Harvey whistled through the gap between his front teeth. It never ceased to amaze him that an inferior picture by a first-rank nam
e could fetch £30,000 and an outstanding picture by an artist with no established reputation could only bring a few hundred dollars. He thanked the assistant and left.
“A pleasure, Mr. Metcalfe.”
Harvey was always flattered by people who remembered his name. But hell, they ought to remember—he had purchased a Monet from them last year for £62,000.
“He’s definitely on his way back to the hotel,” said James.
Harvey spent only a few minutes in Claridge’s, picking up one of their famous specially prepared luncheon hampers of caviar, beef, ham and cheese sandwiches and chocolate cake for later consumption at Wimbledon.
James was next on the rota for the Championships and decided to take Anne with him. Why not—she knew the truth. It was Ladies’ Day and the turn of Billie Jean King, the vivacious American champion, to take the court. She was up against the unseeded American, Kathy May, who looked as if she was in for a rough time. The applause Billie Jean received was unworthy of her abilities, but for some reason she had never become a Wimbledon favorite. Harvey was accompanied by a guest who James thought had a faintly mid-European look.
“Which one is your victim?” asked Anne.
“He’s almost exactly opposite us talking to the man in a light gray suit who looks like a government official from the EEC.”
“The short fat one?” asked Anne.
“Yes,” said James.
Whatever comments Anne made were interrupted by the umpire’s call of “Play” and everyone’s attention focused on Billie Jean. It was exactly 2 P.M.
“Kind of you to invite me to Wimbledon, Harvey,” said Jörg Birrer. “I never seem to get the chance for much relaxation nowadays. You can’t leave the market for more than a few hours without some panic breaking out somewhere in the world.”
“If you feel that way it’s time for you to retire,” said Harvey.
“No one to take my place,” said Birrer. “I’ve been chairman of the bank for ten years now and finding a successor is turning out to be my hardest task.”
“First game to Mrs. King. Mrs. King leads by one game to love in the first set.”
“Now, Harvey, I know you too well to expect this invitation to have been just for pleasure.”
“What an evil mind you have, Jörg.”
“In my profession I need it.”
“I just wanted to check how my three accounts stand and brief you on my plans for the next few months.”
“Game to Mrs. King. Mrs. King leads by two games to love in the first set.”
“Your No. 1 official account is a few thousand dollars in credit. Your numbered commodity account”—at this point Birrer unfolded a small piece of unidentifiable paper with a set of neat figures printed on it—“is short by $3,726,000, but you are holding 37,000 ounces of gold at today’s selling price of $135 an ounce.”
“What’s your advice on that?”
“Hold on, Harvey. I still think your President is either going to announce a new gold standard or allow your fellow countrymen to buy gold on the open market some time next year.”
“That’s my view too, but I’m still convinced we want to sell a few weeks before the masses come in. I have a theory about that.”
“I expect you’re right, as usual, Harvey.”
“Game to Mrs. King. Mrs. King leads by three games to love in the first set.”
“What are your charges on my overdraft?”
“1½ percent above interbank rate, which at present is 13.25, and therefore we’re charging you 14.75 percent per annum, while gold is rising in price at nearly 70 percent per annum. It can’t go on that way; but there are still a few months left in it.”
“O.K.,” said Harvey, “hold on until November 1st and we’ll review the position again then. Coded telex as usual. I don’t know what the world would do without the Swiss.”