Not a Penny More Not a Penny Less Read online

  “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.

  Chapter Eleven

  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.”

  “That,” said Jean-Pierre, “will not be possible.”

  “How are the baccarat and blackjack coming on?” continued Robin.

  “I have lost $37 in five weeks, which includes my member’s fee at the Claremont and the Golden Nugget.”

  “It all goes on expenses,” said Stephen. “That puts the bill up to $563,619.”

  The others laughed. Only Stephen’s lips did not move. He was in sober earnest.

  “James, how is your handling of the van going?”

  “I can reach Harley Street from St. Thomas’s in 14 minutes. I should be able to do the actual run in Monte Carlo in about 11 minutes, though naturally I shall want to do some practice runs the day before. To start with I’ll have to master driving on the wrong side of the road.”

  “Strange how everybody except the British drives on the wrong side of the road,” observed Jean-Pierre.

  James ignored him.

  “I’m not sure of all the continental road signs either.”

  “They are detailed in the Michelin guide that I gave you as part of my dossier.”

  “I know, but I’ll still feel easier when I’ve experienced the actual run and not just studied maps. There are quite a few one-way streets in Monaco and I don’t want to be stopped going down the wrong one with Harvey Metcalfe unconscious in the back.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll have ample time when we’re there. So, that only leaves Stephen, who’s about the most competent medical student I’ve ever had. You’re confident of your newly acquired knowledge, I hope?”

  “About as confident as I am with your American accent, Robin. Anyway, I trust that Harvey Metcalfe will be in no state of mind to worry about such trivialities by the time we meet up.”

  “Don’t worry, Stephen. Believe me, he wouldn’t even register who you were if you introduced yourself as Herr Drosser with a Van Gogh under both arms.”

  Robin handed around the final schedule of rehearsals for Harley Street and St. Thomas’s, and once again consulted the green file.

  “I’ve booked four single rooms on different floors at the Hôtel de Paris and confirmed all the arrangements with the Centre Hospitalier Princesse Grace. The hotel is reputed to be one of the best in the world—it’s certainly expensive enough—but it’s convenient for the Casino. We fly to Nice on Monday, the day after Harvey is due to arrive on his yacht.”

  “What do we do for the rest of the week?” inquired James innocently.

  Stephen resumed control:

  “We master the green dossier backward, frontward and sideways for a full dress rehearsal on Friday. The most important thing for you, James, is to get a grip of yourself and let us know what you intend to do.”

  James sunk back into gloom.

  Stephen closed his file briskly.

  “That seems to be all we can cover tonight.”

  “Hang on, Stephen,” said Robin. “Let’s strip you off once more. I’d like to see if we can do it in 90 seconds.”

  Stephen lay down slightly reluctantly in the middle of the room, an