Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less (8 page)

David could not remember how he arrived home
or who put him to bed, and he appeared late in the office the next morning.

“I am sorry, Bernie, I overslept after a
little celebration with Richard at Annabel’s.”

“Doesn’t matter a bit.
Glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“I hope I wasn’t indiscreet, but I told some
lord, whose name I can’t remember, that he ought to invest in the company. I
may have been a little too enthusiastic.”

“Don’t worry, David, we’re not going to let
anyone down and you needed the rest. You’ve been working your ass off.”

James Brigsley left his London flat in
Chelsea and took a taxi to his bank, Williams & Glyn’s. James was an
extrovert by nature and at Harrow his only real interest had been acting, but
when he had left school, his father would not allow him to go on the stage and
insisted that he complete his education at Christ Church, Oxford, where again
he took a greater interest in the Dramatic Society than in gaining his degree
in politics, philosophy and economics. In fact he had never mentioned to anyone
since leaving Oxford the class of degree he managed to secure. (The fourth
class Honours degree, for which James was such a natural, has since been
abolished.) From Oxford he joined the Grenadier Guards, which gave him considerable
scope for his histrionic talents. This had been James’s first introduction to
society life in London, and he succeeded as well as a personable young viscount
might be expected to do in the circumstances.

When he had completed his two years in the
Guards, the Earl gave him a 500-acre farm in Hampshire to occupy his time, but
James did not care for the coarser country life. He left the running of the
farm to a manager and concentrated on his social life in London. He would
dearly have liked to go on the stage, but he knew the old man thought Mrs.
Worthington’s daughter’s ambition an improper pursuit for a peer of the realm.
The fifth Earl didn’t think much of his eldest son, one way and the other, and
James did not find it easy to persuade his father that he was shrewder than he
was given credit for. Perhaps the inside information David Kesler had let slip
would provide him with the opportunity.

In Williams & Glyn’s fine old building
in Birchin Lane, James was shown into the bank manager’s office.

“I should like to borrow some money against
my farm in Hampshire,” said Lord Brigsley.

Philip Izard, the manager, knew Lord
Brigsley well and also his father. Although he had respect for the earl’s
judgement, he did not have a great deal of time for the young lord.
Nevertheless, it was not for him to query a customer’s request, especially when
the customer’s father was one of the longest-standing customers the bank had.

“Yes, my lord, how much do you have in mind?”

“Well, it seems that farmland in Hampshire
is worth about a thousand pounds an acre and is still climbing. Why don’t we
say one hundred and fifty thousand pounds? I should like to invest it in
shares.”

“Will you agree to leave the shares in the
bank as security?” enquired Izard.

“Yes, of course. What difference does it
make to me where they are?”

“Then I am sure we will find it acceptable
to advance you a loan at two per cent above base rate.”

James was not at all sure of the going rate,
but he realised that Williams & Glyn’s were as competitive as everyone
else, and that their reputation was beyond discussion.

“And will you acquire for me thirty-five
thousand shares in a company called Discovery Oil.”

“Have you checked carefully into this
company?” enquired Izard.

“Yes, of course I have,” said Lord Brigsley
very sharply. He was not in awe of the bank managerial class.

In Boston, Harvey Metcalfe was briefed over
the telephone by Silverstein of the meeting in Annabel’s between David Kesler
and a nameless contact who appeared to have more money than sense. Harvey
released 40,000 shares onto the market at $8.80. Williams & Glyn’s took up
35,000 of them and, once again, the remainder was taken up by small investors.
The shares rose a little. Harvey Metcalfe was now left with only 30,000 shares,
and over the next four days he was able to dispose of them all. It had taken
fourteen weeks to offload his entire stock in Discovery Oil at a profit of just
over $6 million.

On the Friday morning, the shares stood at
$9.10 and Kesler had, in all innocence, occasioned four large investments:
Stephen Bradley had bought 40,000 shares at $6.10. Dr. Adrian Tryner had bought
35,000 shares at $7.23. Jean Pierre Lamanns had bought 25,000 shares at $7.80.
James Brigsley had bought 35,000 shares at $8.80. David Kesler himself had
bought 500 shares at $7.25. Between them they had purchased 135,500 shares at
an investment of just over $1 million. They had also kept the interest alive by
their investment, giving Harvey the chance to offload all his shares in a
natural market.

Harvey Metcalfe had done it again. His name
was not on the letter paper and now he owned no shares. Nobody was going to be
able to fix any blame on him. He had done nothing illegal; even the geologist’s
report had enough ifs and buts to get by a court of law. As for David Kesler,
Harvey could not be blamed for his youthful enthusiasm. He had never even met
the man. Harvey Metcalfe opened a bottle of Krug 1964, imported by Hedges &
Butler of London. He sipped it slowly and lit a Romeo y Julieta Churchill.
Harvey settled back for a mild celebration.

David, Stephen, Adrian, Jean Pierre and
James celebrated the weekend as well. Why not? The shares were at $9.10 and
David had assured them they would reach $20. On Saturday morning, David ordered
himself a custom-made suit from Aquascutum, Stephen tut-tutted his way through
the end-of-vacation examination papers he had set his freshman pupils, Adrian
went to his sons’ prep school to watch them taking part in their school Sports
Day, Jean Pierre reframed a Renoir and James Brigsley went shooting, convinced
at last he had one in the eye for his father.

D
avid arrived at the office at nine o’clock
on the Monday morning to find the front door locked, which he could not understand.
The secretaries were supposed to be in by eight forty-five.

After waiting for over an hour, he went to
the nearest telephone box and dialled Bernie Silverstein’s home number. There
was no reply. He then rang Richard Elliott at home–again, no reply. He rang the
Aberdeen office.
As before, no reply.
He decided to
return to the office. There must be some simple explanation, he thought. Was he
daydreaming or was it Sunday? No–the streets were jammed with people and cars.

When he arrived at the office for a second
time a young man was putting up a board.

2,500 sq. ft. to let.
Apply Conrad Ritblat.

“What in hell’s name are you up to?”

“The old tenants have given notice and left.
We shall be looking for new ones. Are you interested in seeing over the
property?”

“No,” said David, “no thank you,
” backing
away in panic. He raced down the street, sweat
beginning to show on his forehead, praying that the telephone box would be
empty.

He looked up Bernie Silverstein’s secretary,
Judith Lampson, in the directory. This time there was a reply.

“Judith, in God’s name what’s going on here?”
His voice could have left no doubt how anxious he was.

“No idea,” replied Judith. “I was given my
notice on Friday night with a month’s pay in advance and no explanation.”

David dropped the telephone. The truth was
beginning to dawn on him. Who could he turn to? What should he do?

He returned in a daze to his flat in the
Barbican. The morning post had arrived in his absence. It included a letter
from the landlords of his flat.

Corporation of London,

Barbican Estate Office,

London, E. C. 2.

Telephone 01-628 4341

Dear Sir,

We are sorry to learn you will be leaving at
the end of the month, and would like to take this opportunity of thanking you
for the month’s payment of rent in advance.

We should be pleased if you would kindly
leave the flat in the condition in which you found it.

Yours faithfully,

C. J. Caselton,

Estate Manager

David stood frozen in the middle of the
room, gazing at his new Underwood with sudden loathing.

Finally, fearfully, he rang his
stockbrokers.

“What price
are
Discovery Oil this morning?”

“They have fallen to $7.40,” the broker
replied.

“Why have they fallen?”

“I have no idea, but I will make enquiries
and ring you back.”

“Please put five hundred shares on the
market for me immediately.”

“Five hundred Discovery Oil at market price,
yes, sir.”

David put the phone down. It rang a few
minutes later. It was his broker.

“They have only made $7.25–exactly what you
paid for them.”

“Would you credit the sum to my account at
Lloyd’s Bank, Moorgate?”

“Of course, sir.”

David did not leave the flat for the rest of
the day and night. He lay chain-smoking on his bed, wondering what he was going
to do next, sometimes looking out of his little window over a rain-drenched
City of banks, insurance companies, stockbrokers and public companies–his own
world, but for how much
longer?
In the morning, as
soon as the market opened, he rang his broker again, in the hope that they
would have some new information.

“Can you give me any news on Discovery Oil?”
His voice was now tense and weary.

“The news is bad, sir. There has been a
spate of heavy selling under way and the shares have dropped to $5.90 on the
opening of business this morning.”

“Thank you.”

He replaced the receiver. All those years at
Harvard were going to be blown away in a puff of smoke. An hour passed, but he
did not notice it. Disaster had stepped in and made everything timeless.

He ate lunch in an insignificant restaurant
and read a disturbing report in the London
Evening
Standard
by its City editor, David Malbert, headlined “The Mystery of
Discovery Oil.” By the close of the Stock Exchange at four o’clock, the shares
had fallen to $3.15.

David spent a restless night. He thought
with pain and humiliation how easily some smooth talk, two months of a good
salary and a quick bonus had bought his unquestioning belief in an enterprise
that should have excited all his business suspicion. He felt sick as he
recalled his man-to-man tips on Discovery Oil whispered confidentially into
willing ears.

On Wednesday morning David, dreading what he
knew he must hear, once again rang the broker. The shares had fallen to two
dollars and there was no market. He left the flat and went to Lloyd’s Bank,
where he closed his account and drew out the remaining £1,345. He was not sure
why. He just felt he would rather have it with him than tied up in a bank. He
had lost his faith in everything.

He picked up the final edition of
The Evening Standard
(the one marked “7RR”
in the right-hand corner). Discovery Oil had fallen to fifty cents. Numbly, he
returned to his flat. The housekeeper was on the stairs.

“The police have been round enquiring after
you, young man.” David climbed the stairs, trying to look unperturbed.

“Thank you, Mrs.
Pearson,
I guess it’s another parking fine.” Panic had now taken over completely. He
packed everything in a suitcase, except the painting, which he left, and booked
the first flight back to New York. He had never felt so small, so lonely and so
ill in his life.

S
tephen Bradley was delivering a lecture on
group theory at the Mathematics Institute in Oxford to third-year
undergraduates. He had read with horror that morning in
The Daily Telegraph
of the collapse of Discovery Oil. He had
immediately rung his broker, who was still trying to find out the full facts.
David Kesler seemed to have vanished without trace.

The lecture Stephen was giving was not going
well. His mind was preoccupied to say the least. He only hoped that the
undergraduates would misconstrue his absent-mindedness for genius rather than
recognise it for what it was–total despair. He was at least thankful that it
was his final lecture of the Hilary term.

At last it ended and he was able to return
to his rooms in Magdalen College, wondering where to start. Why the hell did he
put everything into one basket? How could he, the cool, calculating don, have
been so reckless and so greedy? Mainly because he trusted David, and he still
found it hard to believe that his friend was in any way involved. Perhaps he
shouldn’t have taken for granted someone he had helped at Harvard would
automatically be right. Damn it all, he hadn’t been a brilliant mathematician.
There must be a simple explanation. He must be able to get his money back. The
telephone rang. Perhaps it was his broker at last?