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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
I won’t need the car again tonight. Sorry to have kept you up.”
“My pleasure, Morita-san,” said Sebastian. He remained on the pavement, and watched the three of them enter the hotel, cross the foyer and head toward the bank of lifts. His heart began to beat faster when he saw two men step forward, bow and then shake hands with Mr. Morita. Sebastian remained rooted to the spot. The two men spoke to Morita for a few moments. He then dismissed his colleagues and accompanied the two men into the American Bar. Sebastian wanted desperately to go into the hotel and take a closer look, but he knew he couldn’t risk it. Instead, he reluctantly slipped back into the car.
“Are you all right?” asked Tom. “You’re as white as a sheet.”
“What time does Mr. Hardcastle go to bed?”
“Eleven, eleven thirty, depends. But you can always tell if he’s still up, because his study light will be on.”
Sebastian checked his watch: 10:43 p.m. “Then let’s go and find out if he’s still awake.”
Tom drove out on to the Strand, crossed Trafalgar Square, continued on down the Mall to Hyde Park Corner and arrived outside 37 Cadogan Place just after eleven. The study light was still burning. No doubt the chairman was triple-checking the contract he was anticipating the Japanese would be signing in the morning.
Sebastian got slowly out of the car, climbed the steps and rang the front door bell. A few moments later the hall light went on and Cedric opened the door.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour, chairman, but we’ve got a problem.”
17
“THE FIRST THING you must do is tell your uncle the truth,” said Cedric. “And I mean the whole truth.”
“I’ll tell him everything as soon as I get back this evening.”
“It’s important that Sir Giles knows what you did in his name, because he’ll want to write and thank Mr. Harris at the Theatre Royal, as well as the head porter of the Savoy.”
“Albert Southgate.”
“And you must write and thank them both as well.”
“Yes, of course. And I apologize again, sir. I feel I’ve let you down, because the whole exercise has turned out to be a waste of your time.”
“These experiences are rarely a complete waste of time. Whenever you bid for a new contract, even if you are unsuccessful, you almost always learn something that will stand you in good stead for the next one.”
“What did I learn?”
“Japanese for a start, not to mention one or two other things about yourself that I’m sure you’ll benefit from at some later date.”
“But the amount of time you and your senior staff have spent on this project … along with a great deal of the bank’s money.”
“It won’t have been any different for Barclays or the Westminster. If you manage a success rate of one in five with projects like this, that’s considered par for the course,” he added as the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up and, after a moment, said, “Yes, send him in.”
“Shall I leave, sir?”
“No, stay put. I’d rather like you to meet my son.” The door opened, and in walked a man who could only have been of Cedric Hardcastle’s lineage: an inch taller perhaps, but the same warm smile, broad shoulders and almost bald dome, although with a slightly thicker semi-circle of hair sprouting from ear to ear, making him look like a seventeenth-century friar. And, as Sebastian was about to discover, the same incisive mind.
“Good morning, Pop, good to see you.” And the same Yorkshire accent.
