Not a Penny More Not a Penny Less Read online

  “No,” said Robin. “I have my own anesthetist and staff, but I will require a tray of laparotomy instruments to be laid out every night. However, I will be able to give you at least an hour’s warning before you need make any final preparations.”

  “That’s plenty of time. Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “Yes, the special vehicle I ordered. Can it be ready for my driver at 12 P.M. tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Doctor Barker. It will be in the small car park behind the hospital and your driver can pick up the keys from the reception.”

  “Can you recommend an agency from which I can hire an experienced nurse for postoperative care?”

  “Bien sûr, the Auxiliaire Médical of Nice will be only too happy to oblige—at a certain price, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Robin. “And that reminds me to ask, have all your expenses been dealt with?”

  “Yes, Doctor. We received a check from California last Thursday for $7,000.”

  Robin had been very pleased with that touch. It had been so simple. Stephen had contacted his bank at Harvard and asked them to send a draft from the First National City Bank in San Francisco to the hospital secretary at Monte Carlo.

  “Thank you for all your help, Monsieur Bartise. You have been most obliging. Now you do understand that I am not quite sure which night I shall be bringing my patient in. He’s a sick man, although he doesn’t know it, and I have to prepare him for the operation.”

  “Of course, mon cher Docteur.”

  “Finally, I would appreciate it if you would tell as few people as possible that I am in Monte Carlo. I am trying to snatch a holiday at the same time as working.”

  “I understand, Doctor Barker. You can be assured of my discretion.”

  Robin and Stephen bade farewell to Monsieur Bartise and took a taxi back to the hotel.

  “I’m always slightly humiliated by how well the French speak our language compared with our grasp of theirs,” said Stephen.

  “It’s all the fault of you bloody Americans,” said Robin.

  “No, it isn’t. If France had conquered America, your French would be excellent. Blame it on the Pilgrim Fathers.”

  Robin laughed. Neither of them spoke again until they reached room 217 for fear of being overheard. Stephen had no doubts about the responsibility and risk they were taking with Robin’s plan.

  Harvey Metcalfe was on the deck of his yacht, sunbathing and reading the morning papers. Nice-Matin, irritatingly enough, was in French. He read it laboriously, with the aid of a dictionary, to see if there were any social events to which he ought to get himself invited. He had gambled late into the night, and was enjoying the sun’s rays on his fleshy back. If money could have obtained it, he would have been 6 ft. and 170 lbs. with a handsome head of hair, but no amount of suntan oil would stop his balding dome from burning, so he covered it with a cap inscribed with the words “I’m sexy.” If Miss Fish could see him now…

  At 11 A.M., as Harvey turned over and allowed the sun to see his massive stomach, James strolled into room 217 where the rest of the Team were waiting for him.

  Jean-Pierre reported on the layout of the Casino and Harvey Metcalfe’s habits. James brought them up to date on the result of his race through the city the night before and confirmed that he thought he could cover the distance in just under eleven minutes.

  “Perfect,” said Robin. “Stephen and I took 15 minutes by taxi from the hospital to the hotel so if Jean-Pierre warns me immediately the balloon goes up in the Casino, I should have enough time to see that everything is ready before you all arrive.”

  “I do hope the balloon will be going down, not up, in the Casino,” remarked Jean-Pierre.

  “I have booked an agency nurse to be on call from tomorrow night. The hospital has all the facilities I require. It’ll take about two minutes to walk a stretcher from the front door to the theater, so from the moment James leaves the car park I should have at least 16 minutes to prepare myself. James, you’ll be able to pick up the vehicle from the hospital car park at 12 P.M. The keys have been left in reception in the name of Dr. Barker. Do a couple of practice runs and no more. I don’t want you causing interest by looking conspicuous. And could you leave this parcel in the back, please.”

  “What is it?”

  “Three long white laboratory coats and a stethoscope for Stephen. While you’re at it, better check that you can unfold the stretcher easily. When you’ve finished the two runs, put the vehicle back in the car park and return to your room until 11 P.M. From then through to 4 A.M. you’ll have to wait in the car park until you get the ‘action stations’ or ‘all clear’ signal from Jean-Pierre. Everybody buy new batteries for your transmitters. I don’t want the whole plan to collapse for the sake of a ten-penny battery. I’m afraid there’s nothing much for you to do, Jean-Pierre, until this evening, except relax. I hope you have some good books in your room.”

  “Can’t I go to the Princess Cinema and see François Truffaut’s La Nuit Américaine? I just adore Jacqueline Bisset. Vive la France.”

  “My dear Jean-Pierre, Miss Bisset’s from Reading,” said James.

  “I don’t care. I still want to see her.”

  “A frog he would a-wooing go,” said James mockingly.

  “But why not?” said Robin. “The last thing Harvey will do is take in an intellectual French film with no subtitles. Hope you enjoy it—and good luck tonight, Jean-Pierre.”

  Jean-Pierre left for his room as quietly as he had come, leaving the rest of them together in room 217.

  “Right, James. You can do your practice runs any time that suits you. Just make sure you’re wide awake tonight.”

  “Fine. I’ll go and pick up the keys from the hospital reception. Let’s just hope nobody stops me for a real emergency.”

  “Now, Stephen, let’s go over the details again. There’s more than money to lose if we get this one wrong. We’ll start from the top. What do you do if the nitrous oxide falls below five liters…”

  “Station check—station check—operation Metcalfe. This is Jean-Pierre. I am on the steps of the Casino. Can you hear me, James?”

  “Yes. I am in the car park of the hospital. Out.”

  “Robin here. I am on the balcony of room 217. Is Stephen with you, Jean-Pierre?”

  “Yes. He’s drinking on his own at the bar.”

  “Good luck and out.”

  Jean-Pierre carried out a station check every hour on the hour from 7 P.M. until 11 P.M., merely to inform Robin and James that Harvey had not arrived.

  Eventually, at 11:16, he did show up, and took his reserved place at the baccarat table. Stephen stopped sipping his tomato juice and Jean-Pierre moved over and waited patiently by the table for one of the men seated on the left or right of Harvey to leave. An hour passed by. Harvey was losing a little, but continued to play. So did the tall thin American on his right and the Frenchman on his left. Another hour and still no movement. Then suddenly the Frenchman on the left of Metcalfe had a particularly bad run, gathered his few remaining chips and left the table. Jean-Pierre moved forward.

  “I am afraid, Monsieur, that that seat is reserved for another gentleman,” said the banker. “We do have an unreserved place on the other side of the table.”

  “It’s not important,” said Jean-Pierre, who backed away, not wanting to be remembered, cursing the deference with which the Monégasques treat the wealthy. Stephen could see from the bar what had happened and made furtive signs to leave. They were all back in room 217 just after 2 A.M.

  “What a bloody silly mistake. Merde, merde, merde. I should have thought of reservations the moment I knew Harvey had one.”

  “No, it was my fault. I don’t know anything about how casinos work and I should have queried it during rehearsals,” said Robin, stroking his newly acquired mustache.

  “No one is to blame,” chipped in Stephen. “We still have three more nights, so no need to panic. We’ll just have to work out how to overcome the se