Miss Meikle was somewhat surprised. She had always thought of Dr. Oakley as a good physician, but had never known him in the past to overindulge in research work. She padded off noiselessly in her white-shod feet to admit the first of a bunch of admirably healthy ladies to Dr. Oakley’s clinic.
Robin disposed of his patients with less than dignified speed. He went without lunch and began the afternoon by making several telephone calls to the Boston Infirmary and several to a leading gastroenterologist for whom he had been a houseman at Cambridge. Then he pressed the buzzer to summon Miss Meikle.
“Could you pop around to H. K. Lewis for me, Miss Meikle, and put two books on my account. I want the latest ed
ition of Polson and Tattersall’s Clinical Toxicology and Harding Rain’s book on the bladder and abdomen.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, quite unperturbed at the thought of interrupting her lunchtime sandwich to fetch them.
They were on his desk before he had completed his calls, and he immediately started reading long sections of them carefully. The following day he canceled his morning clinic and went to St. Thomas’s Hospital to watch two of his old colleagues at work. His confidence in the plan he had formulated was growing. He returned to Harley Street and wrote some notes on the techniques he had observed that morning, much as he had done in his student days. He paused to remember the words Stephen had used:
“Think as Harvey Metcalfe would. Think for the first time in your life, not as a cautious professional man, but as a risk taker, as an entrepreneur.”
Robin was tuning in to Harvey Metcalfe’s wavelength, and when the time came he would be ready for the American, the Frenchman and the lord. But would they be willing to fall in with his plan? He looked forward to their meeting.
Jean-Pierre returned from Oxford the next day. None of the youthful artists had greatly impressed him, though he had felt that Brian Davis’s still life showed considerable promise and had made a mental note to keep an eye on his future work. When he arrived back in London he started, like Robin and Stephen, on his research. A tentative idea that had come to him in the Eastgate Hotel was beginning to germinate. Through his numerous contacts in the art world he checked all the buying and selling of major Impressionist paintings over the previous twenty years and made a list of the pictures which were currently thought to be on the market. He then contacted the one person who held it in his power to set his plan in motion. Fortunately the man whose help he most needed, David Stein, was in England and free to visit him: but would he fall in with the plan?
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?”