31
SEBASTIAN GOT OUT of the car and handed the doorman his keys and a pound note. As he walked up the steps to the entrance of the Clermont, the door was opened for him and he parted with a second.
“Are you a member, sir?” asked the elegantly dressed man standing behind the front desk.
“No,” said Seb, this time slipping the man a five-pound note.
“Just sign here, sir,” the man said, swiveling a form around.
Seb signed where the finger rested and received a temporary membership card. “The main gaming room is at the top of the stairs on your left, sir.”
Seb walked up the sweeping marble staircase, admiring the dazzling chandelier, the oil paintings, and the thick plush carpet. Millionaires must be made to feel at home, he concluded, otherwise they wouldn’t be willing to part with their money.
He entered the gaming room but didn’t look around, as he wanted the onlookers to believe this was his natural habitat. He strolled across to the bar and climbed onto a leather stool.
“What can I get you, sir?” asked the barman.
“A Campari and soda,” said Seb, as this clearly wasn’t a club that served draft ale.
When the drink was placed in front of him, he took out his wallet and placed a pound on the bar.
“There’s no charge, sir.”
Establishments that don’t charge for drinks have to be making up for the loss in some other ways, thought Seb, leaving the note where it lay. “Thank you, sir,” said the barman, as Seb swiveled around and slowly took in the “some other ways.”
Two roulette tables stood next to each other on the far side of the room, and from the large pile of chips in front of each of the players, and their expressionless faces, Seb assumed they were regulars. Hadn’t anyone explained to them that they were paying for the marble staircase, the oil paintings, the chandelier, and the free drinks? His eyes moved on to the blackjack tables. At least there the odds were slightly better, because if you could count the court cards, it was even possible to beat the house—but only once, because after that, you’d never be allowed to darken the club’s doors again. Casinos like winners, but not consistent ones.
His gaze moved on to two men playing backgammon. One was sipping a black coffee, the other a brandy. Seb turned back to the barman. “Is that Hakim Bishara playing backgammon?”
The barman looked up. “Yes, it is, sir.”
Seb took a closer look at the short, pursy, red-cheeked man who looked as if he had to make regular visits to his tailor. He was bald, and his double chin suggested a greater interest in food and drink than weight training or running. A tall, lithe blonde stood by his side, a hand resting on his shoulder. Seb suspected she was less attracted by the deep lines on his forehead than by the thick wallet in his inside pocket. He wasn’t surprised that he kept being rejected by the English establishment. His younger opponent looked like a lamb about to be devoured by a python.
Seb turned back to the barman. “How do I get a game with Bishara?”
“It’s not that difficult if you’ve got a hundred pounds to throw away.”
“He plays for money?”
“No, for amusement.”
“But the hundred pounds?”
“It’s an admission fee that you donate to his favorite charity.”
“Any tips?”
“Yes, sir, you’d be better off giving me fifty quid and going home.”
“But what if I beat him?”
“Then I’ll give you fifty quid and I’ll go home. Mind you, you’ll enjoy his company for the few minutes the game lasts. And if you were to win, he’ll donate a thousand pounds to the charity of your choice. He’s a real gentleman.”
Despite appearances, thought Seb as he ordered a second drink. He occasionally glanced around at the backgammon table, but it was another twenty minutes before the barman whispered, “He’s free now, sir, waiting for his next victim.”
Seb swung around to see the stout man heave himself out of his chair and begin to walk away with the young woman on his arm.
“But I thought…” He looked more closely at the lamb that had devoured the python. He could hear Cedric saying, “What did you learn from that, young man?” Bishara looked around forty, perhaps a little older, but his tanned good looks and athletic build suggested that he wouldn’t have to continually empty his wallet to attract a beautiful woman. He had thick, wavy black hair and dark penetrating eyes. Had he been penniless, you might have thought he was an out-of-work actor.
Seb slipped off the stool and walked slowly toward him, hoping he looked relaxed and in control, because he wasn’t.
“Good evening, Mr. Bishara, I wondered if you were free for a game?”
“Not free,” he said, giving Seb a warm smile. “In fact, rather expensive.”
“Yes, the barman warned me about your terms. But I still want to play you.”
“Good, then have a seat.” Bishara rolled one die out onto the board.
Seb was painfully aware after the first half a dozen moves that this man was quite simply in another class. It only took a few minutes before Bishara began removing his counters from the board.
“Tell me, Mr.…”
“Clifton, Sebastian Clifton.”
Bishara reset the board. “As you are clearly not even a respectable pub player, you must have had a good reason for wanting to give away a hundred pounds.”
“Yes, I did,” said Seb, taking out his check book. “I needed an excuse to meet you.”
“And why, may I ask?”
“Because we have several things in common, one in particular.”
“Clearly not backgammon.”
“True,” said Seb. “Who should I make the check out to?”
“The Polio Society. You haven’t answered my question.”
“I thought we might trade information.”
“What makes you think you have any information I might be interested in?”
“Because I saw your name in a visitors’ book and thought you just might like to know that I own six percent of Farthings Bank.”
Seb could tell nothing from the expression on Bishara’s face. “How much did you pay for your shares, Mr. Clifton?”
“I’ve been purchasing Farthings’ stock regularly over the past five years, and the price has averaged out at around two pounds.”
“Then it has proved a worthwhile investment, Mr. Clifton. Am I to assume you now wish to sell your shares?”
“No. Mr. Sloane has already made me an offer of five pounds a share, which I turned down.”
“But you would have made a handsome profit.”
“Only in the short term.”
“And if I were to offer you more?”
“It would be of no interest to me. I still intend to take my place on the board.”
“Why?”
“Because I began my working life at Farthings as Cedric Hardcastle’s personal assistant. After his death, I resigned, and joined Kaufman’s.”
“Shrewd old bugger, Saul Kaufman, and a smart operator. Why did you leave Farthings?”
“Let’s just say there was a difference of opinion over who should attend funerals.”
“So Sloane wouldn’t be happy if you were to join the board?”
“If murder was legal, I’d be dead.”
Bishara took out his check book and asked, “What’s your favorite charity?” That was one question Seb hadn’t been prepared for.
“The Boy Scouts.”
“Yes, I can believe that,” said Bishara, smiling as he wrote out a check, not for a hundred pounds, but for a thousand. “A pleasure to have met you, Mr. Clifton,” he said, as he handed it over. “I have a feeling we may meet again.”
Seb shook his outstretched hand and was about to leave when Bishara added, “What was the one thing in particular we have in common?”
“The oldest profession. Except in my case, it was my grandmother, not my mother.”
* * *
“What’s Sir Edward’s opinion of your chances of winning the case?” asked the major as Virginia poured him a second gin and tonic.
“He’s a hundred percent certain we can’t lose, open-and-shut case were his exact words, and he’s convinced the jury will award me substantial damages, possibly as much as fifty thousand.”
“That’s good news,” said Fisher. “Will he be calling me as a witness?”
“No, he says he doesn’t need you, although he thinks there’s an outside chance the other side may call you. But it’s unlikely.”
“That could prove embarrassing.”
“Not if you stick to the simple line that you were my professional advisor when it came to stocks and shares, and that I didn’t show a great deal of interest in the details, as I trusted your judgement.”
“But if I were to do that, someone might suggest it was me who was trying to bring the company down.”
“If they were stupid enough to try that line of questioning, Sir Edward would remind the judge that it’s not you who’s on trial, and because you’re a Member of Parliament, Mr. Trelford would quickly back off.”
“And you say Sir Edward is certain you can’t lose?” asked Fisher, not sounding convinced.
“As long as we all stick to the party line, he says we’re home and dry.”
“And he doesn’t think it’s likely they’ll call me?”
“He’d be surprised if they did. But I do feel,” continued Virginia, “that if, as Sir Edward suggested, I’m likely to be awarded fifty thousand, we should split it down the middle. I’ve asked my lawyers to draw up an agreement to that effect.”
“That’s most generous, Virginia.”
“No more than you deserve, Alex.”