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

so
preposterous. You must
have got the wrong man. I am a Harley Street doctor–I know nothing about oil.”
    Stephen could see why the Fraud Squad had
had trouble with those two and why they had been so thankful for his
co-operation. They all looked at Lord Brigsley, who raised his eyes and said
very quietly:
    “Absolutely right to the detail, Mr.
Bradley, and I am in more of a pickle than you. I borrowed a hundred and fifty
thousand pounds to buy the shares against the security of my small farm in
Hampshire and I don’t think it will be long before the bank insist that I sell
it, and when they do and my dear old Pa, the fifth Earl, finds out, it’s
curtains for me or I become the sixth Earl overnight.”
    “Thank you,” said Stephen. As he sat down,
he turned to Adrian and raised his eyebrows interrogatively.
    “What the hell,” said Adrian, “you are quite
right about my involvement. I met David Kesler as a
patient and in a rash moment invested a hundred thousand pounds in Discovery
Oil as a loan against my securities. God only knows what made me do it. As the
shares are only worth fifty cents now, no one will buy them, and I have a
shortfall at my bank which they are beginning to fuss about. I also have a
large mortgage on my country home in Berkshire and a heavy rent on my Harley
Street consulting room, a wife with expensive tastes and two boys at the best
private prep school in England. I have hardly slept a wink since Detective
Inspector Smith visited me two weeks ago.” He looked up. His face had drained
of colour and the assured suavity of Harley Street had gone. Slowly, they
turned and looked at Jean Pierre.
    “All right, all right,” he admitted, “me
too. I was in Paris when the damned thing folded under me and I got stuck with
the useless shares. Eighty thousand pounds borrowed against my stock at the
gallery–stock I cannot move at the moment because of the drop in values in the
art market. The bank are asking me to consider selling
my gallery. And what is worse, I told some of my friends to invest in the bloody
company.”
    Silence enveloped the room. It was Jean
Pierre who broke it again:
    “So what do you suggest, Professor,” he said
sarcastically, “hold an annual dinner to celebrate what fools we have been?”
    “That was not my plan.” Stephen realised
that what he was about to suggest would shock, so he rose again to his feet,
and quietly and deliberately said:
    “We have had our money stolen by a very
clever man who is an expert in share fraud. We are not knowledgeable about
stocks and shares, but we are all experts in our own fields. Gentlemen, I
therefore suggest we steal it back.
    NOT A PENNY MORE AND NOT A PENNY LESS.”
    A few seconds’ silence was followed by
uproar.
    “Just walk up and take it, I suppose?” said
Adrian.
    “Kidnap him,” mused James.
    “Why don’t we just kill him?” said Jean
Pierre.
    Several minutes passed. Stephen waited until
he had complete silence again and then he handed round the four dossiers marked
“Harvey Metcalfe” with each individual name below. A green
dossier for Adrian, a blue one for James and the yellow for Jean Pierre. The red master Stephen kept for himself. They were all impressed. While they
had been wringing their hands in unproductive dismay, it was obvious that
Stephen Bradley had been hard at work
    Stephen continued.
    “Please read your dossier carefully. It
gives you full details of everything that is known about Harvey Metcalfe. Each
of you must take it away and study the information, and return with a plan of
how we are, between us, to extract one million dollars from him without his
ever becoming aware of it. All four of us must come up with a separate plan.
Each may involve the other three in his operation. We will return here in
fourteen days’ time and present our ideas. Each member of the team will put ten
thousand dollars into the kitty as a float and I will keep a running account as
the mathematician. All expenses