‘I need a girl today,’ James said. How he would have liked to have informed Stacpoole that Anne was back in town. ‘If you find either of them are free for any reason, perhaps you would ring me at 735–7227.’
James rang off, a little disappointed. At least, he thought, if nothing comes of it today he could start planning his part in the Team versus Harvey Metcalfe. He was just resigning himself to that when the phone rang. A shrill, high-pitched voice announced:
‘This is the Stacpoole Agency. Mr Stacpoole would like to speak to Lord Brigsley.’
‘Speaking,’ said James.
‘I’ll put you through, my lord.’
‘Lord Brigsley?’
‘Yes.’
‘Stacpoole here, my lord. It seems Anne Summerton is free today. When would you like her to come to your shop?’
‘Oh,’ said James, taken aback for a second. ‘The shop is in Berkeley Street, next to the Empress Restaurant. It’s called Albemarle Antiques. Perhaps we could meet outside at 12.45?’
‘I’m sure that will be acceptable, my lord. If I don’t ring you back in the next ten minutes, you can assume the meeting is on. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to let us know if she’s suitable. We normally prefer you to come to the office, but I’m sure we can make an exception in your case.’
‘Thank you,’ said James and put the phone down, pleased with himself.
James stood on the west side of Berkeley Street in the doorway of the Mayfair Hotel so that he could watch Anne arriving. When it came to work, Anne was always on time, and at 12.40 pm she appeared from the Piccadilly end of the street. Her skirt was of the latest elegant length, but this time James could see that her legs were as slim and shapely as the rest of her. She stopped outside the Empress Restaurant and looked in bewilderment at the Brazilian Trade Centre on her right and the Rolls Royce showrooms of H. R. Owen on her left.
James strode across the road, a large grin on his face.
‘Good morning,’ he said casually.
‘Oh hello,’ said Anne, ‘what a coincidence.’
‘What are you doing here all alone and looking lost?’ said James.
‘I’m trying to find a shop called Albemarle Antiques. You don’t know it by any chance? I must have the wrong street. As you go in for knowing lords, you might know the owner, Lord Brigsley?’
James smiled:
‘I am Lord Brigsley.’
Anne looked surprised and then burst out laughing. She realized what James had done and was flattered by the compliment.
They lunched together at the Empress, James’s favorite eating place in town. He explained to Anne why it had been Lord Clarendon’s favorite restaurant as well — ‘Ah,’ he had once declared, ‘the millionaires are just a little fatter, and the mistresses are just a little thinner, than in any other restaurant in town.’
The meal was a triumph and James had to admit that Anne was the best thing that had happened to him for a long time. After lunch she asked where the agency should send their account.
‘With what I have in mind for the future,’ replied James, ‘they’d better be prepared for a large bad debt.’
7
Stephen wrung James warmly by the hand the way the Americans will and presented him with a large whiskey on the rocks. Impressive memory, thought James, as he took a gulp to give himself a little Dutch courage, and then joined Robin and Jean-Pierre. By unspoken mutual consent, the name of Harvey Metcalfe was not mentioned. They chattered inconsequentially of nothing in particular, each clutching his own dossier, until Stephen summoned them to the table. Stephen had not, on this occasion, exercised the talents of the college chef and the butler to the Senior Common Room. Instead, sandwiches, beer and coffee were stacked neatly on the table, and the college servants were not in evidence.
‘This is a working supper,’ said Stephen firmly, ‘and as Harvey Metcalfe will eventually be footing the bill, I’ve cut down considerably on the hospitality. We don’t want to make our task unnecessarily harder by eating our way through hundreds of dollars per meeting.’
The other three sat down quietly as Stephen took out some closely typed sheets of paper.
‘I’ll begin,’ he said, ‘with a general comment. I’ve been doing some further research into Harvey Metcalfe’s movements over the next few months. He seems to spend every summer doing the same round of social and sporting events. Most of the details are already well documented in your files. My latest findings are summarized on this separate sheet which should be added as page 38A of your dossiers. It reads:
Harvey Metcalfe will arrive in England on the morning of June 21st on board the Q.E. 2, docking at Southampton. He has already reserved the Trafalgar Suite for his crossing and booked a Rolls Royce from Guy Salmon to take him to Claridge’s. He will stay there for two weeks in the Royal Suite and he has his own debenture tickets for every day of the Wimbledon Championships. When they are over he flies to Monte Carlo to stay on his yacht Messenger Boy for another two weeks. He then returns to London and Claridge’s to see his filly, Rosalie, run in the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes. He has a private box at Ascot for all five days of Ascot Week. He returns to America on a Pan American jumbo jet from London Heathrow on July 29th, flight no. 009 at 11.15 to Logan International Airport, Boston.’
The others attached page 38A to their dossiers, aware once again how much detailed research Stephen had undertaken. James was beginning to feel ill, and it certainly was not the excellent salmon sandwiches that were causing his discomfort.
‘The next decision to be taken,’ said Stephen, ‘is to allocate the times during Metcalfe’s trip to Europe when each plan will be put into operation. Robin, which section would you prefer?’
‘Monte Carlo,’ said Robin without hesitation. ‘I need to catch the bastard off his home ground.’
‘Anyone else want Monte Carlo?’
Nobody spoke.
‘Which would you prefer, Jean-Pierre?’
‘I’d like Wimbledon fortnight.’
‘Any other takers?’
Again, nobody spoke. Stephen continued:
‘I’m keen to have the Ascot slot myself and the short time before he returns to America. What about you, James?’
‘It won’t make any difference what period I have,’ said James rather sheepishly.
‘Right,’ said Stephen.
Everybody, except James, seemed to be warming to the exercise.
‘Now expenses. Have all of you brought your checks for $10,000? I think it’s wise to think in dollars as that was the currency Harvey Metcalfe worked in.’
Each member of the Team passed over a check to Stephen. At least, thought James, this is something I can do as well as the others.
‘Expenses to date?’
Each passed a chit to Stephen again and he began to work out figures on his stylish little HP 65 calculator, the digits glowing red in the dimly lit room.
‘The shares cost us $1 million. Expenses to date are $142, so Mr Metcalfe is in debt to us to the tune of $1,000,142. Not a penny more and not a penny less,’ he repeated. ‘Now to our individual plans. We will take them in the order of execution.’ Stephen was pleased with that word. ‘Jean-Pierre, Robin, myself and finally James. The floor is yours, Jean-Pierre.’
Jean-Pierre opened a large envelope and took out four sets of documents. He was determined to show that he had the measure of Stephen as well as of Harvey Metcalfe. He handed around photographs and road maps of the West End and Mayfair. Each street was marked with a number, indicating how many minutes it took to walk. Jean-Pierre explained his plan in great detail, starting with the crucial meeting he had had with David Stein, and ending with the roles the others would have to carry out.