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.The American police are keeping an eye out for him.""One last question," said Stephen."Are there any other people who have made such fools of themselves as I have?"The inspector gave this question long consideration.He had not had as much success with the other big investors as he had had with Stephen.They had all been evasive about their involvement with Kesler and Discovery Oil.Perhaps if he released their names it might bring them out in some way.The police have many ways of gaining information."Yes, sir, but.please understand that you never heard about them from me."Stephen nodded."For your own interest you could find out what you want to know if you made some thorough enquiries at the Stock Exchange.There were four main punters, of which you were one.Between you, you lost approximately one million dollars.The others were a Harley Street doctor, Adrian Tryner, a London art dealer called Jean Pierre Lamanns, and a farmer, who I feel the sorriest of all for, really.He mortgaged his farm to put up the money, as far as I can gather.Titled young man: Viscount Brigsley.Metcalfe's snatched the silver spoon out of his mouth all right.""No other big investors?""Yes, two or three banks burnt their fingers badly, but there were no other private investors above $25,000.What you, the banks and the other big investors did was to keep the market going long enough for Metcalfe to offload his entire holding.""I know, and I was foolish enough to advise friends to invest in the company as well.""Uhm, there are two or three small investors from Oxford," said the inspector, looking down at the sheet of paper in front of him, "but don't worry, sir, we won't be approaching them.Well, that seems to be all.It only leaves me to thank you for your co-operation and say we may be in touch again sometime in the future, but in any case, we will keep you informed of developments, and hope you will do the same for us.""Of course, Inspector.I do hope you have a safe journey back to town." The two policemen downed their drinks and left to catch their train to London.Stephen was not sure if it was sitting in his armchair looking out at the cloisters, or later in bed that night, that he decided to employ his academic mind to carry out a little research on Harvey Metcalfe and his fellow dupes.His grandfather's advice to him, when as a small child he could seldom win their nightly game of chess, floated through his mind: Stevie, don't get cross, get even.When he finally fell asleep at three o'clock, that was his plan.He was pleased he had given his final lecture and finished work for the term, and he slept soundly, almost relieved by knowing the truth.Chapter 5Stephen awoke at about 5:30 A.M.He seemed to have been heavily, dreamlessly asleep, but as soon as he came to, his nightmare started again.He forced himself to use his mind constructively, to put the past firmly behind him and see what he could do about the future.He washed, shaved, dressed and missed college breakfast, pedalling to Oxford station on his ancient bicycle, the preferred mode of transportation in a city blocked solid with juggernaut lorries in one-way systems.He left Ethelred the Unsteady padlocked to the station railings.There were as many bicycles standing in the ranks as there are cars in any other station in England.He caught the eight-seventeen, so favoured by those who commute from Oxford to London every day.All the people having breakfast seemed to know each other and Stephen felt like an uninvited guest at someone else's party.The ticket collector bustled through the buffet car, and clipped Stephen's first-class ticket.The man opposite Stephen produced a second-class ticket from behind his copy of the Financial Times.The collector clipped it grudgingly."Have to go back to a second-class compartment when you've finished your breakfast, sir.The restaurant car is first-class, you know?"Stephen considered the implication of these remarks, watching the flat Berkshire countryside jolt past as his coffee cup lurched unsampled in its saucer before he turned to the morning papers.The Times carried no news of Discovery Oil that morning.It was, he supposed, only a little story, even a dull one.Just another shady business enterprise collapsed in double-quick order; not kidnap or arson or even rape: nothing there to hold the attention of the front page for long.Not a story he would have given a second thought to but for his own involvement, which gave it all the makings of a personal tragedy.At Paddington he pushed through the ants rushing around the forecourt.He was glad he had chosen the closeted life of Oxford, or more accurately that it had chosen him.He had never come to terms with London, which he found large and impersonal, and he always took a taxi everywhere for fear of getting lost on the buses or underground.Why ever didn't they number their streets so Americans would know where they were?"The Times office, Printing House Square."The cabby nodded and moved his black Austin deftly down the Bayswater Road, alongside a rain-sodden Hyde Park.The crocuses at Marble Arch looked sullen and battered, splayed wetly on the close grass.Stephen was impressed by London cabs: they never had a scrape or mark on them: cab-drivers are not allowed to pick up fares unless their vehicles are in perfect condition.How different from New York's battered yellow monsters, he thought.The cabby swung down Park Lane to Hyde Park Corner, past the House of Commons and along the Embankment.The flags were out in Parliament Square.Stephen frowned to himself.What was the lead story he had read so inattentively in the train? Ah yes, a meeting of Commonwealth leaders.He supposed he must allow the world to go about its day's business as usual.Stephen was unsure how to tackle the problem of checking Harvey Metcalfe out.Back in Harvard he would have had no trouble: he would have made a beeline for the offices of the Herald Record American and his father's old friend the business correspondent, Hank Swaltz, would have given him the dope.The diary correspondent of The Times, Richard Compton-Miller, was by no means so appropriate a contact, but he was the only British press man Stephen had ever met.Compton-Miller had visited Magdalen the previous spring to write a feature on the time-honoured observance of May Day in Oxford.The choristers on the top of the college tower sang the Miltonian salute as the sun peeped over the horizon at May first:Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspireMirth and youth and warm desire.On the banks of the river beneath Magdalen bridge, where Compton-Miller and Stephen had stood, several couples were clearly inspired.Later, Stephen was more embarrassed than flattered by his appearance in the resulting piece on May Day at Magdalen that Compton-Miller had written for The Times Diary: academics are sparing with the world brilliant, but journalists are not [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]