Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

3

David arrived at the office at 9 am on Monday to find that the front door was locked. He could not understand it. The secretaries were supposed to be in by 8.45.

After waiting around for over an hour, he walked to the nearest telephone box and dialed Bernie Silverman’s home number. There was no reply. He then rang Richard Elliott at home: the ringing tone continued. He rang the Aberdeen office with the same result. He decided to return to the office. There must be a simple explanation, he thought. Was he daydreaming? Or was it Sunday? No — the streets were jammed with people and cars.

When he arrived back at the office a young man was nailing up a board. ‘2,500 sq ft to let. Apply Conrad Ritblat.’

‘What in hell’s name are you up to?’ David demanded.

‘The old tenants have given notice and left. We’re looking for new ones. Are you interested in looking over the property?’

‘No,’ said David, backing away in panic. ‘No, thank you.’

He raced down the street, sweat beginning to show on his forehead, praying that the telephone box would still be empty.

He flicked quickly through the L-R directory and looked up Bernie Silverman’s secretary, Judith Lampson. This time there was a reply.

‘Judith, in God’s name, what’s going on?’ His voice could have left her in no doubt how anxious he was.

‘No idea,’ replied Judith. ‘I was given my notice on Friday night with a month’s pay in advance and no explanation.’

David dropped the telephone. The truth was slowly beginning to dawn on him although he still wanted to believe there was some simple explanation. Whom could he turn to? What should he do?

He returned in a daze to his flat in the Barbican. The morning post had arrived in his absence. It included a letter from the landlords of his flat:

David stood frozen in the middle of the room, gazing at his new Underwood with sudden loathing.

Finally, fearfully, he dialed his stockbrokers.

‘What price are Prospecta Oil this morning?’

‘They’ve dipped to £3.80,’ replied the broker.

‘Why have they fallen?’

‘I’ve no idea, but I’ll make some inquiries and ring you back.’

‘Please put my 500 shares on the market immediately.’

‘500 Prospecta Oil at market price. Yes, sir.’

David put the phone down. It rang a few minutes later. It was his broker.

‘They’ve only made £3.50 — exactly what you paid for them.’

‘Would you credit the sum to my account at Lloyd’s Bank, Moorgate Branch?’

‘Of course, sir.’

David did not leave the flat for the rest of the day or night. He lay on his bed chain-smoking, wondering what he ought to do next, sometimes looking out of his little window over a rain-drenched City of banks, insurance companies, stockbrokers and public companies — his own world, but for how much longer? In the morning, as soon as the market opened, he rang his broker again, in the hope that they would have some new information.

‘Can you give me any more news on Prospecta Oil?’ His voice was tense and weary now.

‘The news is bad, sir. There’s been a spate of heavy selling and the shares have dropped to £2.80 on the opening of business this morning.’

‘Why? What the hell’s going on?’ His voice rose with every word.

‘I’ve no idea, sir,’ replied a calm voice that always made one per cent, win or lose.

David replaced the receiver. All those years at Harvard were about to be blown away in a puff of smoke. An hour passed, but he did not notice it.

He ate lunch in an inconspicuous restaurant and read a disturbing report in the London Evening Standard by its City Editor, David Malbert, headlined ‘The Mystery of Prospecta Oil.’ By the close of the Stock Exchange at 4 pm the shares had fallen to £1.60.

David spent another restless night. He thought with pain and humiliation of how easily two months of good salary, a quick bonus and a good deal of smooth talk had bought his unquestioning belief in an enterprise that should have excited all business suspicion. He felt sick as he recalled his man-to-man tips on Prospecta Oil, whispered confidentially into willing ears.

On Wednesday morning, dreading what he knew he was bound to hear, David once again rang the broker. The shares had collapsed to £1 and there was no longer a market for them. He left the flat and walked over to Lloyd’s bank where he closed his account and drew out the remaining £1,345. The cashier smiled at him as she passed over the notes, thinking what a successful young man he must be.

David picked up the final edition of the Evening Standard (the one marked ‘7RR’ in the right-hand corner). Prospecta Oil had dropped again, this time to 25 pence. Numbed, he returned to his flat. The housekeeper was on the stairs.

‘The police have been around inquiring after you, young man,’ she said haughtily.

David climbed the stairs, trying to look unperturbed.

‘Thank you, Mrs Pearson. I guess it’s another parking fine I forgot to pay.’

Panic had now taken over completely: David never felt so small, so lonely and so sick in his life. He packed everything he owned into a suitcase, except the painting, which he left hanging on the wall, and booked a one-way ticket to New York.