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  Stein arrived late the following afternoon and spent two hours with Jeane-Pierre privately in his little room in the basement of the Lamanns Gallery. When he left Jean-Pierre was smiling to himself. A final afternoon spent at the German Embassy in Belgrave Square, followed by a call to Dr. Wormit of the Preussischer Kulturbesitz in Berlin and a further one to Mme. Tellegen at the Rijksbureau in The Hague, gave him all the information he required. Even Metcalfe would have praised him for the final touch. There would be no relieving the French this time. The American and the Englishman had better be up to scratch when he presented his plan.

  On waking in the morning the last thing James had on his mind was an idea for outwitting Harvey Metcalfe. His thoughts were fully occupied with more important things. He telephoned Patrick Lichfield at home.

  “Patrick?”

  “Yes,” mumbled a voice.

  “James Brigsley.”

  “Oh, hello, James. Haven’t seen you for some time. What are you doing waking a fellow up at this filthy hour?”

  “It’s 10 A.M., Patrick.”

  “Is it? It was the Berkeley Square Ball last night and I didn’t get to bed until four. What can I do for you?”

  “You took a picture for Vogue of a girl whose first name was Anne.”

  “Summerton,” said Patrick without hesitation. “Got her from the Stacpoole Agency.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “No idea,” said Patrick. “I thought she was awfully nice. She just thought I wasn’t her type.”

  “Obviously a woman of taste, Patrick. Now go back to sleep.” James put the phone down.

  Anne Summerton was not listed in the telephone directory—so that ploy had failed. James remained in bed, scratching the stubble on his chin, when a triumphant look came into his eye. A quick flip through the S-Z directory revealed the number he required. He dialed it.

  “The Stacpoole Agency.”

  “Can I speak to the manager?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Lord Brigsley.”

  “I’ll put you through, my lord.”

  James heard the phone click and the voice of the manager.

  “Good morning, my lord. Michael Stacpoole speaking. Can I help you?”

  “I hope so, Mr. Stacpoole. I have been let down at the last moment and I’m looking for a model for the opening of an antique shop and I’ll need a classy sort of a bird. You know the kind of girl.”

  James then described Anne as if he had never met her.

  “We have two models on our books who I think would suit you, my lord,” offered Stacpoole. “Pauline Stone and Anne Summerton. Unfortunately, Pauline is in Birmingham today for the launching of the new Allegro car and Anne is completing a toothpaste session in Oxford.”

  “I need a girl today,” James said. How he would have liked to have informed Stacpoole that Anne was back in town. “If you find either of them are free for any reason, perhaps you would ring me at 735–7227.”

  James rang off, a little disappointed. At least, he thought, if nothing comes of it today he could start planning his part in the Team versus Harvey Metcalfe. He was just resigning himself to that when the phone rang. A shrill, high-pitched voice announced:

  “This is the Stacpoole Agency. Mr. Stacpoole would like to speak to Lord Brigsley.”

  “Speaking,” said James.

  “I’ll put you through, my lord.”

  “Lord Brigsley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stacpoole here, my lord. It seems Anne Summerton is free today. When would you like her to come to your shop?”

  “Oh,” said James, taken aback for a second. “The shop is in Berkeley Street, next to the Empress Restaurant. It’s called Albemarle Antiques. Perhaps we could meet outside at 12:45?”

  “I’m sure that will be acceptable, my lord. If I don’t ring you back in the next ten minutes, you can assume the meeting is on. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to let us know if she’s suitable. We normally prefer you to come to the office, but I’m sure we can make an exception in your case.”

  “Thank you,” said James and put the phone down, pleased with himself.

  James stood on the west side of Berkeley Street in the doorway of the Mayfair Hotel so that he could watch Anne arriving. When it came to work, Anne was always on time, and at 12:40 P.M. she appeared from the Piccadilly end of the street. Her skirt was of the latest elegant length, but this time James could see that her legs were as slim and shapely as the rest of her. She stopped outside the Empress Restaurant and looked in bewilderment at the Brazilian Trade Centre on her right and the Rolls Royce showrooms of H. R. Owen on her left.

  James strode across the road, a large grin on his face.

  “Good morning,” he said casually.

  “Oh hello,” said Anne, “what a coincidence.”

  “What are you doing here all alone and looking lost?” said James.

  “I’m trying to find a shop called Albemarle Antiques. You don’t know it by any chance? I must have the wrong street. As you go in for knowing lords, you might know the owner, Lord Brigsley?”

  James smiled:

  “I am Lord Brigsley.”

  Anne looked surprised and then burst out laughing. She realized what James had done and was flattered by the compliment.

  They lunched together at the Empress, James’s favorite eating place in town. He explained to Anne why it had been Lord Clarendon’s favorite restaurant as well—“Ah,” he had once declared, “the millionaires are just a little fatter, and the mistresses are just a little thinner, than in any other restaurant in town.”

  The meal was a triumph and James had to admit that Anne was the best thing that had happened to him for a long time. After lunch she asked where the agency should send their account.

  “With what I have in mind for the future,” replied James, “they’d better be prepared for a large bad debt.”

  Chapter Seven

  STEPHEN WRUNG JAMES warmly by the hand the way the Americans will and presented him with a large whiskey on the rocks. Impressive memory, thought James, as he took a gulp to give himself a little Dutch courage, and then joined Robin and Jean-Pierre. By unspoken mutual consent, the name of Harvey Metcalfe was not mentioned. They chattered inconsequentially of nothing in particular, each clutching his own dossier, until Stephen summoned them to the table. Stephen had not, on this occasion, exercised the talents of the college chef and the butler to the Senior Common Room. Instead, sandwiches, beer and coffee were stacked neatly on the table, and the college servants were not in evidence.

  “This is a working supper,” said Stephen firmly, “and as Harvey Metcalfe will eventually be footing the bill, I’ve cut down considerably on the hospitality. We don’t want to make our task unnecessarily harder by eating our way through hundreds of dollars per meeting.”

  The other three sat down quietly as Stephen took out some closely typed sheets of paper.

  “I’ll begin,” he said, “with a general comment. I’ve been doing some further research into Harvey Metcalfe’s movements over the next few months. He seems to spend every summer doing the same round of social and sporting events. Most of the details are already well documented in your files. My latest findings are summarized on this separate sheet which should be added as page 38A of your dossiers. It reads:

  Harvey Metcalfe will arrive in England on the morning of June 21st on board the Q.E. 2, docking at Southampton. He has already reserved the Trafalgar Suite for his crossing and booked a Rolls Royce from Guy Salmon to take him to Claridge’s. He will stay there for two weeks in the Royal Suite and he has his own debenture tickets for every day of the Wimbledon Championships. When they are over he flies to Monte Carlo to stay on his yacht Messenger Boy for another two weeks. He then returns to London and Claridge’s to see his filly, Rosalie, run in the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes. He has a private box at Ascot for all five days of Ascot Week. He returns to America on a Pan American jumbo jet from London Heathrow on Ju