierre a three, Harvey a seven and the young man a ten. The dealer drew himself a seven. Jean-Pierre drew an eight and doubled his stake to 6 francs and then drew a ten — vingt-et-un. Jean-Pierre did not blink. He realized he was playing well and that he must not draw attention to himself, but let Harvey take it for granted. In fact Harvey hadn’t even noticed him: his attention was riveted on the young man on his left, who seemed anxious to make a gift to the management on every hand. The dealer continued, giving Harvey a ten and the young man an eight, leaving them both no choice but to stick. The dealer drew a ten, giving himself seventeen. He paid Jean-Pierre, left Harvey’s stake and paid the young man. The management was happy to pay the young man occasionally, if only to keep him sitting there all night.

There were no more cards left in the shoe. The dealer made a great show of reshuffling the four packs and invited Harvey to cut the cards before replacing them in the shoe. They slipped out again: a ten for Jean-Pierre, a five for Harvey, a six for the young man and a four for the dealer. Jean-Pierre drew an eight. The cards were running well. Harvey drew a ten and stuck at fifteen. The young man drew a ten and asked for another card. Harvey could not believe his eyes and whistled through the gap in his front teeth. Sure enough, the next card was a king. The young man was bust. The dealer dealt himself a jack and then an eight, making twenty-two, but the young man had learned nothing from it. Harvey stared at him. When would he discover that, of the fifty-two cards in the pack, no less than sixteen have a face value of ten?

Harvey’s distraction gave Jean-Pierre the opportunity he had been waiting for. He slipped his hand into his pocket and took the prostigmin tablet Robin had given him into the palm of his left hand. He sneezed, pulling his handkerchief from his breast pocket in a well-rehearsed gesture with his right hand. At the same time, he quickly and unobtrusively dropped the tablet into Harvey’s coffee. It would, Robin had assured him, be an hour before it took effect. To begin with Harvey would only feel a little sick; then he would get rapidly worse until the pain was too much to bear, before finally collapsing in absolute agony.

Jean-Pierre turned to the bar, gripped his right-hand fist three times and then placed it in his pocket. Stephen left immediately and warned Robin and James from the steps of the Casino that the prostigmin tablet was in Metcalfe’s drink. It was now Robin’s turn to be tested under pressure. First he rang the hospital and asked the sister on duty to have the theater in full preparation. Then he rang the nursing agency and asked for the nurse he had booked to be waiting in the hospital reception in exactly ninety minutes’ time. He sat alone, nervously waiting for another call from the Casino.

Stephen returned to the bar. Harvey had started to feel a little sick, but was loath to leave. Despite the growing pain, his greed was forcing him to play on. He drank the rest of his coffee and ordered another one, hoping it would clear his head. The coffee did not help and Harvey began to feel steadily worse. An ace and a king followed by a seven, a four and a ten, and then two queens helped him to stay at the table. Jean-Pierre forced himself not to look at his watch. The dealer gave Jean-Pierre a seven, Harvey another ace and the young man a two. Quite suddenly, almost exactly on the hour, Harvey could bear the pain no longer. He tried to stand up and leave the table.

‘Le jeu a commencé, Monsieur,’ the dealer said formally.

‘Go fuck yourself,’ said Harvey and collapsed to the ground, gripping his stomach in agony. Jean-Pierre sat motionless while the croupiers and gamblers milled around helplessly. Stephen fought his way through the circle which had gathered around Harvey.

‘Stand back, please. I am a doctor.’

The crowd moved back quickly, relieved to have a professional man on the scene.

‘What is it, Doctor?’ gasped Harvey, who felt the end of the world was about to come.

‘I don’t know yet,’ replied Stephen. Robin had warned him that from collapse to passing out might be as short a time as ten minutes, so he set to work fast. He loosened Harvey’s tie and took his pulse. He then undid his shirt and started feeling his abdomen.

‘Have you a pain in the stomach?’

‘Yes,’ groaned Harvey.

‘Did it come on suddenly?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you try and describe the quality of the pain? Is it stabbing, burning or gripping?’

‘Gripping.’

‘Where is it most painful?’

Harvey touched the right side of his stomach. Stephen pressed down the tip of the ninth rib, making Harvey bellow with pain.

‘Ah,’ said Stephen, ‘a positive Murphy’s sign. You probably have an acutely inflamed gall bladder. I’m afraid that may mean gallstones.’ He continued to palpate the massive abdomen gently. ‘It looks as if a stone has come out of your gall bladder and is passing down the tube to your intestine — it’s the squeezing of that tube that’s giving you such dreadful pain. I’m afraid your gall bladder and the stone must be removed at once. I can only hope there is someone at the hospital who can perform an emergency operation.’

Jean-Pierre came in bang on cue:

‘Doctor Wiley Barker is staying at my hotel.’

‘Wiley Barker, the American surgeon?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Jean-Pierre. ‘The chap who’s been taking care of Nixon.’

‘My God, what a piece of luck. We couldn’t have anyone better, but he’s very expensive.’

‘I don’t give a damn about the expense,’ wailed Harvey.

‘Well, it might be as high as $50,000.’

‘I don’t care if it’s $100,000,’ screamed Harvey. At that moment he would have been willing to part with his entire fortune.

‘Right,’ said Stephen. ‘You, sir,’ looking at Jean-Pierre, ‘ring for an ambulance and then contact Doctor Barker and ask if he can get to the hospital immediately. Tell him it’s an emergency. This gentleman requires a surgeon of the highest qualifications.’

‘You’re damn right I do,’ said Harvey, and passed out.

Jean-Pierre left the Casino and called over his transmitter:

‘Action stations. Action stations.’

Robin left the Hôtel de Paris and took a taxi. He would have given $100,000 to change places with the driver, but the car was already moving relentlessly toward the hospital. It was too late to turn back now.

James smashed the ambulance into first gear and rushed to the Casino, siren blaring. He was luckier than Robin. With so much to concentrate on he didn’t have time to consider the consequences of what he was doing.

Eleven minutes and forty-one seconds later he arrived, leaped out of the driver’s seat, opened the back door, gathered the stretcher and rushed up the Casino steps in his long white coat. Jean-Pierre was standing expectantly on the top step waiting for him. No words passed between them as he guided James quickly through the Salon des Amériques where Stephen was bending over Harvey. The stretcher was placed on the floor. It took all three of them to lift Harvey Metcalfe’s 227 lb onto the canvas. Stephen and James picked up the stretcher and took him quickly through to the waiting ambulance, followed by Jean-Pierre.

‘Where are you going with my boss?’ demanded a voice.

Startled, the three of them turned around. It was Harvey Metcalfe’s chauffeur, standing by the white Rolls Royce. After a moment’s hesitation, Jean-Pierre took over.

‘Mr Metcalfe has collapsed and has to go to hospital for an emergency operation. You must return to the yacht immediately, tell the staff to have his cabin ready and await further instructions.’

The chauffeur touched his cap and ran to the Rolls Royce. James leaped behind the wheel, while Stephen and Jean-Pierre joined Harvey in the back of the vehicle.

‘Hell, that was close. Well done, Jean-Pierre. I was speechless,’ admitted Stephen.

‘It was nothing,’ said Jean-Pierre, sweat pouring down his face.

The ambulance shot off like a scalded cat. Stephen and Jean-Pierre both replaced their jackets with the long white laboratory coats left on the seat and Stephen put the stethoscope around his neck.

‘It looks to me as if he’s dead,’ said Jean-Pierre.

‘Robin says he isn’t,’ said Stephen.

‘How can he tell from four miles away?’

‘I don’t know. We’ll just have to take his word for it.’

James screeched to a halt outside the entrance to the hospital. Stephen and Jean-Pierre hurried their patient through to the operating theater. James returned the ambulance to the car park and quickly joined the others in the theater.

Robin, scrubbed up and gowned, was there to meet them at the door and while they were strapping Harvey Metcalfe to the operating table in the small room next to the theater, he spoke for the first time:

‘All of you, change your clothes. And Jean-Pierre, you scrub up as instructed.’

All three of them changed and Jean-Pierre started to wash immediately — a long, laborious process which Robin had firmly taught him must never be cut short. Postoperative septicaemia formed no part of his plan. Jean-Pierre appeared from the scrubbing-up room ready for action.

‘Now, relax. We’ve done this nine times already. Just carry on exactly as if we were still in St Thomas’s.’

Stephen moved behind the mobile Boyles machine. For four weeks he had been training as an anesthetist: he had rendered James and a faintly protesting Jean-Pierre unconscious twice each in practice runs at St Thomas’s. Now was his chance to exercise his new powers over Harvey Metcalfe.

Robin removed a syringe from a plastic packet and injected 250 mg of thiopentone into Harvey’s arm. The patient sank back into a deep sleep. Quickly and efficiently Jean-Pierre and James undressed Harvey and then covered him in a sheet. Stephen placed the mask from the Boyles machine over Metcalfe’s nose. The two flow-meters on the back of the machine showed 5 liters of nitrous oxide and 3 liters of oxygen.

‘Take his pulse,’ said Robin.

Stephen placed a finger in front of the ear just above the lobe to check the pre-auricular pulse. It was 70.

‘Wheel him through into the theater,’ instructed Robin.

James pushed the trolley into the next room until it was just under the operating lights. Stephen trundled the Boyles machine along behind them.

The operating theater was windowless and coldly sterile. Gleaming white tiles covered every wall from floor to ceiling, and it contained only the equipment needed for one operation. Jean-Pierre had covered Harvey with a sterile green sheet, leaving only his head and left arm exposed. One trolley of sterile instruments, drapes and towels had been carefully laid out by the theater nurse, and stood covered with a sterile sheet. Robin hung the bottle of intravenous fluid from a standard near the head of the table and taped the end of the tubing to Harvey’s left arm to complete the preparation. Stephen sat at the head of the table with the Boyles machine and adjusted the face mask over Harvey’s mouth and nose. Only one of the three massive operating lights hanging directly over Harvey had been turned on, causing a spotlight effect on the protruding bulge of his abdomen.

Eight eyes stared down on their victim. Robin continued:

‘I shall give exactly the same instructions as I did in all our rehearsals, so just concentrate. First, I shall clean the abdomen with a skin preparation of iodine.’

Robin had all the instruments ready on the side of the table next to Harvey’s feet. James lifted the sheet and folded it back over Harvey’s legs, then he carefully removed the sterile sheet covering the trolley of instruments and poured iodine into one of the small basins. Robin picked up a swab in a pair of forceps and dipped it in the iodine solution. With a swift action up, down, and over the abdomen, he cleaned about 1 square foot of Harvey’s massive body, throwing the swab into a bin and repeating the action with a fresh one. Next he placed a sterile towel below Harvey’s chin, covering his chest, and another over his hips and thighs. A third one he placed lengthways along the left-hand side of his body and a final one along the right-hand side, leaving a 9-inch square of flabby belly exposed. He put a towel clip on each corner to secure them safely and then placed the laparotomy drapes over the prepared site. Robin was now ready.

‘Scalpel.’

Jean-Pierre placed what he would have called a knife firmly in Robin’s outstretched palm, as a runner might when passing a baton. James’s apprehensive eyes met Jean-Pierre’s across the operating table, while Stephen concentrated on Harvey’s breathing. Robin hesitated only for a second and then made a 10 cm paramedian incision, reaching about 3 cm into the fat. Robin had rarely seen a larger stomach: he could probably have gone as far as 8 cm deep without reaching the muscle. Blood started flowing everywhere, which Robin stopped with diathermy. No sooner had he finished the incision and stanched the flow of blood than he began to stitch up the patient’s wound with a 3/0 interrupted plain catgut for ten stitches.

‘That will dissolve within a week,’ he explained.

He then closed the skin with a 2/0 interrupted plain silk, using an atraumatic needle. Then he cleaned the wound, removing the patches of blood that still remained. Finally, he placed a medium self-adhesive wound dressing over his handiwork.

James took off the drapes and sterile towels and placed them in the bin while Robin and Jean-Pierre put Metcalfe into a hospital gown and carefully packed his clothes in a gray plastic bag.

‘He’s coming around,’ said Stephen.

Robin took another syringe and injected 10 mg of diazepan.

‘That will keep him asleep for at least 30 minutes,’ he said, ‘and in any case, he’ll be ga-ga for about three hours and won’t remember much of what has happened. James, fetch the ambulance immediately and bring it around to the front of the hospital.’

James left the theater and changed back into his clothes, a procedure which he could now perform in 90 seconds. He disappeared to the car park.

‘Now, you two, get changed and then place Harvey very carefully in the ambulance and Jean-Pierre, wait in the back with him. Stephen, you carry out your next assignment.’

Stephen and Jean-Pierre changed quickly, back into their long white coats and wheeled the slumbering Harvey Metcalfe gently toward the ambulance. Once safely in, Stephen ran to the public telephone by the hospital entrance, checked a piece of paper in his wallet and dialed.

‘Hello, Nice-Matin? My name’s Terry Robards of the New York Times. I’m here on holiday, and I have a great little story for you...’

Robin returned to the operating theater and wheeled the trolley of instruments he had used to the sterilizing room, and left them there to be dealt with by the hospital theater staff in the morning. He picked up the plastic bag containing Harvey’s clothes and, going through to the changing room, quickly removed his operating gown, cap and mask and put on his own clothes. He went in search of the theater sister, and smiled charmingly at her.

‘All finished, ma soeur. I have left the instruments by the sterilizer. Please thank Monsieur Bartise for me once again.’

‘Oui, Monsieur. Notre plaisir. Je suis heureuse d’être à même de vous aider. Votre infirmière de l’Auxiliaire Médicale est arrivée.’

A few moments later, Robin walked to the ambulance, accompanied by the agency nurse. He helped her into the back.

‘Drive very slowly and carefully to the harbor.’

James nodded and set off at funeral pace.

‘Nurse Faubert.’

‘Yes, Doctor Barker.’ Her hands were tucked primly under her blue cape, and her French accent was enchanting. Robin thought Harvey would not find her ministrations unwelcome.

‘My patient has just had an operation for the removal of a gallstone and will need plenty of rest.’

With that Robin took out of his pocket a gallstone the size of an orange with a hospital tag on it which read ‘Harvey Metcalfe.’ Robin had in fact acquired the huge stone from St Thomas’s Hospital, the original owner being a 6 ft 6 in West Indian bus conductor on the No. 14 route. Stephen and Jean-Pierre stared at it in disbelief. The nurse checked her new charge’s pulse and respiration.

‘If I were your patient, Nurse Faubert,’ said Jean-Pierre, ‘I should take good care never to recover.’

By the time they arrived at the yacht, Robin had briefed the nurse on diet and rest, and told her that he would be around to see his patient at 11 am the next day. They left Harvey sleeping soundly in his large cabin, stewards and staff clucking attentively.

James drove the other three back to the hospital, deposited the ambulance in the car park and left the keys with reception. The four of them then headed back to the hotel by separate routes. Robin was the last to arrive at room 217, just after 3.30 am He collapsed into an armchair.

‘Will you allow me a whiskey, Stephen?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Good God, he meant it,’ said Robin, and downed a large Johnny Walker before handing the bottle over to Jean-Pierre.

‘He will be all right, won’t he?’ said James.

‘You sound quite concerned for him. Yes, he can have his ten stitches out in a week’s time and all he’ll have is a nasty scar to brag about to his friends. I must get some sleep. I have to see our victim at 11 tomorrow morning and the confrontation may well be harder than the operation. You were all great tonight. My God, am I glad we had all those sessions at St Thomas’s. If you’re ever out of work and I need a croupier, a driver and an anesthetist, I’ll know who to ring.’

The others left and Robin collapsed onto his bed, exhausted. He fell into a deep sleep and woke just after 8 the next morning, to discover he was still fully dressed. That had not happened to him since his days as a young houseman, when he had been on night duty after a fourteen-hour day without a break. Robin had a long soothing bath in very hot water. He dressed and put on a clean shirt and suit, ready for his face-to-face meeting with Harvey Metcalfe. His newly acquired mustache and rimless glasses and the success of the operation made him feel a little like the famous surgeon he was impersonating.

The other three all appeared during the next hour to wish him luck and elected to wait in room 217 for his return. Stephen had checked them all out of the hotel and booked a flight to London for late that afternoon. Robin left, again taking the staircase rather than the lift. Once outside the hotel, he walked a little way before hailing a taxi to drive him to the harbor.

It was not hard to find the Messenger Boy. She was a gleaming, newly painted 100-footer lying at the east end of the harbor. She sported a massive Panamanian flag on her stern mast, which Robin assumed must be for tax purposes. He ascended the gangplank and was met by Nurse Faubert.

‘Bonjour, Docteur Barker.’

‘Good morning, Nurse. How is Mr Metcalfe?’

‘He has had a very peaceful night and is having a light breakfast and making a few telephone calls. Would you like to see him now?’

‘Yes, please.’

Robin entered the magnificent cabin and faced the man he had spent eight weeks plotting and planning against. He was talking into the telephone:

‘Yes, I’m fine, dear. But it was an A-1 emergency at the time. Don’t worry, I’ll live,’ and he put the telephone down. ‘Doctor Barker, I have just spoken to my wife in Massachusetts and told her that I owe you my life. Even at 5 am she seemed pleased. I understand that I had private surgery, a private ambulance and that you saved my life. Or that’s what it says in Nice-Matin.’

There was the old picture of Harvey in Bermuda shorts on the deck of the Messenger Boy, familiar to Robin from his dossier. The headline read ‘Millionnaire s’évanouit au Casino’ over ‘La Vie d’un Millionaire Américain a été sauvée par une Opération Urgente Dramatique!’ Stephen would be pleased.

‘Tell me, Doctor,’ said Harvey with relish, ‘was I really in danger?’

‘Well, you were on the critical list, and the consequences might have been fairly serious if we hadn’t removed this from your stomach.’ Robin took out the inscribed gall stone from his pocket with a flourish.

Harvey’s eyes grew large as saucers.

‘Gee, have I really been walking round with that inside me all this time? Isn’t that something? I can’t thank you enough. If ever I can do anything for you, Doctor, don’t hesitate to call on me.’ He offered Robin a grape. ‘Look, you’re going to see me through this thing, aren’t you? I don’t think the nurse fully appreciates the gravity of my case.’

Robin thought fast.

‘I’m afraid I’m not free to do that, Mr Metcalfe. My holiday finishes today and I have to return to California. Nothing urgent: just a few elective surgeries and a rather heavy lecture schedule.’ He shrugged deprecatingly. ‘Not exactly earth-shattering but it helps me keep up a way of life I have grown accustomed to.’

Harvey sat bolt upright, tenderly holding his stomach.

‘Now you listen to me, Doctor Barker. I don’t give a damn about a few students. I’m a sick man and I need you here until I’ve fully recovered. I’ll make it worth your while to stay, don’t you worry. I never grudge the money where my health is concerned, and what’s more if it will persuade you, I’ll make the check out to cash. The last thing I want Uncle Sam to know is how much I’m worth.’

Robin coughed delicately, wondering how American doctors approached the ticklish subject of fees with their patients.

‘The cost could be rather high if I’m not to be out of pocket by staying. It might be as much as $80,000.’ Robin drew a deep breath.

Harvey didn’t blink.

‘Sure. You’re the best. That’s not a lot of money to stay alive.’

‘Very well. I’ll get back to my hotel and see if it’s possible to rearrange my schedule for you.’

Robin retreated from the sickroom and the white Rolls Royce took him back to the hotel. In room 217 they all sat staring at Robin in disbelief as he completed his story.

‘Stephen, for Christ’s sake, the man’s a raving hypochondriac. He wants me to stay on here while he convalesces. None of us planned for that.’

Stephen looked up coolly:

‘You’ll stay here and play ball. Why not give him value for money — at his own expense, of course. Go on, get on the blower and tell him you’ll be around to hold his hand every day at 11 am We’ll just have to go back without you. And keep the hotel bill down, won’t you?’

Robin picked up the telephone...

Three young men left the Hôtel de Paris after a long lunch in room 217, allowing themselves another bottle of Krug ’64, and then returned to Nice Airport in a taxi, catching BA flight 012 at 16.10 to London Heathrow. They were once again in separate seats. One sentence remained on Stephen’s mind from Robin’s reported conversation with Harvey Metcalfe.

‘If ever I can do anything for you, don’t hesitate to call me at any time.’

Robin visited his patient once a day, borne in the white Corniche with white-walled tires and a chauffeur in a white uniform. Only Harvey could be quite so brash, he thought. On the third, Nurse Faubert asked for a private word with him.

‘My patient,’ she said plaintively, ‘is making improper advances when I change his dressing.’

Robin allowed Dr Wiley Barker the liberty of an unprofessional remark.

‘Can’t say I altogether blame him. Still, be firm, Nurse. I’m sure you must have encountered that sort of thing before.’

‘Naturellement, but never from a patient only three days after major surgery. His constitution, it must be formidable.’

‘I tell you what, let’s catheterize him for a couple of days. That’ll cramp his style.’ She smiled. ‘It must be pretty boring for you cooped up here all day,’ Robin continued. ‘Why don’t you come and have a spot of supper with me after Mr Metcalfe has gone to sleep tonight?’

‘I should love to, Docteur. Where shall I meet you?’

‘Room 217, Hôtel de Paris,’ said Robin unblushingly. ‘Say 9 pm.’

‘I’ll look forward to it, Doctor.’

‘A little more Chablis, Angeline?’

‘No more, thank you, Wiley. That was a meal to remember. I think, maybe, you have not yet had everything you want?’

She got up, lit two cigarettes and put one in his mouth. Then she moved away, her long skirt swinging slightly from the hips. She wore no bra under her pink shirt. She exhaled smokily and watched him.

Robin thought of the blameless Doctor Barker in Australia, of his wife and children in Newbury, and the rest of the Team in London. Then he put them all out of his mind.

‘Will you complain to Mr Metcalfe if I make improper advances to you?’

‘From you, Wiley,’ she smiled, ‘they will not be improper.’

Harvey made a talkative recovery, and Robin removed the stitches gravely on the sixth day.

‘That seems to have healed very cleanly, Mr Metcalfe. Take it easy, and you should be back to normal by the middle of next week.’

‘Great. I have to get over to England right away for Ascot week. You know, my horse Rosalie is favorite this year. I suppose you can’t join me as my guest? What if I have a relapse?’

Robin suppressed a smile.

‘Don’t worry. You’re getting along fine. Sorry I can’t stay to see how Rosalie performs at Ascot.’

‘So am I, Doc. Thanks again, anyway. I’ve never met a surgeon like you before.’

And you’re not likely to again, thought Robin, his American accent beginning to fray at the edges. He bid his adieus to Harvey with relief and to Angeline with regret, and sent the chauffeur back from the hotel with a copperplate bill:

The chauffeur was back within the hour with a cash check for $80,000. Robin bore it back to London in triumph.

Two down and two to go.