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.