Be Careful What You Wish For (The Clifton Chronicles) Read online

  Now that he was back on familiar ground, Cedric relaxed for the first time. Forty minutes later, he had presented his ideas and answered every one of Mr. Morita’s questions. Sebastian felt his boss couldn’t have done much better.

  “May I suggest you draw up a contract, Mr. Hardcastle? I was in no doubt that you were the right man for this job long before I left Tokyo. After your presentation, I am even more convinced. I do have appointments with two other banks, but that is simply to assure my shareholders that I am considering alternatives. Take care of the rin, and the yen will take care of themselves.”

  Both men laughed.

  “If you are free,” said Cedric, “perhaps you would care to join me for lunch? A Japanese restaurant has recently opened in the City, and has received excellent reviews, so I thought—”

  “And you can think again, Mr. Hardcastle, because I didn’t travel six thousand miles in search of a Japanese restaurant. No, I will take you to Rules, and we will enjoy roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, appropriate for a man from Huddersfield, I think.” Both men burst out laughing again.

  When they left the office a few minutes later, Cedric held back and whispered in Sebastian’s ear, “Good thinking, but as there are no tickets available for tonight’s performance of My Fair Lady, you’re going to have to spend the rest of the day in the returns queue. Just let’s hope it doesn’t rain, or you’ll be soaked again,” he added before joining Mr. Morita in the corridor.

  Sebastian bowed low as Cedric and his guests stepped into the lift and disappeared down to the ground floor. He hung around on the fifth floor for a few more minutes but didn’t call for the lift until he felt certain they would be well on their way to the restaurant.

  Once Sebastian had left the bank, he hailed a taxi. “Theatre Royal, Drury Lane,” he said, and when they pulled up outside the theater twenty minutes later, the first thing he noticed was just how long the queue for returns was. He paid the cabbie, strolled into the theater and went straight up to the box office.

  “I don’t suppose you have three tickets for tonight?” he pleaded.

  “You suppose correctly, my dear,” said the woman sitting in the booth. “You could of course join the returns queue, but frankly not many of them will get in before Christmas. Someone has to die before this show gets returns.”

  “I don’t care what it costs.”

  “That’s what they all say, dear. We’ve got people in the queue who claim it’s their twenty-first birthday, their fiftieth wedding anniversary … one of them was so desperate he proposed to me.”

  Sebastian walked out of the theater and stood on the pavement. He took one more look at the queue, which seemed to have grown even longer in the past few minutes, and tried to work out what he could possibly do next. He then recalled something he’d once read in one of his father’s novels. He decided he would try to find out if it would work for him as well as it had for William Warwick.

  He jogged down the hill toward the Strand, dodging in and out of the afternoon traffic, arriving back in Savoy Place a few minutes later. He went straight to the front desk and asked the receptionist for the name of the head porter.

  “Albert Southgate,” she replied.

  Sebastian thanked her and strolled across to the concierge’s desk, as if he were a guest.

  “Is Albert around?” he asked the porter.

  “I think he’s gone to lunch, sir, but I’ll just check.” The man disappeared into a back room.

  “Bert, there’s a gentleman asking for you.”

  Sebastian didn’t have long to wait before an older man appeared in a long blue coat adorned with gold braid on the cuffs, shiny gold buttons and two rows of campaign medals, one of which he recognized. He gave Sebastian a wary look, and asked, “How can I help you?”

  “I have a problem,” said Sebastian, still wondering if he could risk it. “My uncle, Sir Giles Barrington, once told me that if I was ever staying at the Savoy and needed anything, to have a word with Albert.”

  “The gentleman what won the MC at Tobruk?”

  “Yes,” said Sebastian, taken by surprise.

  “Not many survived that one. Nasty business. How can I help?”

  “Sir Giles needs three tickets for My Fair Lady.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “You must be joking.”

  “And he doesn’t care what it costs.”

  “Hang about. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Sebastian watched as Albert marched out of the hotel, crossed the road and disappeared in the direction of the Theatre Royal. He paced up and down the foyer, occasionally looking anxiously out on to the Strand, but it was another half an hour before the head porter reappeared, clutching an envelope. He walked back into the hotel and handed the envelope to Sebastian.

  “Three house seats, row F, center stalls.”

  “Fantastic. How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Sebastian.

  “Box office manager asked to be remembered to Sir Giles—his brother, Sergeant Harris, was killed at Tobruk.”

  Sebastian felt ashamed.

  * * *

  “Well done, Seb, you saved the day. Now the only task you have left today is to make sure the Daimler remains outside the Savoy until we know Mr. Morita and his colleagues are safely tucked up in bed.”

  “But it’s only a couple of hundred yards from the hotel to the theater.”

  “That can be a long way if it’s raining, as your brief encounter with Professor Marsh’s wife should have taught you. Besides, if we don’t make the effort, you can be sure someone else will.”

  * * *

  Sebastian got out of the car and entered the Savoy at 6:30 p.m. He walked across to the lift and waited patiently. Just after seven, Mr. Morita and his two colleagues appeared. Sebastian bowed low and handed them an envelope containing three tickets.

  “Thank you, young man,” said Mr. Morita. They made their way across the foyer, through the swing doors and out of the hotel.

  “The chairman’s car will take you to the Theatre Royal,” said Sebastian as Tom opened the back door of the Daimler.

  “No, thank you,” said Morita, “the walk will do us good.” Without another word, the three men set off in the direction of the theater. Sebastian bowed low once again, before joining Tom in the front of the car.

  “Why don’t you go home?” said Tom. “No need to hang about, and if it starts to rain, I’ll drive up to the theater and pick them up.”

  “But they might want to go to dinner after the show, or to a nightclub. Do you know any nightclubs?”

  “Depends what they’re lookin’ for.”

  “Not that, I suspect. But either way, I’m staying put until, to quote Mr. Hardcastle, they’re safely tucked up in bed.”

  It didn’t rain, not a drop, and by ten o’clock Sebastian knew everything there was to know about Tom’s life, including where he’d been to school, where he’d been billeted during the war and where he’d worked before becoming Mr. Hardcastle’s chauffeur. Tom was chatting about his wife wanting to go to Marbella on their next holiday, when Sebastian said, “Oh, my God,” and slithered down the seat and out of sight as two smartly dressed men walked past the front of the car and strode into the hotel.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Avoiding someone I’d hoped never to see again.”

  “Looks as if the curtain’s come down,” said Tom, as hordes of chattering theatergoers began to pour out on to the Strand. A few minutes later, Sebastian spotted his three charges making their way back to the hotel. Just before Mr. Morita reached the entrance, Sebastian got out of the car and bowed low.

  “I hope you enjoyed the show, Morita-san.”

  “Couldn’t have been better,” Morita responded. “I haven’t laughed so much in years, and the music was wonderful. I will thank Mr. Hardcastle personally when I see him tomorrow morning. Please go home, Mr. Clifton, because