Free Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less by Jeffrey Archer

advance and no explanation.”
    David dropped the telephone. The truth was
beginning to dawn on him. Who could he turn to? What should he do?
    He returned in a daze to his flat in the
Barbican. The morning post had arrived in his absence. It included a letter
from the landlords of his flat.
     
    Corporation of London,
    Barbican Estate Office,
    London, E. C. 2.
    Telephone 01-628 4341
    Dear Sir,
    We are sorry to learn you will be leaving at
the end of the month, and would like to take this opportunity of thanking you
for the month’s payment of rent in advance.
    We should be pleased if you would kindly
leave the flat in the condition in which you found it.
    Yours faithfully,
    C. J. Caselton,
    Estate Manager
     
    David stood frozen in the middle of the
room, gazing at his new Underwood with sudden loathing.
    Finally, fearfully, he rang his
stockbrokers.
    “What price are Discovery Oil this morning?”
    “They have fallen to $7.40,” the broker
replied.
    “Why have they fallen?”
    “I have no idea, but I will make enquiries
and ring you back.”
    “Please put five hundred shares on the
market for me immediately.”
    “Five hundred Discovery Oil at market price,
yes, sir.”
    David put the phone down. It rang a few
minutes later. It was his broker.
    “They have only made $7.25–exactly what you
paid for them.”
    “Would you credit the sum to my account at
Lloyd’s Bank, Moorgate?”
    “Of course, sir.”
    David did not leave the flat for the rest of
the day and night. He lay chain-smoking on his bed, wondering what he was going
to do next, sometimes looking out of his little window over a rain-drenched
City of banks, insurance companies, stockbrokers and public companies–his own
world, but for how much longer? In the morning, as
soon as the market opened, he rang his broker again, in the hope that they
would have some new information.
    “Can you give me any news on Discovery Oil?”
His voice was now tense and weary.
    “The news is bad, sir. There has been a
spate of heavy selling under way and the shares have dropped to $5.90 on the
opening of business this morning.”
    “Thank you.”
    He replaced the receiver. All those years at
Harvard were going to be blown away in a puff of smoke. An hour passed, but he
did not notice it. Disaster had stepped in and made everything timeless.
    He ate lunch in an insignificant restaurant
and read a disturbing report in the London Evening
Standard by its City editor, David Malbert, headlined “The Mystery of
Discovery Oil.” By the close of the Stock Exchange at four o’clock, the shares
had fallen to $3.15.
    David spent a restless night. He thought
with pain and humiliation how easily some smooth talk, two months of a good
salary and a quick bonus had bought his unquestioning belief in an enterprise
that should have excited all his business suspicion. He felt sick as he
recalled his man-to-man tips on Discovery Oil whispered confidentially into
willing ears.
    On Wednesday morning David, dreading what he
knew he must hear, once again rang the broker. The shares had fallen to two
dollars and there was no market. He left the flat and went to Lloyd’s Bank,
where he closed his account and drew out the remaining £1,345. He was not sure
why. He just felt he would rather have it with him than tied up in a bank. He
had lost his faith in everything.
    He picked up the final edition of The Evening Standard (the one marked “7RR”
in the right-hand corner). Discovery Oil had fallen to fifty cents. Numbly, he
returned to his flat. The housekeeper was on the stairs.
    “The police have been round enquiring after
you, young man.” David climbed the stairs, trying to look unperturbed.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Pearson, I guess it’s another parking fine.” Panic had now taken over completely. He
packed everything in a suitcase, except the painting, which he left, and booked
the first flight back to New York. He had never felt so small, so lonely and so
ill in his life.

Chapter 4
    S