‘Have you a Mr Drosser staying at this hotel? I think it’s room 120,’ barked Harvey.
The receptionist looked through the card index.
‘Yes, sir. Is he expecting you?’
‘No, but I’ll have a word with him on the house phone.’
‘Of course, sir. If you’d be kind enough to go through the small archway on your left you will find five telephones. One of them is a house phone.’
Harvey marched through the archway as directed.
‘Room 120,’ he instructed the operator, who sat in his own little section, wearing the green Dorchester uniform with golden castles on the lapels.
‘Cubicle No. 1, please, sir.’
‘Mr Drosser?’
‘Speaking,’ said Stephen, summoning up his German accent for a sustained effort.
‘My name is Harvey Metcalfe. I wonder if I could come up and have a word with you? It’s about the Van Gogh you bought this morning.’
‘Well, it’s a little inconvenient at the moment. I am about to take a shower and I do have a lunch appointment.’
‘I won’t keep you more than a few minutes.’
Before Stephen could reply, the telephone had clicked. A few moments later there was a knock on the door. Stephen’s legs wobbled. He answered it nervously. He had changed into a white Dorchester dressing-gown and his brown hair was somewhat disheveled and darker than normal. It was the only disguise he could think of at such short notice as the original plan had not allowed for a face-to-face meeting with Harvey.
‘Sorry to intrude, Mr Drosser, but I had to see you immediately. I know you have just purchased a Van Gogh from the Lamanns Gallery and I was hoping that, as you are a dealer, you might be willing to sell it on for a quick profit.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Stephen, relaxing for the first time. ‘I’ve wanted a Van Gogh for my gallery in Munich for many years. I’m sorry, Mr Metcalfe, it’s not for sale.’
‘Listen, you paid 170,000 guineas for it. What’s that in dollars?’
Stephen paused.
‘Oh, about $435,000.’
‘I’ll give you $15,000 if you release the picture to me. All you have to do is ring the gallery and tell them that the picture is now mine and that I will cover the bill.’
Stephen sat silent, not sure how to handle the situation without blowing it. Think like Harvey Metcalfe, he told himself.
‘$20,000 in cash and you’ve got a deal.’
Harvey hesitated. Stephen’s legs wobbled again.
‘Done,’ said Harvey. ‘Ring the gallery immediately.’
Stephen picked up the telephone.
‘Can you get me the Lamanns Gallery in Bond Street as quickly as possible please — I have a lunch appointment.’
A few seconds later the call came through.
‘Lamanns Gallery.’
‘I would like to speak to Mr Lamanns.’
‘At last, Stephen. What the hell is happening your end?’
‘Ah, Mr Lamanns, this is Herr Drosser. You remember, I was in your gallery earlier this morning.’
‘Of course I remember, you fool. What are you going on about, Stephen? It’s me — Jean-Pierre.’
‘I have a Mr Metcalfe with me.’
‘Christ, I’m sorry, Stephen. I didn’t...’
‘And you can expect him in the next few minutes.’
Stephen looked toward Harvey who nodded his assent.
‘You are to release the Van Gogh I purchased this morning to Mr Metcalfe and he will give you a check for the full amount, 170,000 guineas.’
‘Out of disaster, triumph,’ said Jean-Pierre quietly.
‘I’m very sorry I shall not be the owner of the picture myself, but I have, as the Americans would say, had an offer I can’t refuse. Thank you for the part you played,’ said Stephen and put the telephone down.
Harvey was writing out a check to cash for $20,000.
‘Thank you, Mr Drosser. You have made me a happy man.’
‘I am not complaining myself,’ said Stephen honestly. He escorted Harvey to the door and they shook hands.
‘Good-bye, sir.’
‘Good day, Mr Metcalfe.’
Stephen closed the door and tottered to the chair, almost too weak to move.
Robin and James saw Harvey leave the Dorchester. Robin followed him in the direction of the gallery, his hopes rising with each stride. James took the lift to the first floor and nearly ran to Room 120. He banged on the door. Stephen jumped at the noise. He didn’t feel he could face Harvey again. He opened the door.
‘James, it’s you. Cancel the room, pay for one night and then join me in the cocktail bar.’
‘Why? What for?’
‘A bottle of Krug 1964 Privée Cuvée.’
One down and three to go.
11
Jean-Pierre was the last to arrive at Lord Brigsley’s King’s Road flat. He felt he had earned the right to make an entrance. Harvey’s checks had been cleared and the Lamanns Gallery account was for the moment $447,560 in credit. The painting was in Harvey’s possession and the heavens had not yet fallen in. Jean-Pierre had cleared more money in two months of crime than he had in ten years of legitimate trading.
The other three greeted him with the acclaim normally reserved for a sporting hero, and a glass of James’s last bottle of Veuve Clicquot 1959.
‘We were lucky to pull it off,’ said Robin.
‘We weren’t lucky,’ said Stephen. ‘We kept our nerve under pressure, and the one thing we’ve learned from the exercise is that Harvey can change the rules in the middle of the game.’
‘He almost changed the game, Stephen.’
‘Agreed. So we must always remember that we shall fail unless we can be as successful, not once, but four times. We must not underestimate our opponent just because we’ve won the first round.’
‘Relax, Professor,’ said James. ‘We can get down to business again after dinner. Anne came in this afternoon especially to make the salmon mousse, and it won’t go down well with Harvey Metcalfe.’
‘When am I going to meet this fabulous creature?’ asked Jean-Pierre.
‘When this is all over and behind us.’
‘Don’t marry her, James. She’s only after our money.’
They all laughed. James hoped the day would come when he could tell them she had known all along. He produced the boeuf en croûte and two bottles of Echezeaux 1970. Jean-Pierre sniffed the sauce appreciatively.
‘On second thought she ought to be seriously considered if her touch in bed is half as deft as it is in the kitchen.’
‘You’re not going to get the chance to be the judge of that, Jean-Pierre. Content yourself with admiring her French dressing.’
‘You were quite outstanding this morning, James,’ said Stephen, steering the conversation away from Jean-Pierre’s pet subject. ‘You should go on the stage. As a member of the British aristocracy, your talent’s simply wasted.’
‘I’ve always wanted to, but my old pa is against it. Those who live in expectation of a large inheritance must expect to have to toe the filial line.’
‘Why don’t we let him play all four parts in Monte Carlo?’ suggested Robin.
The mention of Monte Carlo sobered them up.
‘Back to work,’ said Stephen. ‘We have so far received $447,560. Expenses with the picture and an unexpected night at the Dorchester were $11,142 so Metcalfe still owes us $563,582. Think of what we’ve still lost, not of what we’ve gained. Now for the Monte Carlo operation, which depends upon split-second timing and our ability to sustain our roles for several hours. Robin will bring us up to date.’
Robin retrieved the green dossier from the briefcase by his side and studied his notes for a few moments.
‘Jean-Pierre, you must grow a beard, starting today, so that in three weeks’ time you’ll be unrecognizable. You must also cut your hair very short.’ Robin grinned unsympathetically at Jean-Pierre’s grimace. ‘Yes, you’ll look absolutely revolting.’