Not a Penny More Not a Penny Less Read online

  The Kundas brothers, second-generation Greeks who loved racing almost as much as ships, could hardly be told apart, with their black hair, swarthy skins and heavy dark eyebrows. It was difficult to guess how old they were, and nobody knew how much they were worth. They probably did not know themselves. Harvey’s final guest, Nick Lloyd of the News of the World, had come along to pick up any dirt he could about his host. He had come near to exposing Metcalfe in the mid-’sixties, but another scandal had kept less juicy stories off the front page for several weeks, and by then Harvey had escaped. Lloyd, hunched over the inevitable triple gin with a faint suggestion of tonic, watched the motley bunch with interest.

  “Telegram for you, sir.”

  Harvey ripped it open. He was never neat about anything.

  “It’s from my daughter Rosalie. It’s cute of her to remember, but damn it all, I named the horse after her. Come on everybody, let’s eat.”

  They all took their seats for lunch—cold vichyssoise, pheasant and strawberries. Harvey was even more loquacious than usual, but his guests took no notice, aware he was nervous before the race and knowing that he would rather be a winner of this trophy than any he could be offered in America. Harvey himself could never understand why he felt that way. Perhaps it was the special atmosphere of Ascot which appealed to him so strongly—the combination of lush green grass and gracious surroundings, of elegant crowds and an efficiency of organization which made Ascot the envy of the racing world.

  “You must have a better chance this year than ever before, Harvey,” said the senior banker.

  “Well, you know, Sir Howard, Lester Piggott is riding the Duke of Devonshire’s horse, Crown Princess, and the Queen’s horse, Highclere, is the joint favorite, so I can’t afford to overestimate my chances. When you’ve been third twice before, and then favorite and not placed, you begin to wonder if one of your horses is going to make it.”

  “Another telegram, sir.”

  Once again Harvey’s fat little finger ripped it open.

  “ ‘All best wishes and good luck for the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes.’ It’s from the staff of your bank, Sir Howard. Jolly good show.”

  Harvey’s Polish-American accent made the English expression sound slightly ridiculous.

  “More champagne, everybody.”

  Another telegram arrived.

  “At this rate, Harvey, you’ll need a special room at the Post Office.” There was laughter all around at Sir Howard’s feeble joke. Once again Harvey read it out aloud:

  “ ‘Regret unable to join you Ascot. Heading soonest California. Grateful look out for old friend Professor Rodney Porter, Oxford Nobel Prize Winner. Don’t let English bookies stitch you up. Wiley B., Heathrow Airport.’ It’s from Wiley Barker. He’s the guy who did stitch me up in Monte Carlo. He saved my life. He took out a gallstone the size of that bread roll you’re eating, Dr. Hogan. Now how the hell am I supposed to find this Professor Porter?” Harvey turned to the head waiter. “Find my chauffeur.”

  A few seconds later the smartly clad Guy Salmon flunkey appeared.

  “There’s a Professor Rodney Porter of Oxford here today. Go find him.”

  “What does he look like, sir?”

  “How the hell do I know,” said Harvey. “Like a professor.”

  The chauffeur regretfully abandoned his plans for an afternoon at the railings and departed, leaving Harvey and his guests to enjoy the strawberries, the champagne and the string of telegrams that were still arriving.

  “You know if you win, the cup will be presented by the Queen,” said Nick Lloyd.

  “You bet. It’ll be the crowning moment of my life to win the King George and Elizabeth Stakes and meet Her Majesty The Queen. If Rosalie wins, I’ll suggest my daughter marries Prince Charles—they’re about the same age.”

  “I don’t think even you will be able to fix that, Harvey.”

  “What’ll you do with the odd £81,000 prize money, Mr. Metcalfe?” asked Jamie Clark.

  “Give it to some charity,” said Harvey, pleased with the impression the remark made on his guests.

  “Very generous, Harvey. Typical of your reputation.” Nick Lloyd gave Michael Hogan a knowing look. Even if the others didn’t, they both knew what was typical of his reputation.

  The chauffeur returned to report that there was no trace of a solitary professor anywhere in the champagne bar, balcony luncheon room or the paddock buffet, and that he’d been unable to gain access to the Members’ Enclosure.

  “Naturally not,” said Harvey rather pompously. “I shall have to find him myself. Drink up and enjoy yourselves.”

  Harvey rose and walked to the door with the chauffeur. Once he was out of earshot of his guests, he said: “Get your ass out of here and don’t give me any crap about not being able to find him or you can find something for yourself—another job.”

  The chauffeur bolted. Harvey turned to his guests and smiled.

  “I’m going to look at the runners and riders for the 2 o’clock.”

  “He’s leaving the box now,” said James.

  “What’s that you’re saying?” asked an authoritative voice he recognized. “Talking to yourself, James?”

  James stared at the noble Lord Somerset, 6 ft. 1 in. and still able to stand his full height, an M.C. and a D.S.O. in the First World War. He still exuded enthusiastic energy although the lines on his face suggested that he had passed the age at which the Maker had fulfilled his contract.

  “Oh hell. No, sir, I was just…em…coughing.”

  “What do you fancy in the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes?” asked the peer of the realm.

  “Well, I have put £5 each way on Rosalie, sir.”

  “He seems to have cut himself off,” said Stephen.

  “Well, buzz him again,” said Jean-Pierre.

  “What’s that noise, James? Have you taken to a hearing-aid or something?”

  “No, sir. It’s…it’s…it’s a transistor radio.”

  “Those things ought to be banned. Bloody invasion of privacy.”

  “Absolutely right, sir.”

  “What’s he playing at, Stephen?”

  “I don’t know—I think something must have happened.”

  “Oh my god, it’s Harvey heading straight for us. You go into the Members’ Enclosure, Stephen, and I’ll follow you. Take a deep breath and relax. He hasn’t seen us.”

  Harvey marched up to the official blocking the entrance to the Members’ Enclosure.

  “I’m Harvey Metcalfe, the owner of Rosalie, and this is my badge.”

  The official let Harvey through. Thirty years ago, he thought, they would not have let him into the Members’ Enclosure if he’d owned every horse in the race. Then racing at Ascot was only held on four days a year, jolly social occasions. Now it was twenty-four days a year and big business. Times had changed. Jean-Pierre followed closely, showing his pass without speaking to the official.

  A photographer broke away from stalking the outrageous hats for which Ascot has such a reputation, and took a picture of Harvey just in case Rosalie won the King George VI Stakes. As soon as his bulb flashed he rushed over to the other entrance, where Linda Lovelace, the star of Deep Throat, the film running to packed houses in New York but banned in England, was trying to enter the Members’ Enclosure. In spite of being introduced to a well-known London banker, Richard Szpiro, just as he was entering the Enclosure, she was not succeeding. She was wearing a top hat and morning suit with nothing under the top coat, and no one was going to bother with Harvey while she was around. When Miss Lovelace was quite certain that every photographer had taken a picture of her attempting to enter the Enclosure she left, swearing at the top of her voice, her publicity stunt completed.

  Harvey returned to studying the horses as Stephen moved up to within a few feet of him.

  “Here we go again,” said Jean-Pierre in French and went smartly over to Stephen and, standing directly between the two of them, shook Stephen’s ha