“Well, actually, I’ve given the problem a lot of thought, but nothing seemed to come.”
“Useless—worse than useless,” said Robin.
James was stammering helplessly. Stephen cut him short.
“Now listen, James, and listen carefully. We meet here again in twenty-one days’ time. By then we must know each other’s plans backward. One error could blow the whole thing. Do you understand?”
James nodded—he was determined not to let them down in that.
“And what’s more,” said Stephen firmly, “you must have your own plan ready for scrutiny. Is that also clear?”
“Yes,” mumbled James unhappily.
“Any other questions?” said Stephen.
There were none.
“Right. We go through the three individual operations again in full.”
Stephen ignored the muttered protests.
“Remember, we’re up against a man who isn’t used to being beaten. We won’t get a second chance.”
For an hour and a half they went through the details of each operation in the order of action. First, Jean-Pierre during Wimbledon fortnight; second, Robin in Monte Carlo; third, Stephen during and after Ascot.
It was late and they were all weary when they finally rose from the table. They departed sleepily, each with several tasks to carry out before their next meeting. Each went his separate way, but all were due to meet again the following Friday in the Jericho Theatre of St. Thomas’s Hospital.
Chapter Eight
THE NEXT TWENTY days turned out to be an exacting time for all four of them. Each had to master the other plans as well as organizing his own. Friday brought them all together for the first of many sessions at St. Thomas’s Hospital, which would have been entirely successful if James had managed to stay on his feet. It was not the sight of blood that daunted him—the sight of the knife was enough. The only virtue from James’s standpoint was that he once again avoided having to explain why he had not come up with any ideas of his own.
The next week was almost full time, with Stephen in Harley Street taking a potted course in one particular field of medicine at a fairly high level.
James spent several hours driving an old van through the heavy traffic from St. Thomas’s to Harley Street, preparing for his final test in Monte Carlo, which he felt could only be considerably easier. He also returned to Oxford for a week, learning how the Secretary of the University Chest’s office operated, and also studying the movements of the Secretary himself, Mr. Caston.
Jean-Pierre, at a cost to Mr. Metcalfe of $25 and a 48-hour wait, became an overseas member of The Claremont, London’s most distinguished gaming club, and passed his evenings watching the wealthy and lazy play baccarat and blackjack, their stakes often reaching £1,000. After three weeks of watching he ventured to join the Golden Nugget casino in Soho, where the stakes rarely exceeded £5. By the end of the month he had played for 56 hours, but so conservatively that he was only showing a small loss.
James’s overriding worry was still his personal contribution. The more he grappled with the problem, the less he came to grips with it. He turned it over and over in his mind, even when he was traveling through London at high speed. One night after returning the van to Carnie’s in Lots Road, Chelsea, he drove his Alfa Romeo over to Anne’s flat by the river, wondering if he dared confide in her.
Anne was preparing a special meal for James. She was aware that he not only appreciated good food, but had taken it for granted all his life. The homemade gazpacho was smelling good and the coq au vin was all but ready. Lately she had found herself avoiding modeling assignments out of London as she did not care to be away from James for any length of time. She was also conscious that he was the first man for some time that she would have been willing to go to bed with— and to date he had made no efforts to leave the dining room.
James arrived carrying a bottle of Beaune Montée Rouge 1971—even his wine cellar was fast diminishing. He only hoped it would last long enough for the plans to come to fruition. Not that he felt an automatic right to a part of the bounty while he failed to contribute his own plan.
Anne looked stunning. She was wearing a long black dress of some soft material that tantalized James with the reticence with which it outlined her shape. She wore no makeup or jewelry, and her heavy nob of hair gleamed in the candlelight. The meal was a triumph for Anne, and James started wanting her badly. She seemed nervous, spilling a little ground coffee as she filtered two strong tiny cups. What was in her mind? He did not want to blunder with unwanted attentions. James had had much more practice at being loved than at being in love. He was used to adulation, to ending up in bed with girls who made him shudder in the cold clear light of morning. Anne affected him in an entirely different way. He wanted to be close to her, to hold her and to love her. Above all, he wanted her to be there in the morning.
Anne cleared away the supper, avoiding James’s eye, and they settled down to brandy and Lena Horne singing. “I Get Along Without You Very Well.” She sat, hands clasped around her knees on the floor at James’s feet, staring into the fire. Tentatively, he put out a hand and stroked her hair. She sat unresponsive for a moment and then bent her head back and stretched out her arm to bring his face down to hers. He responded, leaning forward and stroking her cheek and nose with his mouth, holding her head in his hands, his fingers gently exploring her ears and neck. Her skin smelled faintly of jasmine and her open mouth glinted in the firelight as she smiled up at him. He kissed her and slid his hands down onto her body. She felt soft and slight under his hands. He caressed her breasts gently, and moved down beside her, his body pressing against hers. Wordlessly, he reached behind her and unzipped her dress and watched it fall to the ground. He stood up, his eyes never leaving hers, and undressed quickly. She glanced at his body and smiled shyly.
“Darling James,” she said softly.
After they had made love, like two people in love and not as lovers, Anne settled her head on James’s shoulder and stroked the hair on his chest with a fingertip.
“What’s the matter, James? I know I’m rather shy. But it will…”
“You were beautiful. God knows, you were perfect. That’s not the problem…Anne, I have to tell you something, so just lie back and listen.”
“You’re married.”
“No, it’s far worse than that.” James lay silent for a moment, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. There are occasions in life when revelation is made easier by circumstance; it all came out in an uncoordinated jumble. “Anne darling, I’ve made a bloody fool of myself by investing a vast sum of money with a bunch of crooks who’ve stolen it. I haven’t even told my family—they’d be terribly distressed if they ever found out. To make matters better or worse, I’ve got myself involved with three other chaps who found themselves in the same predicament, and now we’re all trying to get our money back. They’re nice fellows, full of bright ideas, but I haven’t a clue how to begin to keep my part of the bargain. What with the worry of being £150,000 down the drain and having to keep racking my brain for a good idea, I’m half frantic. You’re the only thing that’s kept me sane the last month.”