Stephen looked at the clock at the back of the lecture theater every few minutes, until at last it pointed to the hour and he was able to return to his rooms in Magdalen College. He sat in his old leather chair wondering where to start. Why the hell had he put everything into one basket? How could he, normally so logical, so calculating, have been so recklessly stupid and greedy? He had trusted David, and still found it hard to believe that his friend was in any way involved with the collapse. Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken for granted that someone he had befriended at Harvard must automatically be right. There had to be a simple explanation. Surely he must be able to get all his money back. The telephone rang. Perhaps it was his broker with more concrete news.
As he picked up the phone, he realized for the first time that the palms of his hands were slippery with sweat.
‘Stephen Bradley.’
‘Good morning, sir. I am sorry to bother you. My name is Detective Inspector Clifford Smith of the Fraud Squad, Scotland Yard. I was wondering if you would be kind enough to see me this afternoon?’
Stephen hesitated, thinking wildly for a minute that he might have done something criminal by investigating in Prospecta Oil.
‘Certainly, Inspector,’ he replied uncertainly, ‘would you like me to travel to London?’
‘No, sir,’ replied the Inspector, ‘we’ll come to you. We can be in Oxford by 4 pm, if that’s convenient.’
‘I’ll expect you then. Good-bye, Inspector.’
Stephen replaced the receiver. What could they want? He knew little of English law and hoped he was not going to be involved with the police as well. All this just six months before he was due to return to Harvard as a professor. Stephen was even beginning to wonder if that would materialize.
The Detective Inspector was about 5 ft 11 in in height, and somewhere between forty-five and fifty. His hair was turning gray at the sides, but brilliantine toned it in with the original black. His shabby suit, Stephen suspected, was more indicative of a policeman’s pay than of the Inspector’s personal taste. His heavy frame would have fooled most people into thinking he was rather slow. In fact, Stephen was in the presence of one of the few men in England who fully understood the criminal mind. Time and time again he had been the man behind the arrest of international defrauders. He had a tired look that came from years of putting men behind bars for major crimes, only to see them freed again shortly after and living comfortably off the spoils of their shady transactions. In his opinion, crime did pay. The department was so understaffed that some of the smaller fry even got away scot-free; often the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions would decide it would be too expensive to follow the case through to a proper conclusion. On other occasions, the Fraud Squad simply did not have the back-up staff to finish the job properly.
The Detective Inspector was accompanied by Detective Sergeant Ryder, a considerably younger man — 6 ft 1 in, thin in body and face. His large brown eyes had a more innocent look against his sallow skin. He was at least a little better dressed than the Inspector, but then, thought Stephen, he probably wasn’t married.
‘I’m sorry about this intrusion, sir,’ began the Inspector, after he had settled himself comfortably in the large armchair usually occupied by Stephen, ‘but I’m making inquiries into a company called Prospecta Oil. Now before you say anything, sir, we realize that you had no personal involvement in the running of this company or indeed its subsequent collapse. But we do need your help, and I would prefer to ask you a series of questions which will bring out the points I need answered, rather than have you just give me a general assessment. I must tell you, sir, you don’t have to answer any of my questions if you don’t want to.’
Stephen nodded.
‘First, sir, what made you invest such a large amount in Prospecta Oil?’
The Inspector had in front of him a sheet of paper with a list of all the investments made in the company over the past four months.
‘The advice of a friend,’ replied Stephen.
‘Mr David Kesler, no doubt?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know Mr Kesler?’
‘We were students at Harvard together and when he took up his appointment in England to work for an oil company, I invited him down to Oxford for old times’ sake.’
Stephen went on to detail the full background of his association with David, and the reason he had been willing to invest such a large amount. He ended his explanation by asking if the Inspector thought that David was criminally involved in the rise and fall of Prospecta Oil.
‘No, sir. My own view is that Kesler, who incidentally has made a run for it and left the country, is no more than the dupe of bigger men. But we would still like to question him, so if he contacts you, please let me know immediately. Now, sir,’ the Inspector continued, ‘I’m going to read you a list of names and I would be obliged if you could tell me whether you have ever met, spoken to or heard of any of them... Harvey Metcalfe?’
‘No,’ said Stephen.
‘Bernie Silverman?’
‘I’ve never met or spoken to him, but David did mention his name in conversation when he dined with me here in college.’
The Detective Sergeant was writing down everything Stephen said, slowly and methodically.
‘Richard Elliott?’
‘The same applies to him as Silverman.’
‘Alvin Cooper?’
‘No,’ said Stephen.
‘Have you had any contact with anyone else who was involved in the company?’
‘No.’
For well over an hour the Inspector quizzed Stephen on minor points, but he was unable to give him very much help, although he had kept a copy of the geologist’s report.
‘Yes, we are in possession of one of those documents, sir,’ said the Inspector, ‘but it’s cleverly worded. I doubt if we’ll be able to rely much on that for evidence.’
Stephen sighed and offered the two men some whiskey and poured himself a donnish dry sherry.
‘Evidence against whom or for what, Inspector?’ he said as he returned to his chair. ‘It’s clear to me that I’ve been taken for a sucker. I probably don’t need to tell you what a fool I’ve made of myself. I put my shirt on Prospecta Oil because it sounded like a sure-fire winner, and ended up losing everything I had without having a clue what to do about it. What in heaven’s name has been going on in Prospecta Oil?’
‘Well, sir,’ said the Inspector, ‘you’ll appreciate there are aspects of the case I’m not at liberty to discuss with you. Indeed, there are some things that aren’t very clear to us yet. But the game isn’t a new one, and this time it’s been played by an old pro, a very cunning old pro. It works something like this: a company is set up or taken over by a bunch of villains who acquire the majority of the shares. They invent a plausible story about a new discovery or super product that will send the shares up, whisper it in a few willing ears, release their own shares onto the market and let them be snapped up by the likes of you, sir, at a higher price. Then they clear off with the profit they have made, after which the shares collapse because the company has no real substance. As often as not, it ends with dealings in the shares being suspended on the stock market, and finally in the compulsory liquidation of the company. That hasn’t happened yet in this case, and it may not. The London Stock Exchange is only just recovering from the Caplanfiasco and they don’t want another scandal on their hands. I’m sorry to say that we can hardly ever recover the money, even if we produce enough evidence to nail the villains. They have it all stashed away all over the world before you can say Dow-Jones Index.’