Stephen introduced him to Jean-Pierre and they chatted while their host checked the dinner table. Once again the door opened, and with a little more respect than previously displayed, the porter announced, “Lord Brigsley.” Stephen walked forward to greet him, suddenly unsure whether he should bow or shake hands. Although James did not know anyone present at the strange gathering, he showed no signs of discomfort and entered easily into the conversation. Even Stephen was impressed by James’s relaxed line of small talk, although he couldn’t help recalling his academic results when at Christ Church and wondered whether the noble lord would in fact be an asset to his plans.
The culinary efforts of the chef worked their intended magic. No guest could possibly have asked his host why the dinner party was taking place while such delicately garlic-flavored lamb, such tender almond pastry, such excellent wine, were still to hand.
Finally, when the servants had cleared the table and the port was on its way around for the second time, Robin could stand it no longer:
“If it’s not a rude question, Dr. Bradley.”
“Do call me Stephen.”
“Stephen, may I ask what is the purpose of this select little gathering?”
Six eyes bored into him demanding an answer to the same question.
Stephen rose and surveyed his guests. He walked around the table twice before speaking and then started his discourse by recalling the entire history of the past few weeks. He told them of his meeting in that very room with David Kesler, his investment in Prospecta Oil, followed soon afterward by the visit of the Fraud Squad, and their disclosure about Harvey Metcalfe. He ended his carefully prepared speech with the words, “Gentlemen, the truth is that the four of us are in the same bloody mess.” He felt that sounded suitably British.
Jean-Pierre reacted even before Stephen could finish what he was saying.
“Count me out. I couldn’t be involved in anything quite so ridiculous as that. I am a humble art dealer, not a speculator.”
Robin Oakley also jumped in before Stephen was given the chance to reply:
“I’ve never heard anything so preposterous. You must have contacted the wrong man. I’m a Harley Street doctor—I don’t know the first thing about oil.”
Stephen could see why the Fraud Squad had had trouble with these two and why they had been so thankful for his cooperation. They all looked at Lord Brigsley, who raised his eyes and said very quietly:
“Absolutely right on every detail, Dr. Bradley, and I’m in more of a pickle than you. I borrowed £150,000 to buy the shares against the security of my small farm in Hampshire and I don’t think it will be long before the bank insists that I dispose of it. When they do and my dear old pa, the fifth earl, finds out, it’s curtains for me unless I become the sixth earl overnight.”
“Thank you,” said Stephen. As he sat down, he turned to Robin and raised his eyebrows interrogatively.
“What the hell,” said Robin. “You’re quite right—I was involved. David Kesler was a patient of mine and in a rash moment I invested £100,000 in Prospecta Oil as a temporary advance against my securities. God only knows what made me do it. As the shares are only worth 50 pence I’m stuck with them. I have a shortfall at my bank which they’re beginning to fuss about. I also have a large mortgage on my country home in Berkshire and a heavy rent on my Harley Street consultingroom, a wife with expensive tastes and two boys at the best private prep school in England. I’ve hardly slept a wink since Detective Inspector Smith visited me two weeks ago.” He looked up. His face had drained of color and the suave self-confidence of Harley Street had gone. Slowly, they all turned and stared at Jean-Pierre.
“All right, all right,” he admitted, “me too. I was in Paris when the damned thing folded
under me, so now, I’m stuck with the useless shares. £80,000 borrowed against my stock at the gallery. And what’s worse, I advised some of my friends to invest in the bloody company too.”
Silence enveloped the room. It was Jean-Pierre who broke it again:
“So what do you suggest, Professor,” he said sarcastically. “Do we hold an annual dinner to remind us what fools we’ve been?”
“No, that was not what I had in mind.” Stephen hesitated, realizing that what he was about to suggest was bound to cause even more commotion. Once again he rose to his feet, and said quietly and deliberately:
“We have had our money stolen by a very clever man who has proved to be an expert in share fraud. None of us is knowledgeable about stocks and shares, but we are all experts in our own fields. Gentlemen, I therefore suggest we steal it back.
—NOT A PENNY MORE AND NOT A PENNY LESS.”
A few seconds’ silence was followed by uproar.
“Just walk up and take it I suppose?” said Robin.
“Kidnap him,” mused James.
“Why don’t we just kill him and claim the life insurance?” said Jean-Pierre.
Several moments passed. Stephen waited until he had complete silence again, and then he handed around the four dossiers marked “Harvey Metcalfe” with each of their names below. A green dossier for Robin, a blue one for James and a yellow for Jean-Pierre. The red master copy Stephen kept for himself. They were all impressed. While they had been wringing their hands in unproductive dismay, it was obvious that Stephen Bradley had been hard at work.
Stephen continued:
“Please read your dossier carefully. It will brief you on everything that is known about Harvey Metcalfe. Each of you must take the document away and study the information, and then return with a plan of how we are, between us, to extract $1,000,000 from him without his ever being aware of it. All four of us must come up with a separate plan. Each may involve the other three in his own operation. We will return here in fourteen days’ time and present our conclusions. Each member of the team will put $10,000 into the kitty as a float and I, as the mathematician, will keep a running account. All expenses incurred in retrieving our money will be added to Mr. Metcalfe’s bill, starting with your journey down here this evening and the cost of the dinner tonight.”