“Of course I remember, you fool. What are you going on about, Stephen? It’s me—Jean-Pierre.”
“I have a Mr. Metcalfe with me.”
“Christ, I’m sorry, Stephen. I didn’t…”
“And you can expect him in the next few minutes.”
Stephen looked toward Harvey who nodded his assent.
“You are to release the Van Gogh I purchased this morning to Mr. Metcalfe and he will give you a check for the full amount, 170,000 guineas.”
“Out of disaster, triumph,” said Jean-Pierre quietly.
“I’m very sorry I shall not be the owner of the picture myself, but I have, as the Americans would say, had an offer I can’t refuse. Thank you for the part you played,” said Stephen and put the telephone down.
Harvey was writing out a check to cash for $20,000.
“Thank you, Mr. Drosser. You have made me a happy man.”
“I am not complaining myself,” said Stephen honestly. He escorted Harvey to the door and they shook hands.
“Good-bye, sir.”
“Good day, Mr. Metcalfe.”
Stephen closed the door and tottered to the chair, almost too weak to move.
Robin and James saw Harvey leave the Dorchester. Robin followed him in the direction of the gallery, his hopes rising with each stride. James took the lift to the first floor and nearly ran to Room 120. He banged on the door. Stephen jumped at the noise. He didn’t feel he could face Harvey again. He opened the door.
“James, it’s you. Cancel the room, pay for one night and then join me in the cocktail bar.”
“Why? What for?”
“A bottle of Krug 1964 Privée Cuvée.”
One down and three to go.
Chapter Eleven
JEAN-PIERRE WAS the last to arrive at Lord Brigsley’s King’s Road flat. He felt he had earned the right to make an entrance. Harvey’s checks had been cleared and the Lamanns Gallery account was for the moment $447,560 in credit. The painting was in Harvey’s possession and the heavens had not yet fallen in. Jean-Pierre had cleared more money in two months of crime than he had in ten years of legitimate trading.
The other three greeted him with the acclaim normally reserved for a sporting hero, and a glass of James’s last bottle of Veuve Clicquot 1959.
“We were lucky to pull it off,” said Robin.
“We weren’t lucky,” said Stephen. “We kept our nerve under pressure, and the one thing we’ve learned from the exercise is that Harvey can change the rules in the middle of the game.”
“He almost changed the game, Stephen.”
“Agreed. So we must always remember that we shall fail unless we can be as successful, not once, but four times. We must not underestimate our opponent just because we’ve won the first round.”
“Relax, Professor,” said James. “We can get down to business again after dinner. Anne came in this afternoon especially to make the salmon mousse, and it won’t go down well with Harvey Metcalfe.”
“When am I going to meet this fabulous creature?” asked Jean-Pierre.
“When this is all over and behind us.”
“Don’t marry her, James. She’s only after our money.”
They all laughed. James hoped the day would come when he could tell them she had known all along. He produced the boeuf en croûte and two bottles of Echezeaux 1970. Jean-Pierre sniffed the sauce appreciatively.
“On second thought she ought to be seriously considered if her touch in bed is half as deft as it is in the kitchen.”
“You’re not going to get the chance to be the judge of that, Jean-Pierre. Content yourself with admiring her French dressing.”
“You were quite outstanding this morning, James,” said Stephen, steering the conversation away from Jean-Pierre’s pet subject. “You should go on the stage. As a member of the British aristocracy, your talent’s simply wasted.”
“I’ve always wanted to, but my old pa is against it. Those who live in expectation of a large inheritance must expect to have to toe the filial line.”
“Why don’t we let him play all four parts in Monte Carlo?” suggested Robin.
The mention of Monte Carlo sobered them up.
“Back to work,” said Stephen. “We have so far received $447,560. Expenses with the picture and an unexpected night at the Dorchester were $11,142 so Metcalfe still owes us $563,582. Think of what we’ve still lost, not of what we’ve gained. Now for the Monte Carlo operation, which depends upon split-second timing and our ability to sustain our roles for several hours. Robin will bring us up to date.”
Robin retrieved the green dossier from the briefcase by his side and studied his notes for a few moments.
“Jean-Pierre, you must grow a beard, starting today, so that in three weeks’ time you’ll be unrecognizable. You must also cut your hair very short.” Robin grinned unsympathetically at Jean-Pierre’s grimace. “Yes, you’ll look absolutely revolting.”
“That,” said Jean-Pierre, “will not be possible.”
“How are the baccarat and blackjack coming on?” continued Robin.
“I have lost $37 in five weeks, which includes my member’s fee at the Claremont and the Golden Nugget.”
“It all goes on expenses,” said Stephen. “That puts the bill up to $563,619.”
The others laughed. Only Stephen’s lips did not move. He was in sober earnest.
“James, how is your handling of the van going?”
“I can reach Harley Street from St. Thomas’s in 14 minutes. I should be able to do the actual run in Monte Carlo in about 11 minutes, though naturally I shall want to do some practice runs the day before. To start with I’ll have to master driving on the wrong side of the road.”
“Strange how everybody except the British drives on the wrong side of the road,” observed Jean-Pierre.
James ignored him.
“I’m not sure of all the continental road signs either.”
“They are detailed in the Michelin guide that I gave you as part of my dossier.”
“I know, but I’ll still feel easier when I’ve experienced the actual run and not just studied maps. There are quite a few one-way streets in Monaco and I don’t want to be stopped going down the wrong one with Harvey Metcalfe unconscious in the back.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll have ample time when we’re there. So, that only leaves Stephen, who’s about the most competent medical student I’ve ever had. You’re confident of your newly acquired knowledge, I hope?”
“About as confident as I am with your American accent, Robin. Anyway, I trust that Harvey Metcalfe will be in no state of mind to worry about such trivialities by the time we meet up.”
“Don’t worry, Stephen. Believe me, he wouldn’t even register who you were if you introduced yourself as Herr Drosser with a Van Gogh under both arms.”
Robin handed around the final schedule of rehearsals for Harley Street and St. Thomas’s, and once again consulted the green file.
“I’ve booked four single rooms on different floors at the Hôtel de Paris and confirmed all the arrangements with the Centre Hospitalier Princesse Grace. The hotel is reputed to be one of the best in the world—it’s certainly expensive enough—but it’s convenient for the Casino. We fly to Nice on Monday, the day after Harvey is due to arrive on his yacht.”
“What do we do for the rest of the week?” inquired James innocently.
Stephen resumed control:
“We master the green dossier backward, frontward and sideways for a full dress rehearsal on Friday. The most important thing for you, James, is to get a grip of yourself and let us know what you intend to do.”
James sunk back into gloom.
Stephen closed his file briskly.
“That seems to be all we can cover tonight.”
“Hang on, Stephen,” said Robin. “Let’s strip you off once more. I’d like to see if we can do it in 90 seconds.”
Stephen lay down slightly reluctantly in the middle of the room, an
d James and Jean-Pierre swiftly and carefully removed all his clothes.
“87 seconds. Excellent,” said Robin, looking down at Stephen, naked except for his watch. “Hell, look at the time. I must get back to Newbury. My wife will think I have a mistress and I don’t fancy any of you.”
Stephen dressed himself quickly while the others prepared to leave. A few minutes later, James stood by the front door, watching them depart one by one. As soon as Stephen was out of sight, he bounded downstairs into the kitchen.
“Did you listen?”
“Yes, darling. They’re all rather nice and I don’t blame them for being cross with you. They’re being very professional about the whole venture, while you sounded like the only amateur. We’ll have to think up something good for you to match them. We’ve over a week before Mr. Metcalfe goes to Monte Carlo and we must use the time constructively.”
James sighed: “Well, let’s enjoy tonight. At least this morning was a triumph.”
“Yes, but not yours. Tomorrow we work.”
Chapter Twelve
“PASSENGERS FOR FLIGHT 017 to Nice are now requested to board the aircraft at gate No. 7,” boomed the loudspeaker at Heathrow’s No. 1 terminal.
“That’s us,” said Stephen.
The four of them took the escalator to the first floor, and walked down the long corridor. After being searched for guns, bombs, and whatever else terrorists are searched for, they proceeded down the ramp.
They sat separately, never speaking or even looking at each other. Stephen had warned them that the flight could well be sprinkled with Harvey’s friends, and each imagined himself to be sitting next to the closest of them.
James gazed moodily at the cloudless sky and brooded. He and Anne had read every book they could lay their hands on that even hinted at stolen money or successful duplicity, but they had found nothing they could plagiarize. Even Stephen, in between being undressed and practiced upon at St. Thomas’s, was becoming daunted by the task of finding a winning plan for James.
The Trident touched down at Nice at 13:40, and the train journey from Nice to Monte Carlo took them a further twenty minutes. Each member of the Team made his own way to the elegant Hôtel de Paris in the Place du Casino. At 7 P.M. they were all present in room 217.
“All settled into your rooms?”
The other three nodded. “So far, so good,” said Robin. “Right, let’s go over the timing. Jean-Pierre, you will go to the Casino tonight and play a few hands of baccarat and blackjack. Try to acclimatize to the place and learn your way around. In particular, master any variations in the rules there might be from the Claremont, and be sure you never speak in English. Do you foresee any problems?”
“No, can’t say I do, Robin. In fact I may as well go now and start rehearsing.”
“Don’t lose too much of our money,” said Stephen.
Jean-Pierre, resplendent in beard and dinner jacket, grinned and slipped out of room 217 and down the staircase, avoiding the lift. He walked the short distance from the hotel to the famous Casino.
Robin continued:
“James, you take a taxi from the Casino to the hospital. On arrival you will leave the meter running for a few minutes and then return to the Casino. You can normally rely on a taxi to take the shortest route, but to be sure, tell the driver it’s an emergency. That’ll give you the opportunity of seeing which traffic lanes he uses under pressure. When he’s returned you to the Casino, walk the route from there to the hospital and back. Then you can assimilate it in your own time. After you’ve mastered that, repeat the same procedure for the route between the hospital and Harvey’s yacht. Never enter the Casino or even get close enough to the boat to be seen. Being seen now means being recognized later.”
“What about my knowledge of the Casino on the night of the operation?”
“Jean-Pierre will take care of that. He’ll meet you at the door because Stephen won’t be able to leave Harvey. I don’t think they will charge you the 12 franc entrance fee if you’re wearing a white coat and carrying a stretcher, but have it ready to be sure. When you’ve completed the walk, go to your room and stay there until our meeting at 11 A.M. tomorrow. Stephen and I will also be going to the hospital to check that all the arrangements have been carried out as cabled from London. If at any time you see us, ignore us.”
As James left room 217, Jean-Pierre arrived at the Casino.
The Casino stands in the heart of Monte Carlo overlooking the sea, surrounded by the most beautiful gardens. The present building has several wings, the oldest of which was designed by Charles Garnier, the architect of the Paris Opera House. The gambling rooms, which were added in 1910, are linked by an atrium to the Salle Garnier in which operas and ballets are performed.
Jean-Pierre marched up the marble staircase to the entrance and paid his 12 francs. The gambling rooms are vast, full of the decadence and grandeur of Europe at the turn of the century. Massive red carpets, statues, paintings and tapestries give the building an almost regal appearance and the portraits lend an air of a country home still lived in. Jean-Pierre found the clientele were of all nationalities: Arabs and Jews played next to each other at the roulette wheel and chatted away with an ease that would have been unthinkable at the United Nations. Jean-Pierre felt totally relaxed in the unreal world of the wealthy. Robin had assessed his character accurately and given him a role he could master with aplomb.
Jean-Pierre spent over three hours studying the layout of the Casino—its gambling rooms, bars and restaurants, the telephones, the entrances and exits. Then he turned his attention to the gambling itself. He discovered that two shoes of baccarat were played in the Salons Privés at 3 P.M. and 11 P.M., and learned from Pierre Cattalano, the head of the public relations department of the Casino, which of the private rooms Harvey Metcalfe preferred to play in.
Blackjack is played in the Salon des Amériques from 11 A.M. daily. There are three tables, and Jean-Pierre’s informant told him that Harvey always played on table No. 2, seat No. 3. Jean-Pierre played a little blackjack and baccarat, to discover any slight variations in rules there might be from the Claremont. In fact there were none, as the Claremont still adheres to French rules.
Harvey Metcalfe arrived noisily at the Casino just after 11 P.M., leaving a trail of cigar ash leading to his baccarat table. Jean-Pierre, inconspicuous at the bar, watched as the head croupier first showed Harvey politely to a reserved seat, and then walked through to the Salon des Amériques to the No. 2 blackjack table and placed a discreet white card marked “Réservé” on one of the chairs. Harvey was clearly a favored client. The management knew as well as Jean-Pierre which games Harvey Metcalfe played. At 11:27 P.M. Jean-Pierre left quietly and returned to the solitude of his hotel room where he remained until 11 A.M. the next day. He phoned no one and did not use room service.
James’s evening also went well. The taxi-driver was superb. The word “emergency” brought out the Walter Mitty in him: he traveled through Monte Carlo as if it were nothing less than the Rally itself. When James arrived at the hospital in 8 minutes 44 seconds, he genuinely felt a little sick and had to rest for a few minutes in the Entrée des Patients before returning to the taxi.
“Back to the Casino, but much slower, please.”
The journey back along the Rue Grimaldi took just over eleven minutes and James decided he would settle for trying to cover it in about ten. He paid off the taxi driver and carried out the second part of his instructions.
Walking to the hospital and back took just over an hour. The night air was gentle on his face, and the streets crowded with lively chattering people. Tourism is the chief source of income for the Principality, and the Monégasques take the welfare of their visitors very seriously. James passed innumerable little pavement restaurants and souvenir shops stocked with expensive trinkets of no significance that once bought would be forgotten or lost within a week. Noisy groups of holiday-makers strolled along the pavements, their multilingual babel forming a meaningless chorus
to James’s thoughts of Anne. On arrival back at the Casino, James then took a taxi to the harbor to locate Messenger Boy, Harvey’s yacht, and from there once more to the hospital. He then walked the same route and, like Jean-Pierre, he was safely in his room before midnight, having completed his first task.
Robin and Stephen found the walk to the hospital from their hotel took a little over 40 minutes. On arrival Robin asked the receptionist if he could see the superintendent.
“The night superintendent is now on duty,” said a freshly starched French nurse. “Who shall I say is asking him for?”
Her English pronunciation was excellent and they both avoided a smile at her slight mistake.
“Doctor Wiley Barker of the University of California.”
Robin began to pray that the French superintendent would not happen to know that Wiley Barker, President Nixon’s physician and one of the most respected surgeons in the world, was actually touring Australia at the time lecturing to the major universities.
“Bon soir, Docteur Barker. Monsieur Bartise à votre service. Votre visite fait grand honneur à notre hôpital humble.”
Robin’s newly acquired American accent stopped any further conversation in French.
“I would like to check the layout of the theater,” said Robin, “and confirm that we have it provisionally booked for tomorrow from 11 P.M. to 4 A.M. for the next five days.”
“That is quite correct, Doctor Barker,” said the superintendent, looking down at a clipboard. “The theater is off the next corridor. Will you follow me, please?”
The theater was not dissimilar to the one the four of them had been practicing in at St. Thomas’s—two rooms with a rubber swing door dividing them. The main theater was well equipped and a nod from Robin showed Stephen that it had all the instruments he required. Robin was impressed. Although the hospital had only some 200 beds, the theater itself was of the highest standard. Rich men had obviously been ill there before.
“Will you be requiring an anesthetist or any nurses to assist you, Doctor Barker?”