Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less by Jeffrey Archer Page A

famous
for his dinner parties.’ Got that?”
    “Yes, sir,” said the head porter, Harry
Woodley. He had never understood Americans and Dr. Bradley was no exception.
    All three men did ring and enquire as
Stephen had anticipated they would. He himself would have done the same. Harry
remembered his message and repeated it, although the callers seemed a little
baffled.
    “No more than me, or is it I,” muttered the
head porter.
    Stephen received acceptances from all three.
James Brigsley’s arrived last on the Monday. The crest on his letter paper
announced a promising motto: Ex nihilo omnia.
    The butler to the Senior Common Room and the
college chef were consulted, and a meal to loosen the tongues of the most
taciturn was planned:
    Coquilles Saint-JacquesPouilly-Fuisse
1969Carree d’agneau en crouteFeux St. Jean 1970Casserole d’artichauds et
champignonsPommes de terre boulangereGriestorte with raspberriesBarsac Ch. d’Yquem
1927Camembert frappe CafePort Taylor 1947Everything was now planned; all
Stephen could do was wait for the appointed hour.
    On the stroke of 7:30 P.M. on Thursday Jean
Pierre arrived. Stephen admired the elegant dinner jacket and floppy bow tie
that his guest wore, and fingered his own little clipon, surprised that Jean
Pierre Lamanns, with such apparent savoir faire, could also have fallen victim
to Discovery Oil. Stephen plunged into a monologue on the significance of the
isosceles triangle in modern art. Not a subject he would normally have chosen
to speak without a break for five minutes on, but he was saved from the
inevitability of questions from Jean Pierre by the arrival of Dr. Adrian
Tryner. He had lost a few pounds in the past days, but Stephen could see why
his practice in Harley Street would be a success. He was, in the words of H. H.
Munro, a man whose looks made it possible for women to forgive any other little
inadequacies. Adrian studied his shambling host and asked himself if he dared
to enquire immediately if they had ever met before. No, he would leave it a
little and perhaps some clue would materialise during the course of dinner.
    Stephen introduced him to Jean Pierre and
they chatted while the host checked the dinner table. Once again the door
opened and with a little more respect than previously displayed the porter
announced: “Lord Brigsley.”
    Stephen greeted him, suddenly unsure whether
he should bow or shake hands. Although James did not know anyone present (a
very strange gathering, he thought) he showed no signs of discomfort and
entered easily into the conversation. Even Stephen was struck by James’s
relaxed line of small talk, but he couldn’t help recalling his academic results
at Christ Church and he wondered whether the noble lord would be an asset to
his plans.
    The meal worked the magic that had been
intended. No guest could possibly have asked his host why the dinner party was
taking place at all while such delicately garlicky lamb, such tender almond
pastry, were to hand.
    Finally, when the servants had cleared the
table and the port was on its way round for a second time, Adrian could stand
it no longer:
    “If it’s not a rude
question, Dr. Bradley.”
    “Do call me Stephen.”
    “Stephen, what in hell’s name is the purpose
of this select gathering?” Six eyes bore into him asking the same question.
    Stephen rose and surveyed his guests. He
started by recalling the entire happenings of the past few weeks. He told them
of his meeting with David Kesler, his investment in Discovery Oil and the visit
of the Fraud Squad. He ended his carefully prepared speech with the words, “Gentlemen,
the truth is that the four of us are all in the same
bloody mess.”
    Jean Pierre reacted before Stephen could
finish what he was saying.
    “Count me out. I would not be involved in
anything quite so stupid as that. I am a humble art
dealer not a speculator.”
    Adrian Tryner joined in even before Stephen
was given the chance to reply.
    “Never heard anything