Not a Penny More Not a Penny Less Read online

  Stephen nodded.

  “First, sir, what made you invest such a large amount in Prospecta Oil?”

  The Inspector had in front of him a sheet of paper with a list of all the investments made in the company over the past four months.

  “The advice of a friend,” replied Stephen.

  “Mr. David Kesler, no doubt?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know Mr. Kesler?”

  “We were students at Harvard together and when he took up his appointment in England to work for an oil company, I invited him down to Oxford for old times’ sake.”

  Stephen went on to detail the full background of his association with David, and the reason he had been willing to invest such a large amount. He ended his explanation by asking if the Inspector thought that David was criminally involved in the rise and fall of Prospecta Oil.

  “No, sir. My own view is that Kesler, who incidentally has made a run for it and left the country, is no more than the dupe of bigger men. But we would still like to question him, so if he contacts you, please let me know immediately. Now, sir,” the Inspector continued, “I’m going to read you a list of names and I would be obliged if you could tell me whether you have ever met, spoken to or heard of any of them…Harvey Metcalfe?”

  “No,” said Stephen.

  “Bernie Silverman?”

  “I’ve never met or spoken to him, but David did mention his name in conversation when he dined with me here in college.”

  The Detective Sergeant was writing down everything Stephen said, slowly and methodically.

  “Richard Elliott?”

  “The same applies to him as Silverman.”

  “Alvin Cooper?”

  “No,” said Stephen.

  “Have you had any contact with anyone else who was involved in the company?”

  “No.”

  For well over an hour the Inspector quizzed Stephen on minor points, but he was unable to give him very much help, although he had kept a copy of the geologist’s report.

  “Yes, we are in possession of one of those documents, sir,” said the Inspector, “but it’s cleverly worded. I doubt if we’ll be able to rely much on that for evidence.”

  Stephen sighed and offered the two men some whiskey and poured himself a donnish dry sherry.

  “Evidence against whom or for what, Inspector?” he said as he returned to his chair. “It’s clear to me that I’ve been taken for a sucker. I probably don’t need to tell you what a fool I’ve made of myself. I put my shirt on Prospecta Oil because it sounded like a sure-fire winner, and ended up losing everything I had without having a clue what to do about it. What in heaven’s name has been going on in Prospecta Oil?”

  “Well, sir,” said the Inspector, “you’ll appreciate there are aspects of the case I’m not at liberty to discuss with you. Indeed, there are some things that aren’t very clear to us yet. But the game isn’t a new one, and this time it’s been played by an old pro, a very cunning old pro. It works something like this: a company is set up or taken over by a bunch of villains who acquire the majority of the shares. They invent a plausible story about a new discovery or super product that will send the shares up, whisper it in a few willing ears, release their own shares onto the market and let them be snapped up by the likes of you, sir, at a higher price. Then they clear off with the profit they have made, after which the shares collapse because the company has no real substance. As often as not, it ends with dealings in the shares being suspended on the stock market, and finally in the compulsory liquidation of the company. That hasn’t happened yet in this case, and it may not. The London Stock Exchange is only just recovering from the Caplanfiasco and they don’t want another scandal on their hands. I’m sorry to say that we can hardly ever recover the money, even if we produce enough evidence to nail the villains. They have it all stashed away all over the world before you can say Dow-Jones Index.”

  Stephen groaned. “My God, you make it all sound so appallingly simple, Inspector. The geologist’s report was a fake, then?”

  “Not exactly, sir. Very impressively worded and well presented, but with plenty of ifs and buts; and one thing is for certain; the D.P.P.’s office is hardly likely to spend millions finding out if there is any oil in that part of the North Sea.”

  Stephen buried his head in his hands and mentally cursed the day he met David Kesler.

  “Tell me, Inspector, who put Kesler up to this? Who was the real brains behind it all?”

  The Inspector realized only too well the terrible agony Stephen was going through. During his career he had faced many men in the same position, and he was grateful for Stephen’s cooperation.

  “I’ll answer any questions I feel cannot harm my own inquiry,” said the Inspector. “But it’s no secret that the man we’d like to nail is Harvey Metcalfe.”

  “Who’s Harvey Metcalfe, for God’s sake?”

  “He’s a first generation American who’s had his fingers in more dubious deals in Boston than you’ve had hot dinners. Made himself a multi-millionaire and a lot of other people bankrupt on the way. His style is so professional and predictable now we can smell the man a mile off. It will not amuse you to learn that he is a great benefactor of Harvard—does it to ease his conscience, no doubt. We’ve never been able to pin anything on him in the past, and I doubt if we’ll be able to this time either. He was never a director of Prospecta Oil, and he only bought and sold shares on the open market. He never, as far as we know, even met David Kesler. He hired Silverman, Cooper and Elliott to do the dirty work, and they found a bright enthusiastic young man all freshly washed behind the ears to sell their story for them. I’m afraid it was a bit unlucky for you, sir, that the young man in question was your friend, David Kesler.”

  “Never mind him, poor sod,” said Stephen. “What about Harvey Metcalfe? Is he going to get away with it again?”

  “I fear so,” said the Inspector. “We have warrants out for the arrest of Silverman, Elliott and Cooper. They all beat it off to South America. After the Ronald Biggs fiasco I doubt if we’ll ever get an extradition order to bring them back, even though the American and Canadian police also have warrants out for them. They were fairly cunning too. They closed the London office of Prospecta Oil, surrendered the lease and returned it to Conrad Ritblat, the estate agents, and gave notice to both secretaries with one month’s pay in advance. They cleared the bill on the oil rig with Reading & Bates. They paid off their hired hand, Mark Stewart in Aberdeen, and took the Sunday morning flight to Rio de Janeiro, where there was $1 million in a private account waiting for them. Another two or three years, after they’ve spent all the money, and they’ll undoubtedly turn up again with different names and a different company. Harvey Metcalfe rewarded them well and left David Kesler holding the baby.”

  “Clever boys,” said Stephen.

  “Oh, yes,” said the Inspector, “it was a neat little operation. Worthy of the talents of Harvey Metcalfe.”

  “Are you trying to arrest David Kesler?”

  “No, but as I said we would like to question him. He bought and sold 500 shares, but we think that was only because he believed in the oil strike story himself. In fact, if he was wise, he would return to England and help the police with their inquiries, but I fear the poor man has panicked under pressure and made a bolt for it. The American police are keeping an eye out for him.”

  “One last question,” said Stephen. “Are there any other people who made such fools of themselves as I did?”

  The Inspector gave this question long consideration. He had not had as much success with the other big investors as he had had with Stephen. They had all been evasive about their involvement with Kesler and Prospecta Oil. Perhaps if he released their names it might bring them out in some way.

  “Yes, sir, but…you must understand that you never heard about them from me.”

  Stephen nodded.

  “For your own interest you could find out what you need to know by making some