‘It’s been a memorable three years, David,’ said Stephen, pouring him a second drink. ‘The only sad event was the death of my father last winter. He took such an interest in my life at Oxford and gave my academic work so much support. He’s left me rather well off, actually... Bath plugs were obviously more in demand than I realized. You might be kind enough to advise me on how to invest some of the money, because at the moment it’s just sitting on deposit in the bank. I never seem to have the time to do anything about it, and when it comes to investments I haven’t a clue.’
That started David off about his demanding new job with Prospecta Oil.
‘Why don’t you invest your money in my company, Stephen. We’ve had a fantastic strike in the North Sea, and when they announce it the shares are going to go through the roof. The whole operation would only take a month or so and you could make the killing of a lifetime. I only wish I had some of my own money to put into it.’
‘Have you had the full details of the strike?’
‘No, but I’ve seen the geologist’s report, and that makes pretty good reading. The shares are already going up fast and I’m convinced they’ll reach $20. The problem is that time is already running out.’
Stephen glanced at the geologist’s report, thinking he would study it carefully later.
‘How does one go about an investment of this sort?’ he asked.
‘Well, you find a respectable stockbroker, buy as many shares as you can afford and then wait for the strike to be announced. I’ll keep you informed on how things are going and advise you when I feel is the best time to sell.’
‘That would be extremely thoughtful of you, David.’
‘It’s the least I can do after all the help you gave me with math at Harvard.’
‘Oh, that was nothing. Let’s go and have some dinner.’
Stephen led David to the college dining hall, an oblong, oak-paneled room covered in pictures of past Presidents of Magdalen, bishops and academics. The long wooden tables at which the undergraduates were eating filled the body of the hall, but Stephen shuffled up to the High Table and offered David a more comfortable seat. The students were a noisy, enthusiastic bunch — Stephen didn’t notice them, but David was enjoying the whole experience.
The seven-course meal was formidable and David wondered how Stephen kept so thin with such daily temptations. When they reached the port, Stephen suggested they return to his rooms rather than join the crusty old dons in the Senior Common Room.
Late into the night, over the rubicund Magdalen port, they talked about North Sea oil and Boolean algebra, each admiring the other for his mastery of his subject. Stephen, like most academics, was fairly credulous outside the bounds of his own discipline. He began to think that an investment in Prospecta Oil would be a very astute move on his part.
In the morning, they strolled down Addison’s Walk near Magdalen Bridge, where the grass grows green and lush by the Cherwell. Reluctantly, David caught a taxi at 9.45 leaving Magdalen behind him and passing New College, Trinity, Balliol and finally Worcester, where he saw scrawled across the college wall, ‘c’est magnifique mais ce n’est pas la gare.’ He caught the 10.00 am train back to London. He had enjoyed his stay at Oxford and hoped he had been able to help his old Harvard friend, who had done so much for him in the past.
‘Good morning, David.’
‘Good morning, Bernie. I thought I ought to let you know I spent the evening with a friend at Oxford, and he may invest some money in the company. It might be as much as $250,000.’
‘That’s fine, David, keep up the good work. You’re doing a great job.’
Silverman showed no surprise at David’s news, but once back in his own office he picked up the red telephone.
‘Harvey?’
‘Yes.’
‘Kesler seems to have been the right choice. He may have talked a friend of his into investing $250,000 in the company.’
‘Good. Now listen carefully. Brief my broker to put 40,000 shares on the market at just over $6 a share. If Kesler’s friend does decide to invest in the company, mine will be the only large block of shares immediately available.’
After a further day’s consideration, Stephen noticed that the shares of Prospecta Oil moved from £2.75 to £3.05 and decided the time had come to invest in what he was now convinced must be a winner. He trusted David, and had been impressed by the glossy geologist’s report. He rang Kitcat & Aitken, a firm of stockbrokers in the City, and instructed them to buy $250,000 worth of shares in Prospecta Oil. Harvey Metcalfe’s broker released 40,000 shares when Stephen’s request came onto the floor of the stock exchange and the transaction was quickly completed. Stephen’s purchase price was £3.10.
After investing his father’s inheritance, Stephen spent the next few days happily watching the shares climb to £3.50, even before the expected announcement. Though Stephen didn’t realize it, it was his own investment that had caused the shares to rise. He began to wonder what he would spend the profit on even before he had realized it. He decided not to cash in immediately, but hold on; David thought the shares would reach $20, and in any case he had promised to tell him when to sell.
Meanwhile, Harvey Metcalfe began to release a few more shares onto the market, because of the interest created by Stephen’s investment. He was beginning to agree with Silverman that David Kesler, young, honest, and with all the enthusiasm of a man in his first appointment, had been an excellent choice. It was not the first time Harvey had used this ploy, keeping himself well away from the action while placing the responsibility on inexperienced, innocent shoulders.
At the same time, Richard Elliott, acting as the company spokesman, leaked stories to the press about large buyers coming into the market, which in itself occasioned a flood of small investors and kept the price steady.
One lesson a man learns in the Harvard Business School is that an executive is only as good as his health. David never felt happy without a regular medical check-up; he rather enjoyed being told he was in good shape, but perhaps should take things a little easier. His secretary, Miss Rentoul, had therefore made an appointment for him with a Harley Street doctor.
Dr Robin Oakley was by anyone’s standards a successful man. At thirty-seven he was tall and handsome, with a head of dark hair that looked as if it would never recede. He had a classic strong face and the self-assurance that came from proven success. He still played squash twice a week, which helped him look enviably younger than his contemporaries. Robin had remained fit since his Cambridge days, which he left with a Rugby Blue and an upper-second-class degree. He had gone on to complete his medical training at St Thomas’s, where once again his Rugby football rather than his medical skill brought him into prominence with those who decide the future careers of young men. When he qualified, he went to work as an assistant to a highly successful Harley Street practitioner, Dr Eugene Moffat. Dr Moffat was successful not so much in curing the sick as in charming the rich, especially middle-aged women, who came to see him again and again however little seemed to be wrong with them. At fifty guineas a visit that had to be regarded as success.