A few moments later, Robin walked to the ambulance, accompanied by the agency nurse. He helped her into the back.
“Drive very slowly and carefully to the harbor.”
James nodded and set off at funeral pace.
“Nurse Faubert.”
“Yes, Doctor Barker.” Her hands were tucked primly under her blue cape, and her French accent was enchanting. Robin thought Harvey would not find her ministrations unwelcome.
“My patient has just had an operation for the removal of a gallstone and will need plenty of rest.”
With that Robin took out of his pocket a gallstone the size of an orange with a hospital tag on it which read “Harvey Metcalfe.” Robin had in fact acquired the huge stone from St. Thomas’s Hospital, the original owner being a 6 ft. 6 in. West Indian bus conductor on the No. 14 route. Stephen and Jean-Pierre stared at it in disbelief. The nurse checked her new charge’s pulse and respiration.
“If I were your patient, Nurse Faubert,” said Jean-Pierre, “I should take good care never to recover.”
By the time they arrived at the yacht, Robin had briefed the nurse on diet and rest, and told her that he would be around to see his patient at 11 A.M. the next day. They left Harvey sleeping soundly in his large cabin, stewards and staff clucking attentively.
James drove the other three back to the hospital, deposited the ambulance in the car park and left the keys with reception. The four of them then headed back to the hotel by separate routes. Robin was the last to arrive at room 217, just after 3:30 A.M. He collapsed into an armchair.
“Will you allow me a whiskey, Stephen?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good God, he meant it,” said Robin, and downed a large Johnny Walker before handing the bottle over to Jean-Pierre.
“He will be all right, won’t he?” said James.
“You sound quite concerned for him. Yes, he can have his ten stitches out in a week’s time and all he’ll have is a nasty scar to brag about to his friends. I must get some sleep. I have to see our victim at 11 tomorrow morning and the confrontation may well be harder than the operation. You were all great tonight. My God, am I glad we had all those sessions at St. Thomas’s. If you’re ever out of work and I need a croupier, a driver and an anesthetist, I’ll know who to ring.”
The others left and Robin collapsed onto his bed, exhausted. He fell into a deep sleep and woke just after 8 the next morning, to discover he was still fully dressed. That had not happened to him since his days as a young houseman, when he had been on night duty after a fourteen-hour day without a break. Robin had a long soothing bath in very hot water. He dressed and put on a clean shirt and suit, ready for his face-to-face meeting with Harvey Metcalfe. His newly acquired mustache and rimless glasses and the success of the operation made him feel a little like the famous surgeon he was impersonating.
The other three all appeared during the next hour to wish him luck and elected to wait in room 217 for his return. Stephen had checked them all out of the hotel and booked a flight to London for late that afternoon. Robin left, again taking the staircase rather than the lift. Once outside the hotel, he walked a little way before hailing a taxi to drive him to the harbor.
It was not hard to find the Messenger Boy. She was a gleaming, newly painted 100-footer lying at the east end of the harbor. She sported a massive Panamanian flag on her stern mast, which Robin assumed must be for tax purposes. He ascended the gangplank and was met by Nurse Faubert.
“Bonjour, Docteur B
arker.”
“Good morning, Nurse. How is Mr. Metcalfe?”
“He has had a very peaceful night and is having a light breakfast and making a few telephone calls. Would you like to see him now?”
“Yes, please.”
Robin entered the magnificent cabin and faced the man he had spent eight weeks plotting and planning against. He was talking into the telephone:
“Yes, I’m fine, dear. But it was an A-1 emergency at the time. Don’t worry, I’ll live,” and he put the telephone down. “Doctor Barker, I have just spoken to my wife in Massachusetts and told her that I owe you my life. Even at 5 A.M. she seemed pleased. I understand that I had private surgery, a private ambulance and that you saved my life. Or that’s what it says in Nice-Matin.”
There was the old picture of Harvey in Bermuda shorts on the deck of the Messenger Boy, familiar to Robin from his dossier. The headline read “Millionnaire s’évanouit au Casino” over “La Vie d’un Millionaire Américain a été sauvée par une Opération Urgente Dramatique!” Stephen would be pleased.
“Tell me, Doctor,” said Harvey with relish, “was I really in danger?”
“Well, you were on the critical list, and the consequences might have been fairly serious if we hadn’t removed this from your stomach.” Robin took out the inscribed gall stone from his pocket with a flourish.
Harvey’s eyes grew large as saucers.
“Gee, have I really been walking round with that inside me all this time? Isn’t that something? I can’t thank you enough. If ever I can do anything for you, Doctor, don’t hesitate to call on me.” He offered Robin a grape. “Look, you’re going to see me through this thing, aren’t you? I don’t think the nurse fully appreciates the gravity of my case.”