Eventually, at 11:16, he did show up, and took his reserved place at the baccarat table. Stephen stopped sipping his tomato juice and Jean-Pierre moved over and waited patiently by the table for one of the men seated on the left or right of Harvey to leave. An hour passed by. Harvey was losing a little, but continued to play. So did the tall thin American on his right and the Frenchman on his left. Another hour and still no movement. Then suddenly the Frenchman on the left of Metcalfe had a particularly bad run, gathered his few remaining chips and left the table. Jean-Pierre moved forward.
“I am afraid, Monsieur, that that seat is reserved for another gentleman,” said the banker. “We do have an unreserved place on the other side of the table.”
“It’s not important,” said Jean-Pierre, who backed away, not wanting to be remembered, cursing the deference with which the Monégasques treat the wealthy. Stephen could see from the bar what had happened and made furtive signs to leave. They were all back in room 217 just after 2 A.M.
“What a bloody silly mistake. Merde, merde, merde. I should have thought of reservations the moment I knew Harvey had one.”
“No, it was my fault. I don’t know anything about how casinos work and I should have queried it during rehearsals,” said Robin, stroking his newly acquired mustache.
“No one is to blame,” chipped in Stephen. “We still have three more nights, so no need to panic. We’ll just have to work out how to overcome the se
ating problem, but for now we’ll all get some sleep and meet again in this room at 10 A.M.”
They left, a little depressed. Robin had sat waiting in the hotel on edge for four hours. James was cold and bored in the hospital car park, Stephen was sick of tomato juice and Jean-Pierre had been on his feet by the baccarat table waiting for a seat that wasn’t even available.
Once again Harvey lounged in the sun. He was now a light pink and was hoping to be a better color toward the end of the week. According to his copy of the New York Times, gold was still climbing and the Deutschmark and the Swiss franc remained firm, while the dollar was on the retreat against every currency except sterling. Sterling stood at $2.42. Harvey thought a more realistic price was $1.80 and the sooner it reached that the better.
Nothing new, he thought, when the sharp ring of a French telephone roused him. He never could get used to the sound of foreign telephones. The attentive steward bustled out on deck with the instrument on an extension lead.
“Hi, Lloyd. Didn’t know you were in Monte…why don’t we get together?…8 P.M.?…Me too…I’m even getting brown…Must be getting old…What?…Great, I’ll see you then.”
Harvey replaced the receiver and asked the steward for a large whiskey on the rocks. He once again settled down happily to the morning’s financial bad news.
“That seems to be the obvious solution,” said Stephen.
They all nodded their approval.
“Jean-Pierre will give up the baccarat table and book a place next to Harvey Metcalfe on his blackjack table in the Salon des Amériques and wait for him to change games. We know both the seat numbers Harvey plays at and we’ll alter our own plans accordingly.”
Jean-Pierre dialed the number of the Casino and asked to speak to Pierre Cattalano:
“Réservez-moi la deuxième place à la table 2 pour le vingt-et-un ce soir et demain soir, s’il vous plaît.”
“Je pense que cette place est déjà réservée, Monsieur. Un instant, s’il vous plaît, je vais vérifier.”
“Peut-être que 100 francs la rendra libre,” replied Jean-Pierre.
“Mais certainement, Monsieur. Prèsentez-vous à moi dès votre arriveée, et le nécessaire sera fait.”
“Merçi,” said Jean-Pierre and replaced the receiver. “That’s under control.”
Jean-Pierre was visibly sweating, though had his call had no other outcome than to secure him a reserved seat, not a drop of perspiration would have appeared. They all returned to their rooms.
When the clock in the town square struck twelve, Robin was waiting quietly in room 217, James stood in the car park humming “I Get Along Without You Very Well,” Stephen was at the bar of the Salon des Amériques toying with yet another tomato juice and Jean-Pierre was at seat No. 2 on table No. 2, playing blackjack. Both Stephen and Jean-Pierre saw Harvey come through the door, chatting to a man in a loud-checked jacket which only a Texan could have worn outside his own backyard. Harvey and his friend sat down together at the baccarat table. Jean-Pierre beat a hasty retreat to the bar.
“Oh, no. I give up.”
“No, you don’t,” whispered Stephen. “Back to the hotel.”
Spirits were very low when they were all assembled in room 217, but it was agreed that Stephen had made the right decision. They could not risk the entire exercise being carefully observed by a friend of Harvey’s.
“The first operation is beginning to look a bit too good to be true,” said Robin.
“Don’t be silly,” said Stephen. “We had two false alarms then, and the entire plan had to be changed at the last minute. We can’t expect him just to walk in and hand over his money. Now snap out of it, all of you, and go and get some sleep.”
They returned to their separate rooms, but not to much sleep. The strain was beginning to tell.
“That’s enough I think, Lloyd. A goodish evening.”