“No, but I’ll have a word with him on the house phone.”
“Of course, sir. If you’d be kind enough to go through the small archway on your left you will find five telephones. One of them is a house phone.”
Harvey marched through the archway as directed.
“Room 120,” he instructed the operator, who sat in his own little section, wearing the green Dorchester uniform with golden castles on the lapels.
“Cubicle No. 1, please, sir.”
“Mr. Drosser?”
“Speaking,” said Stephen, summoning up his German accent for a sustained effort.
“My name is Harvey Metcalfe. I wonder if I could come up and have a word with you? It’s about the Van Gogh you bought this morning.”
“Well, it’s a little inconvenient at the moment. I am about to take a shower and I do have a lunch appointment.”
“I won’t keep you more than a few minutes.”
Before Stephen could reply, the telephone had clicked. A few moments later there was a knock on the door. Stephen’s legs wobbled. He answered it nervously. He had changed into a white Dorchester dressing-gown and his brown hair was somewhat disheveled and darker than normal. It was the only disguise he could think of at such short notice as the original plan had not allowed for a face-to-face meeting with Harvey.
“Sorry t
o intrude, Mr. Drosser, but I had to see you immediately. I know you have just purchased a Van Gogh from the Lamanns Gallery and I was hoping that, as you are a dealer, you might be willing to sell it on for a quick profit.”
“No, thank you,” said Stephen, relaxing for the first time. “I’ve wanted a Van Gogh for my gallery in Munich for many years. I’m sorry, Mr. Metcalfe, it’s not for sale.”
“Listen, you paid 170,000 guineas for it. What’s that in dollars?”
Stephen paused.
“Oh, about $435,000.”
“I’ll give you $15,000 if you release the picture to me. All you have to do is ring the gallery and tell them that the picture is now mine and that I will cover the bill.”
Stephen sat silent, not sure how to handle the situation without blowing it. Think like Harvey Metcalfe, he told himself.
“$20,000 in cash and you’ve got a deal.”
Harvey hesitated. Stephen’s legs wobbled again.
“Done,” said Harvey. “Ring the gallery immediately.”
Stephen picked up the telephone.
“Can you get me the Lamanns Gallery in Bond Street as quickly as possible please—I have a lunch appointment.”
A few seconds later the call came through.
“Lamanns Gallery.”
“I would like to speak to Mr. Lamanns.”
“At last, Stephen. What the hell is happening your end?”
“Ah, Mr. Lamanns, this is Herr Drosser. You remember, I was in your gallery earlier this morning.”
“Of course I remember, you fool. What are you going on about, Stephen? It’s me—Jean-Pierre.”