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Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less E-Book Download:Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less (Format: pdf, Language: English) Author: Jeffrey ArcherPublish. Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less by Jeffrey Archer. Read online, or download in secure ePub format. Jeffrey Archer's first novel, Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less, is page-turning tale of fraud, revenge and determination as four men stop at nothing to get back.
The message was to be passed direct to John D. Rockefeller, Jr. The granting of this pipeline would open up the entire North to a ready access of oil, and that would mean increased profits.
It was obvious to Henryk that Standard Oil shares would rise steadily on the market once the news had broken, especially as Standard Oil already controlled 90 per cent of the oil refineries in America. In normal circumstances Henryk would have sent this information immediately to Mr. As there was no one else about at the time Henryk picked it up and retreated once again to his private cubicle, thinking at best it would be another piece of information.
Rose Rennick. Henryk thought quickly. He quit the washroom at speed and was soon standing on Wall Street itself. He made his way to a small coffee shop on Rector Street, where he carefully worked out his plan and then he acted on it immediately. First, he cashed the cheque at a branch of the Morgan Bank on the southwest side of Wall Street, knowing that as he was wearing the smart uniform of a messenger at the Exchange it would be assumed that he was no more than a carrier for some distinguished firm.
Then, sweating in tense anticipation of an announcement from the governor's office, he put himself through the motions of a normal day's work, too preoccupied with Standard Oil even to make a detour via the washroom with the messages he carried.
No announcement came. Henryk went home that night petrified that he had made a disastrous mistake. He had visions of going to jail, losing his job and everything he had built up over the past four years. He was unable to sleep that night and became steadily more restless in his small room.
At one o'clock he could stand it no longer, so he rose, shaved, dressed and took a train to Grand Central Station. From there he walked to Times Square, where with trembling hands he bought the first edition of the Wall Street Journal. Henryk walked dazed to the nearest all-night cafe, on East Forty-second Street, where he ordered a large hamburger and french fries, which he devoured like a man eating his last breakfast before facing the electric chair, whereas in fact it was to be the first on his way to fortune.
He read the full details on page one, which spread over to page fourteen, and by four o'clock in the morning he had bought the first three editions of the New York Times and the first two editions of the Herald Tribune. Henryk hurried home, giddy and elated, and threw on his uniform. He arrived at the Stock Exchange at eight o'clock and imitated a day's work, thinking only of the second part of his plan.
He passed it by reading all the papers. The later editions gave a fuller story of the pipeline, the New York Times carrying a detailed enquiry into the significance of the announcement to the oil industry and an interview with John D. He left the building and looked up the address and telephone number of his unknowing benefactor. Rennick a widow who lived off the investments left by her late husband rented a small apartment on Park Avenue, one of the more fasionable parts of New York.
She was somewhat surprised to receive a call from a Henryk Metelski, asking to see her on an urgent private matter. Henryk had never been to the Waldorf-Astoria, but after four years on the Stock Exchange there were few hotels or restaurants he had not heard mentioned in other people's conversations. He knew that Mrs. Rennick was more likely to have tea with him there than agree to see a man with a name like Henryk Metelski in her own apartment, especially as over the telephone his Polish accent was more pronounced than on meeting him face to face.
After lunch Henryk asked the Senior Messenger if he might have the afternoon off, feigning influenza. His boss did not object to the request as Henryk had never missed as much as an hour in his four years.
Henryk went home, had a bath and put on his best suit. As Henryk stood in the softly carpeted foyer of the Waldorf-Astoria, he blushed for his sartorial naivety. Henryk imagined everybody to be staring at him and he buried his short, amply covered frame in the large leather chair. It was too late for him to wish he had put a little less grease on his black, wavy hair and to regret that his shoes were so down-at-heel.
He scratched at an irritating pustule on the side of his mouth. His suit, in which he felt so assured and prosperous among his friends, was shiny, skimpy, cheap and loud. He did not match up to the decor, less still to the patrons, of the hotel, and, feeling inadequate for the first time in his life, he edged gingerly into the Jefferson Room, stationed himself behind a copy of The New Yorker, and prayed for his guest to arrive quickly. Waiters fluttered deferentially around the well-provendered tables, ignoring Henryk with instinctive superciliousness.
Rose Rennick arrived a few minutes later with two small dogs and an outrageous hat. Henryk thought she looked over sixty, overweight, over-madeup and overdressed, but she had a warm smile and seemed to know everyone, moving from table to table, chatting to the regular Waldorf-Astoria tea set. She eventually reached what she had rightly guessed to be Henryk's table, and was rather startled by him, not just because he was strangely dressed, but because he looked even younger than his eighteen years.
Rennick ordered tea while Henryk told his story of how there had been an unfortunate mistake with her cheque, which had been wrongly made over to his firm at the Stock Exchange the day before. His firm had instructed him to return the cheque immediately and to say how sorry they were. Rennick had, in fact, only been informed of the missing cheque that morning and did not realise that it had been cashed, as it would have taken a few days to go through her account. Henryk's perfectly genuine anxiety as he stumbled through his tale would have convinced a more critical observer of human nature than Mrs.
Readily she agreed to let the matter drop, only too pleased to have her money back, and as it was in the form of a draft from the Morgan Bank, she had lost nothing.
Henryk breathed a sigh of relief and for the first time began to relax and enjoy himself. He even called for the man with the sugar and tongs. After a respectable period of time had passed, Henryk explained that he must return to work, thanked Mrs.
Rennick, paid the bill and left. Outside in the street he whistled with relief. His new shirt was soaked in sweat Mrs.
Rennick would have called it perspiration but he was out in the open and could breathe again. His first major operation had been a success. He stood in Park Avenue, amused that the venue for his confrontation with Mrs. Rennick had been the Waldorf-Astoria, as it was the very hotel where John D. Henryk had arrived on foot and used the main entrance, while Mr. Rockefeller had earlier arrived by subway and taken his private lift to the Waldorf Towers.
Few New Yorkers were aware that Rockefeller had his own private station built fifty feet below the Waldorf-Astoria so that he did not have to travel eight blocks to Grand Central Station, there being no stop between there and th Street. The station is still there today, but no Rockefellers live at the Waldorf-Astoria and the train never stops there. The next day Henryk returned to work as normal.
Over the next three years, Henryk stopped ringing Mr. Gronowich, and started dealing for himself, in small amounts to begin with. Times were still good, and while he didn't always make a profit, he had learnt to master the occasional bear market as well as the more common boom.
His system in the bear market was to sell short—not a process for the ethical in business, but he soon mastered the art of selling shares he didn't own in expectation of a subsequent fall in price. His instinct for the market trends refined as rapidly as his taste in suits, and the guile learnt in the back streets of the Lower East Side stood him in good stead.
Henryk had discovered that the whole world was a jungle —sometimes the lions and tigers wore suits. He had moved to a smart flat in Brooklyn and was driving a rather ostentatious Stutz.
Henryk had realised at an early age that he had entered upon life with three main disadvantages—his name, background and impecunity. The money problem was solving itself, and so he decided to expunge the others. First, he made application to have a legal change of name by court order to Harvey David Metcalfe. Second, he cut off all contact with his friends from the Polish community, and so in May he came of age with a new name and a new background.
It was later that year he met Roger Sharpley, a young man from Boston who had inherited his father's import and export company. Educated at Choate and later at Dartmouth College, Sharpley had the assurance and charm of the Boston set, so often envied by the rest of America.
He was tall and fair and looked as if he had come from Viking stock, and with the air of the gifted amateur, found most things came easily to him, especially women.
He was in total contrast to Harvey. It was that contrast that brought them together. Roger's only ambition was to join the Navy, but after graduating from Dartmouth he had had to return to the family firm because of his father's ill health.
He had only been with the firm a few months when his father died. Navy , the money was to be divided between his relatives. Roger found himself between the devil and the deep blue sea. Business life held no interest for him, and he felt miserably incompetent left in charge of the family firm.
It gave him a steady income, but he knew it could not long survive on its past reputation. On the other hand, he could not sell it and join the Navy without leaving himself penniless. Harvey and Roger met at the Exchange, and while neither liked or understood the other, each thought there might be something in the acquaintance to his own advantage.
Harvey was right. From there they had progressed to become experts in the import of whisky and the export of furs. Although only small in size, they had a reputation for honesty and efficiency—a reputation which had been built over nearly a hundred years. Bodie could well remember Roger in his diapers, and was not much more impressed now. Still, Roger left him a free hand to run the firm the way old Mr. Sharpley had always run it, though sometimes even Bodie wondered if his methods were appropriate for the times.
He was due to retire in five months at the age of sixty, but knew that Roger would be lost without him and would have to keep him on at least until the age of sixty-five. Knowing the codicil to Henry Sharpley's will, he felt safe from any thunderbolts. There would be three Board members—Harvey, Roger and one nominated by Harvey, giving him overall control.
As far as Harvey was concerned, Roger could join the Navy and come to the annual shareholders' meeting once a year. He realised only too well that they would try to talk him out of it.
Harvey had counted on this and had assessed his quarry accurately. Roger only gave the proposition a few days' consideration before he allowed the legal papers to be drawn up in New York, far enough away from Boston to be sure the firm did not learn what was going on.
Meanwhile, Harvey returned to the Morgan Bank, where he was now looked upon as a reliable customer. The legal documents were signed in New York on October 14, Harvey left for Grand Central Station to catch the train for Boston. His days as a messenger boy on the New York Stock Exchange were over.
He was twenty-one years of age and the president of his own company. When Harvey arrived on Monday morning at six o'clock his first move was to take over Mr. Bodie's office, relegating him to a storeroom at the back of the building. John Bodie eventually arrived, as he always did, at nine-thirty, and called the police, thinking his office had been broken into—they left with red faces when Harvey produced the legal documents. Bodie, in unbelieving fury, called the company lawyers, who had also drawn up the will for Henry Sharpley, to see if they could remove this cancer that had appeared from nowhere.
When the documents signed by Harvey and Roger Sharpley had been carefully checked, Bodie left within the hour and never returned. Harvey was on his way. A respectable company, established for nearly a hundred years, was to be his vehicle for future dubious transactions. What looked like disaster to most, Harvey could always manage to turn into a triumph. The American people were still suffering from Prohibition, and although Harvey could export furs, he could not import whisky.
This had been one of the reasons for the fall in the company profits over the past few years. But Harvey found that with a little bribery, involving the mayor of Boston, the chief of police and the customs officials on the Canadian border, plus a payment to the Mafia to ensure his products reached the restaurants and speakeasies, somehow the whisky imports went up rather than down. From to , despite the Depression, people continued to drink, and Harvey went from strength to strength, but when Prohibition was finally lifted by President Roosevelt after overwhelming public demand, the excitement went with it, and Harvey allowed the company to continue to deal with whisky and furs while he branched into new fields.
In three years Harvey had lost ninety-seven years of goodwill and still managed to double the profit. One of his new interests was the export of arms. Harvey was never too fussy about the final destination of his equipment; in fact, he was only too happy to supply both sides. When Britain declared war on Germany in September , America was horrified. Harvey rubbed his hands and two years later, in December , when America joined the Allies after Pearl Harbor, he never stopped rubbing them.
Harvey enjoyed being the president of a bank, but it did nothing for his honesty. One of the share transactions The Lincoln Trust had become involved in as a backer turned sour for all the small investors. Several of the promoters, who had been holding out false prospects for the stock they held, were arrested and tried for fraud. Harvey, knowing the truth, had sold at the top of the market and cleared a million for himself, but he had panicked when the case came to court and it took nearly the million in bribes to prevent his being implicated in the case.
When the trial was concluded he came out without a charge being brought against him, but few people in banking circles doubted his personal involvement. Despite his reputation he tried every way of acquiring society recognition. He bought a beautiful house and estate in Lincoln, the fashionable area a few miles outside Boston. He was also a strong supporter of the Democratic Party, and of mayors of any political complexion who captured power in Boston.
However, reputation in Boston comes much more from family background than from the ability to make money. No less a man than Joseph Kennedy was finding that to be true. The next turning point in Harvey's life came when he met Arlene Hunter in the spring of She was the only daughter of the president of the First City Bank of Boston.
Harvey had never taken any real interest in women. But having now reached middle age and having no heir to leave his fortune to, he calculated that it was time to get married and have a son. As with everything else he had done in his life, he studied the problem very carefully.
Harvey met Arlene when she was thirty-one. She could not have been a greater contrast to Harvey. She was nearly six foot, slim and although not unattractive, she lacked confidence and was beginning to feel marriage had passed her by.
Most of her school friends were now on their second divorce and felt rather sorry for her. Arlene fell for Harvey's charm and enjoyed his extravagant ways after her father's prudish discipline; she often thought that her father was to blame for her never feeling at ease with men of her own age. She had only had one affair, and that had been a disastrous failure because of her total innocence. Arlene's father did not approve of Harvey, which only made him more attractive to her.
Not that her father had approved of any of the men she had associated with, but on this occasion he was right. Harvey, on the other hand, realised that to marry the First City Bank of Boston with The Lincoln Trust could only benefit him, and with that in mind he set out, as he always did, to win.
Arlene and Harvey were married in Hunter could not hide their contempt, but went through the ceremony with some degree of goodwill for Arlene's sake. After the marriage came the honeymoon in Europe. It was the first holiday Harvey had had for twenty-seven years, and his first visit to Europe.
On returning to America, they settled in Harvey's Lincoln home and very shortly afterwards Arlene became pregnant. She gave Harvey a daughter almost a year to the day of their marriage. They christened her Rosalie. She was the apple of Harvey's eye, and he was very disappointed when a prolapse closely followed by a hysterectomy ensured that Arlene would not be able to bear him any more children.
He sent Rosalie to Bennetts, the best girls' school in Washington, and from there she won a place at Vassar to major in English.
This even pleased old man Hunter, who had grown to tolerate Harvey and adore his granddaughter. After gaining her degree, Rosalie continued her education at the Sorbonne because of a fierce disagreement with her father concerning the type of friends she was keeping, particularly the ones with long hair who didn't want to go to Vietnam. The final crunch came when Rosalie suggested that morals were not decided only by the length of one's hair or one's political views.
Harvey began to slow down and did not work as many hours as he had done in the early years, interesting himself only in the really large transactions and leaving his staff to take care of the day-to-day running of the bank. He found he played almost as much tennis now as he had when he first came to Boston, imagining it in those days to be a way of breaking into society.
He watched his health, although he was abundantly overweight, making regular visits to his doctor. Having amassed all that money he was going to make sure he lived long enough to enjoy it. Harvey got wind of it and went round to confront him, but the rot had set in and there was no hope of securing any cash.
It had been Harvey's intention to sell the picture before it could be proved that he was not a preferred creditor, but he became entranced with the delicate pastel shades and from this newly acquired prize came a desire to own more. When he realised that pictures were not only a good investment, but he actually liked them as well, his collection and his love grew hand in hand.
The Lord giveth and on that occasion the Lord had taken away. Although it was not fully appreciated in Boston, it was recognised elsewhere that Harvey had one of the finest Impressionist collections in the world, almost as good as that of Walter Annenberg, President Nixon's ambassador to London, who like Harvey had been one of the few people to build up a major collection since the Second World War.
Harvey's other love was a prize collection of orchids, and he had three times been winner at the New England Spring Flower Show in Boston. Harvey now travelled to Europe once a year. He had established a successful stud in Kentucky and liked to see his horses run at Longchamp and Ascot.
He also enjoyed watching Wimbledon, which he felt was still the outstanding tennis tournament in the world. It amused him to do a little business in Europe, where he still had the opportunity to make money for his Swiss bank account in Zurich. He did not need a Swiss bank account, but somehow he got a kick out of doing Uncle Sam.
Such a golden opportunity presented itself in , when the British Government invited applications for exploration and production licences in the North Sea. The then Minister of Power in Her Majesty's Government was Fred Erroll, who had vast experience in engineering and construction, and a career in politics which encompassed everything from the Board of Trade to the Treasury. Sir Alec DouglasHome, the British Prime Minister, who had taken over from Harold Macmillan after his sudden illness, gave Erroll the job of allocating the new licences.
At that time neither the British Government nor the civil servants involved had any idea of the future significance of North Sea oil, or the role it would eventually play in British politics.
If the government had known that in the Arabs would be holding a pistol to the heads of the rest of the world, and the British House of Commons would have eleven Scottish Nationalist Members of Parliament, they surely would have acted in a totally different way.
He was particularly fascinated by Paragraph 4 of the statutory instrument: "Persons who are citizens of the United Kingdom and Colonies are resident in the United Kingdom or who are bodies corporate incorporated in the United Kingdom may apply in accordance with these Regulations for: a a production licence; or b an exploration licence.
When he had studied the regulations in their entirety, he had sat back and thought hard. Only a small amount of money was required to secure a production and exploration licence.
As Paragraph 6 had it: " 1 With every application for a production licence there shall be paid a fee of two hundred pounds with an additional fee of five pounds for every block after the first ten in respect whereof that application is made.
Name of the applicant in full. Usual residential address Evidence of nationality accompanying the application. Full names Usual Residential Address Nationalities. Type of licence applied for, and if a production licence, reference number s of the block s is respect whereof the application is made. Signature of Applicant s or in the case of a body corporate, of a duly authorised officer whose capacity is to be stated. Harvey was not British, none of his companies was British and he knew he would have presentation problems.
He decided that his application must be backed by a British bank and that he must set up a company whose directors would give confidence to the British Government. Lord Hunn isett became chairman and several distinguished men joined the Board, including two exMembers of Parliament who had lost their seats when the Labour Party won the election.
When Harvey discovered how stringent the rules were for setting up a public company in England, he decided to launch the main company on the Canadian Stock Exchange and to use the English company only as a subsidiary.
Discovery Oil issued 2,, ten-cent shares at fifty cents, which were all acquired for Harvey by nominees. Having thus created the front, Harvey then used Lord Hunnisett to apply for the licence from the British Government. The new Labour government elected in October were no more aware of the significance of North Sea oil than the earlier Conservative administration.
On the May 22, , the Minister of Power published in the London Gazette the name of Discovery Oil among the fifty-two companies granted production licences. On August 3, , Statutory Instrument No.
Hopefully, Harvey waited for one of the companies who had acquired North Sea sites to strike oil. It was a longish wait: not until June did British Petroleum make a big commercial strike in their Forties Field.
Harvey was on to another winner, and set the second part of his plan in motion. Early in he hired an oil rig, which, with much flourish and publicity, he had towed out to the Discovery Oil site. He hired the rig on the basis of being able to renew the contract if he made a successful strike, and with the minimum number of people allowed by the government regulations, they proceeded to drill to 6, feet.
Harvey then bought Discovery Oil shares on the market at the rate of a few thousand a day for the next two months from his own nominees, and whenever the financial journalists of the British Press rang to ask why these shares were steadily rising, the young public relations officer at Discovery Oil's office said, as briefed, he had no comment to make at present but they would be making a press statement in the near future; some newspapers put two and two together and made about fifteen.
At the same rime Harvey's chief executive in Britain, Bernie Silverstein, was only too aware of what the boss was up to—he had been involved in past operations of this kind.
His main task was to ensure that nobody could prove a direct connection between Metcalfe and Discovery Oil. In January the shares stood at six dollars. It was then that Harvey was ready to move on to the third part of his plan, which was to use Discovery Oil's new recruit, a young Harvard graduate called David Kesler, as the fall guy.
It could have been tailor-made for him. Oil Company based in Canada, carrying out extensive work in the North Sea off Scotland, requires a young executive with experience in the stock market and financial marketing. Accommodation supplied. Based in London. Apply Box No. Nothing else great about the country. Lots of oil in lots of places equals lots of business opportunities for those who have the guts to invest with their balls.
He had spent five years in all at Harvard, the first four studying mathematics, and the last two over the river Charles, at the Business School. He had just graduated and, armed with an M. He had never been brilliant and envied the natural academics among his classmates who found post-Keynesian economic theories more fun than hard work.
David had worked ferociously, only lifting his nose far enough from the grindstone for a daily workout at the gymnasium, and the occasional weekend watching Harvard jocks defending the honour of the university on the football field or in the basketball court.
He would have enjoyed playing himself, but that would have meant another distraction. He read the advertisement again. David's parents had not found him an easy child to bring up. Quite early on, they had stopped loving and protecting him and contented themselves with admiring his string of school and college successes.
Later, he learnt not to cry at failure, but it still cut him deep. That was why at Harvard he had shut himself up with textbooks and nothing more yielding than a bar and some weights for relaxation. He had seen quite a few Harvard men who might have made it but for some dumb blonde.
That wasn't going to happen to him. For five years he had been as cloistered as a monk and as dull as a celibate and now it was time to gather the honey. He would apply for the job. He was young, of course, but that might count in his favour. The integrity of his self-confidence was unbreached by failure: people liked that.
He read the advertisement again, and typed a neat letter to the box number. A few days later, back came a questionnaire of a sort familiar to him from Harvard days, which asked: 1.
Name, age, address, marital status. List of high school, college, university, when attended, dates. What program did you specialize in at Business School? Major field of study. Major extracurricular activities in order of importance. Distinctions, honours and awards. What did you get out of your academic and extracurricular life at college?
Describe your avocations and hobbies. On a full page, describe your three most substantial accomplishments and explain why you view them as such. What factors led you to decide an oil company would be helpful to your career development?. Discuss other vocations or professions that you have seriously considered. Give a candid evaluation of yourself. Describe any situation or job in which you felt you had responsibility and tell us what you learnt from that experience.
Do you have any disabilities or illness which would necessitate special treatment? If yes, explain. List three references. You can't succeed in business without proving you are a normal, full-blooded member of the human race. David filled in the form, admitting to no weakness more ineradicable than inexperience.
A few more days passed before another letter summoned him to an interview at a local hotel on the following Wednesday at three o'clock. Talent scouts for big companies often used such a venue for interviews in a university city. David arrived at two forty-five at the Copley Square Hotel in Huntington Avenue, the adrenaline pumping round his body.
He repeated the Harvard Business School motto to himself as he was ushered into a small private room: look British, think Yiddish. Three men, who introduced themselves as Silverstein, Cooper and Elliott, interviewed him. Bernie Silverstein, a silver-haired, check-tied New Yorker with a solid aura of success, was in charge. Cooper and Elliott sat and watched David silently. It didn't throw him: he knew he looked keen and was coming over well.
Silverstein spent considerable time giving David an enticing description of the company's background and its future aims. Harvey had trained Silverstein well and he had all the glib expertise at his well-manicured fingertips needed by the right-hand man in a Metcalfe coup. We're involved in one of the biggest commercial opportunities in the world, looking for oil in the North Sea off Scotland.
Our company, Discovery Oil, has the backing of one of the largest banks in America. We have been granted licences from the British Government and we have the finance. But companies are made, Mr. Kesler, by people, it's as simple as that. We're looking for a man who will work night and day to put Discovery Oil on the map, and we'll pay the right man a top salary to do just that.
If you were offered the position you would be working in our London office under the immediate direction of our Number Two, Mr. The slim, sallow Number Two sounded as if he was from Georgia.
The government course was a typical Harvey Metcalfe touch. David Kesler left the hotel feeling quite pleased with the way the interview had gone. He had already been offered a job with a shipping company call Sea Containers Inc. Chicago wasn't his kind of town. David liked the thought of living in London and acquiring a matt British finish on his glossy American efficiency.
He promised himself that if Discovery Oil offered him the position of their executive in London he would take it.
Ten days later he received a telegram from Silverstein, inviting him to lunch at the 21 Club in New York.
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The plush air of the restaurant gave David confidence that these people knew what they were about. Their table was in one of the small alcoves so liked by businessmen who prefer their conversations to remain confidential.
He met Silverstein in the bar at twelve fifty-five. Silverstein was genial and relaxed.
He stretched the conversation out a little, discussing irrelevancies, but finally, over a brandy, offered David the position in London. He did not hesitate to agree to start working in London on January first. A week later he flew to Santa Barbara on the West Coast of America for a rare holiday with his uncle. The offshore oil rigs rise there from the limpid Pacific in a cluster. Most tourists think they spoil the view, and most locals detest them, recalling the disastrous Union Oil of California blowup of January , when 12, barrels had gone up in a pillar of fire that burned and smoked for days and left an mile oil slick to kill the wildlife and ruin the local tourist industry.
But David liked the rigs. That thrusting technology was part of him now that he was an oilman. David enjoyed his introduction to oil, which taught him an immense amount about the industry, although he was a little disconcerted that nobody else on the government course seemed to have heard of Discovery Oil.
But after eight weeks he had educated most of them. He spent Christmas with his parents in Manhattan and was well ready to fly to England on December 28 to take up his post in London. David Kesler had never been to England: how green the grass was, how narrow the roads, how closed in by hedges and fences the houses. He felt he was in Toy Town after the vast highways and large automobiles of New York.
Major field of study. Major extracurricular activities in order of importance. Distinctions, honours and awards. What did you get out of your academic and extracurricular life at college? Describe your avocations and hobbies. On a full page, describe your three most substantial accomplishments and explain why you view them as such.
What factors led you to decide an oil company would be helpful to your career development?. Discuss other vocations or professions that you have seriously considered. Give a candid evaluation of yourself.
Describe any situation or job in which you felt you had responsibility and tell us what you learnt from that experience.
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Do you have any disabilities or illness which would necessitate special treatment? If yes, explain. List three references. You can't succeed in business without proving you are a normal, full-blooded member of the human race. David filled in the form, admitting to no weakness more ineradicable than inexperience. A few more days passed before another letter summoned him to an interview at a local hotel on the following Wednesday at three o'clock. Talent scouts for big companies often used such a venue for interviews in a university city.
David arrived at two forty-five at the Copley Square Hotel in Huntington Avenue, the adrenaline pumping round his body. He repeated the Harvard Business School motto to himself as he was ushered into a small private room: look British, think Yiddish. Three men, who introduced themselves as Silverstein, Cooper and Elliott, interviewed him.
Bernie Silverstein, a silver-haired, check-tied New Yorker with a solid aura of success, was in charge. Cooper and Elliott sat and watched David silently. It didn't throw him: he knew he looked keen and was coming over well. Silverstein spent considerable time giving David an enticing description of the company's background and its future aims. Harvey had trained Silverstein well and he had all the glib expertise at his well-manicured fingertips needed by the right-hand man in a Metcalfe coup.
We're involved in one of the biggest commercial opportunities in the world, looking for oil in the North Sea off Scotland. Our company, Discovery Oil, has the backing of one of the largest banks in America.
We have been granted licences from the British Government and we have the finance. But companies are made, Mr. Kesler, by people, it's as simple as that.
We're looking for a man who will work night and day to put Discovery Oil on the map, and we'll pay the right man a top salary to do just that. If you were offered the position you would be working in our London office under the immediate direction of our Number Two, Mr. The slim, sallow Number Two sounded as if he was from Georgia. The government course was a typical Harvey Metcalfe touch. David Kesler left the hotel feeling quite pleased with the way the interview had gone.
He had already been offered a job with a shipping company call Sea Containers Inc. Chicago wasn't his kind of town. David liked the thought of living in London and acquiring a matt British finish on his glossy American efficiency.
He promised himself that if Discovery Oil offered him the position of their executive in London he would take it. Ten days later he received a telegram from Silverstein, inviting him to lunch at the 21 Club in New York. The plush air of the restaurant gave David confidence that these people knew what they were about.
Their table was in one of the small alcoves so liked by businessmen who prefer their conversations to remain confidential. He met Silverstein in the bar at twelve fifty-five. Silverstein was genial and relaxed. He stretched the conversation out a little, discussing irrelevancies, but finally, over a brandy, offered David the position in London. He did not hesitate to agree to start working in London on January first.
A week later he flew to Santa Barbara on the West Coast of America for a rare holiday with his uncle. The offshore oil rigs rise there from the limpid Pacific in a cluster.
Most tourists think they spoil the view, and most locals detest them, recalling the disastrous Union Oil of California blowup of January , when 12, barrels had gone up in a pillar of fire that burned and smoked for days and left an mile oil slick to kill the wildlife and ruin the local tourist industry.
But David liked the rigs. That thrusting technology was part of him now that he was an oilman. David enjoyed his introduction to oil, which taught him an immense amount about the industry, although he was a little disconcerted that nobody else on the government course seemed to have heard of Discovery Oil. But after eight weeks he had educated most of them. He spent Christmas with his parents in Manhattan and was well ready to fly to England on December 28 to take up his post in London.
David Kesler had never been to England: how green the grass was, how narrow the roads, how closed in by hedges and fences the houses. He felt he was in Toy Town after the vast highways and large automobiles of New York.
The small flat in the Barbican was clean and impersonal, but, as Mr. Cooper had said, convenient for his office a few hundred yards away in Threadneedle Street. David spent the weekend recovering from the flight and change of circadian rhythm, and turned up briskly for his first day at the offices of Discovery Oil on Tuesday, January 2.
The small building in Threadneedle Street consisted of seven rooms, of which only Silverstein's had a prestigious air about it. There was a tiny reception area, a telex room, two rooms for secretaries, a room for Mr. Elliott and another for himself. It seemed very pokey to David, but as Silverstein was quick to point out, office rent in the City of London was fifteen pounds a square foot compared with two pounds in New York. Bernie Silverstein's secretary, Judith Lampson, ushered him through to the wellappointed office of the chief executive.
Silverstein sat in a large black swivel chair behind a massive desk, which made him look like a midget. By his side were positioned the telephones—three white and one red. David was later to learn that the importantlooking red telephone was directly connected to a number in the States, but he was never quite sure to whom. Where would you like me to start?
Take a seat. They have just finished drilling in the North Sea. I want you to go to Aberdeen and write a full report on it. Try and find out what the other companies are up to while you are there. You should find that course you did with the government very useful. I'm sorry to send you away when you have only just arrived in London, before you have even had a chance to settle in.
David flew by Trident to Aberdeen the next morning, booked in at the Royal Hotel and then made contact with Mark Stewart, the Discovery Oil man on site. During the next ten days, he gathered all the information that Silverstein had asked for, both from Discovery Oil and the other companies involved in the area. Discovery Oil had only a few employees, and hardly any of them seemed to know in much detail what the company was up to.
Mark Stewart explained that almost everybody was on contract work, and they only needed a large work force when they were involved in an actual drilling operation. During David's stay in Aberdeen, they took a helicopter out to the rig, which was equally deserted. The grey waves lapped round it and the bitter wind blew through it. It seemed eerie to David, as if it had rarely been occupied or used.
There was, however, a heavy smell of sulphur and hydrocarbons in the air. David liked that: he remembered how they told them at the government course that when a strike had been made the smell was worse than a garbage dump.
When he arrived in the London office on the following Monday morning armed with his report, he immediately took it to Silverstein. David had spent considerable time and trouble compiling an efficient brief for his new boss, was rather pleased with the results and expected some appreciation. But Silverstein seemed to have other things on his mind, and invited David to lunch with him at Le Poulbot. It was there that David discovered what was preoccupying him.
When they had settled at their table downstairs in the Cheapside restaurant, Silverstein ventured, "Notice the change in the price of the shares? I suppose it is because of our new bank backing and the other companies' successful strikes?
New to library (All)
No wonder the air on the Discovery Oil rig was redolent with sulphur. We want to make some plans for coping with the publicity and the sudden inflow of money. The shares will go through the roof, of course.
Is there any harm in getting in on the act? Just let me know if anyone wants to invest. We don't have the problems of inside information in England—none of the restrictive laws we have in America. When he had completed the report, he glanced at his watch and cursed.
The geologist's file had totally preoccupied him and now he feared he was going to be late for his dinner in Oxford that night with an old classmate from Harvard.
He threw the report into his brief case and took a taxi to Paddington Station, only just making the six-fifteen. On the train down to the university city he thought about Stephen Bradley, who had been a close friend in his Harvard days and had helped so many students, like David, in the mathematics class that year. Stephen was now a visiting Fellow at Magdalen College and was undoubtedly the most brilliant scholar of his generation.
He had won the Kennedy Memorial Scholarship to Harvard and later, in , the Wister Prize for Mathematics, the most sought-after award in the mathematical faculty. Although in monetary terms this award was a derisory eighty dollars and a medal, it was the reputation and offers that came after that made the competition so keen. Stephen had won it with consummate ease and nobody was surprised when he was successful in his application for a fellowship at Oxford.
He was now in his third year at Magdalen. Papers by Bradley on Boolean algebra appeared at short intervals in the Proceedings of the London Mathematical Society. He was prodigiously clever, and had just been appointed to a chair in mathematics back at his alma mater, Harvard. David was very fond of his brilliant friend and looked forward to seeing Stephen again, to catch up with his latest work and successes, although he realised he would have to prise the information out of him.
So often it is the truly brilliant who have a tendency to remain silent because they know too much rather than too little. The six-fifteen from Paddington arrived in Oxford at seven-fifteen, and the short taxi ride from the station, past Worcester College and down New College Lane, brought David to Magdalen at seven-thirty.
He was sorry that the dark evening prevented him seeing more clearly the magnificence of the individual colleges, which, in a group, make up the university. One of the college porters escorted David to Stephen's rooms, which were spacious and ancient, and comfortably cluttered with books, cushions and prints.
How unlike the antiseptic walls of Harvard, thought David. Stephen was there to greet him. He didn't seem to have changed an iota. His tall, thin, ungainly body made any suit look as if it was hanging on him; no tailor would ever have employed him to be a dummy. His heavy eyebrows protruded over his out-of-date round-rimmed spectacles, which he almost seemed to hide behind in his shyness.
He ambled up to David to welcome him, one minute an old man, the next younger than his thirty years. Stephen poured David a Jack Daniels and they settled down to chat. The only sad event has been the death of my father last year," said Stephen. I do miss him. David, you're the bright boy in business. I never seem to have the time to do anything about it, and when it comes to investments I haven't a clue where to begin.
We've had a fantastic strike in the North Sea, and when we announce it the shares are going to go through the roof. The whole operation would only take a month or so. You will make the killing of a lifetime.
I only wish I had money to put into it. The problem is that the shares are already going up fast and although I am convinced they will reach twenty dollars, there is little time to waste. I'll keep you informed on how things are going and advise you when I feel it's the best time to sell.
Let's go and have some dinner. The long wooden tables on which the undergraduates were eating filled the body of the hall, but Stephen shuffled up to the High Table and proffered David a comfortable seat. The undergraduates were a noisy, enthusiastic bunch—Stephen didn't notice them though David was enjoying the new experience.
The meal was formidable and David wondered how Stephen kept so thin with such daily temptations seven courses are not unusual at Magdalen High Table. When they reached the port Stephen suggested they return to his rooms rather than join the crusty old dons in the Senior Common Room. Stephen, like most academics, was fairly credulous outside the bounds of his own discipline.
He began to think that an investment in Discovery Oil would be a very astute move on his part. In the morning, they strolled in the famous Addison's walk near Magdalen, where the grass grows green and lush by the Cherwell. Reluctantly, David caught the 11 A. He had enjoyed his stay at Oxford and hoped he had been able to help his old Harvard friend, who in the past had done so much for him.
You're doing a great job, David. If Kesler's friend does decide to invest in the company, mine will be the only shares available. He trusted David, and had been impressed by the geologist's report. Harvey Metcalfe's broker released 40, shares when Stephen's request came onto the floor of the market and the transaction was quickly completed. Stephen had invested everything he had and over the next few days he happily watched the shares climb to seven dollars, even before the expected announcement.
He began to wonder what he would spend his profit on even before he had made it. He decided he would not sell immediately, but hold on, as David thought these shares would reach twenty dollars. At the same time, Harvey Metcalfe began to release a few more shares onto the market, because of the interest created by Stephen's investment.
He was beginning to agree with Silverstein that the choice of David Kesler, young, honest, with all the enthusiasm of a man in his first appointment, had been a good one. It was not the first time Harvey had used this ploy, keeping himself well away from the action and placing the responsibility on innocent shoulders.
Meanwhile Richard Elliott, acting as the company spokesman, leaked stories to the press about large downloaders coming into the market, which in itself occasioned a flood of small investors.
One lesson a man learns in the Harvard Business School is that an executive is only as good as his health. David didn't feel happy without a regular medical checkup: he rather enjoyed being told he was in good shape, but perhaps should take things a little easier.
Miss Rentoul had therefore made an appointment for him with a Harley Street doctor. Adrian Tryner was a very successful man. Although thirty-seven, he was tall and handsome, with a head of dark hair that looked as if it would never go bald. He had a classic strong face and a self assurance that came from proven success. He still played squash twice a week, which made him look enviably younger than his contemporaries. He had remained fit since his Cambridge days, which had equipped him with a Rugby Blue and an upper second-class degree.
He had completed his medical training at St. Thomas's, where once again his rugby football rather than his medical skill brought him into prominence.
When he qualified, he went to work as an assistant to a highly successful Harley Street practitioner, Dr. Eugene Moffat. Moffat was successful not so much in curing the sick as in charming his patients, especially middle-aged women, who came to see him again and again however little was wrong with them. At fifty guineas a time that had to be regarded as success. Moffat had chosen Adrian Tryner as his assistant for exactly the qualities he had himself, which made him so sought after. Adrian Tryner was good-looking, personable, well educated and just clever enough.
He settled in very well to Harley Street and the Moffat system, and when the older man died suddenly in his early sixties, he took over his mantle much as a crown prince would take over a throne.
He continued to build up the practice, losing none of Moffat's ladies, except by natural causes, and by the age of thirty-seven had done remarkably well for himself. He wasn't complaining at his good fortune and he enjoyed his lifestyle, but he was a bored man. Occasionally he found the bland role of a sympathetic doctor almost intolerably cloying.
How would it be if he admitted that he neither knew nor cared just what was causing the minute patches of dermatitis on Lady Fiona Fisher's diamond-studded hands? Would the heavens descend if he told the dreaded Mrs. Page-Stanley that she was a malodorous old woman in need of nothing more medically taxing than a new set of dentures? And would he be struck off the list of the General Medical Council if he personally administered to the nubile Miss Lydia de Villiers a good dose of what she so clearly indicated that she wanted?
David Kesler arrived on time for his appointment. He had been warned by Miss Rentoul that doctors and dentists cancel if you are late and still charge you. David stripped and lay on Adrian Tryner's couch. The doctor took his blood pressure, listened to his heart, and made him put out his tongue an organ that seldom stands up well to public scrutiny. As he tapped and poked his way over David's body, they chatted. I expect you've heard of us—Discovery Oil?
Bend your legs up, please. The legs jumped wildly. Tryner, you will. Things are going very well for us. Look out for our name in the papers. Good muscular wall, no fat, no sign of an enlarged liver.
The young American was in good physical shape. Adrian left him in the examination room to get dressed and thoughtfully wrote out a brief report on Kesler for his records. An oil strike. Should he dig a little deeper? Harley Street doctors, although they routinely keep private patients waiting for three quarters of an hour in a gas-fired waiting room equipped with one out-of-date copy of Punch, never let them feel rushed once they are in the consulting room.
Adrian certainly didn't want to rush David. I am going to give you some iron tablets, which should take care of that. Take two a day, morning and night. It is kind of you to give me so much of your time.
How do you like London? Once I have mastered how long it takes to get something done here I will be halfway to victory. It might even shake him out of his present lethargy. He continued, "Would you care to join me for lunch later in the week? You might like to see one of our antique London clubs. Will Friday suit you? He took one immediately for luck. He was beginning to enjoy his stay in London. Silverstein seemed pleased with him, Discovery Oil was doing well and he was already meeting some interesting people.
Yes, he felt this was going to be a very happy period in his life. He arrived at the Athenaeum on Friday at twelve forty-five, a massive white building on the corner of Pall Mall, overlooked by a statue of the Duke of Wellington. David was amazed by the vast rooms and his commercial mind could not help wondering what price they might fetch as office space. The place seemed to be full of moving waxworks, who Adrian later assured him were distinguished generals and diplomats. They lunched in the Coffee Room, dominated by a Rubens of Charles I, and Adrian told David the famous Athenaeum story about the man who walked into the club from the street and asked the head porter if he could cash a cheque: "Are you a member of this club, sir?
Over coffee in the Members' Room, David readily told Adrian the details of the geologist's findings on the Discovery Oil site. His two young sons were back from prep school for the weekend and he was looking forward to seeing them again.
How quickly they had passed from babies to toddlers to boys, and how reassuring to know their future was secure. One of the first calls David received on the Monday morning was from Adrian. After all, when the British government allocated the sections of the North Sea they were bound to do it totally indiscriminately, as they were not to know where the oil was themselves.
The North Sea is going to do Britain a lot of good and I think you would do well to invest in us. No need to be greedy. You must come and have lunch with me some time. Keep in touch. We are going to need a lot of capital to finance our pipelaying operations, you know.
Pipe-laying can cost two million dollars per mile. Still, you are playing your part.
I have just had word from the head office that we are to give you a five thousand dollar bonus for your efforts. Keep up the good work.
This was business in the proper Harvard way.
What Is The Best Book ?
If you do the work, you get the rewards. No messing about. Once again, the shares climbed, because of Dr. They did not know that Harvey was releasing more shares each day because of the interest they had caused, which had created a market of its own.
David decided to spend some of his bonus on a painting for his little flat in the Barbican, which he felt was rather grey. David quite enjoyed art for art's sake, but he liked it even better for business' sake.
The Wildenstein was too expensive for his pocket and the Marlborough too modern for his taste. The gallery, just three doors away from Sotheby's, consisted of one vast room with a worn grey carpet and red faded wallpaper. The more worn the carpet and the more faded the walls, the greater the success and reputation of the gallery or at least that is the theory. There was a staircase at the far end of the room, against which some unregarded paintings were stacked, backs to the world.
David sorted through them on a whim and found, to his surprise, the sort of painting he was after. It was an oil by Leon Underwood called "Venus in the Park. Among them, in the foreground, was a naked comely woman with generous breasts and long hair. Nobody was paying her the slightest attention and she sat gazing out of the picture, face inscrutable, a symbol of warmth and love in indifferent surroundings.
David found her utterly compelling. The gallery proprietor, Jean Pierre Lamanns, wore an elegantly tailored suit as befitted a man who rarely received cheques for less than a thousand pounds. At thirty-five, he could afford the little extravagances of life and his Gucci shoes, Yves St. Laurent tie, Turnbull and Asser shirt and Piaget watch left no one in any doubt, especially women, that he knew what he was about.
He was an Englishman's vision of a Frenchman, slim and neat with longish dark, wavy hair and deep brown eyes that hinted at being a little sharp. He could be pernickety and demanding, with a wit that was often as cruel as it was amusing, which may have been one of the reasons he was still a bachelor. There certainly had not been any shortage of applicants. When it came to customers only his charm was on display. As David wrote out his cheque, he rubbed his forefinger gently backwards and forwards over his fashionable moustache, only too happy to discuss the picture.
He even tutored Henry Moore, you know. I believe he is underestimated because of his treatment of journalists and the press, whom he will describe as drunken scribblers. Although it was the most expensive download he had ever made, he felt it had been a good investment and, more important, he liked the painting. Jean Pierre took David downstairs to show him the Impressionist and Modern collection he had built up over many years, and continued to enthuse about Underwood.
They celebrated David's acquisition over a whisky in Jean Pierre's office. I'll go with you, if you like. I haven't seen him for some time. He was impressed by the Frenchman's depth of knowledge on art. David always admired experts. They fixed their pilgrimage to Underwood for the weekend. He wondered if he would ever understand how the London road system worked. When he eventually arrived, Jean Pierre was standing on the pavement waiting for him and took him straight in to see the great man, who was now very old and going blind.
But his immense enthusiasm and skill came out with everything he said. His studio in the basement was covered in paintings and sculptures. In that room was fifty years of work, and David spent two hours wishing he could afford it all. He eventually ended up by downloading a small maquette called "The Juggler" and inviting them both for lunch. He picked up his brush and thought a little sadly of his beautiful naked Venus on the wall of the brisk young American.
David was not really sure where to take Jean Pierre for lunch, and he made a bolt for the new Hilton in Shepherd's Bush. Like so many Americans in a strange city, he knew that not too much could go wrong at a Hilton.
It was all so reassuringly like home. Conrad Hilton must have made millions playing on this particular characteristic in his countrymen. Let's just say that I nearly married the daughter of the chairman of the Bernheim Jeune. Also there are enough Frenchmen trying to set up art galleries in Paris. But that's enough of me. It is no secret that the company shares have gone from three to seven dollars in the last few weeks, but no one knows the real reason. We are shortly to make a rather special announcement.
A nod was as good as a wink to one of his Gallic subtlety. He did not pursue the line any longer. The rest of the meal was spent in discussing their mutual interest, sports. They were so engrossed in their conversation, they didn't notice the waiter hovering anxiously to clear their table; he wanted some time off that afternoon. Finally, they parted, both surprised that it was nearly four o'clock. We've had a few problems. Nothing we can't lick though. Like the others, he was hoping for a quick profit.
Jean Pierre Lamanns. What can we do for you? Hold on a minute Canadian company, very low capital. A bit risky, J. I wouldn't recommend it. I'm not going to hold on to them.
When did the account start? download them today and sell them by the end of the account, or earlier. I'm expecting an announcement next week, so when they go over ten dollars you can get rid of them.The Polish gang were responsible for the numbers racket, which they organised in their small neighbourhood, and because it was exclusively a Polish area they had little interference from the other big gangs, who were always at war amongst themselves.
When he qualified, he went to work as an assistant to a highly successful Harley Street practitioner, Dr. Tomorrow they would be penniless.
His days as a messenger boy on the New York Stock Exchange were over. Still, you are playing your part.
Most of her school friends were now on their second divorce and felt rather sorry for her. We are shortly to make a rather special announcement. Based in London. He had seen quite a few Harvard men who might have made it but for some dumb blonde.