‘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.’