Best Kept Secret

39





DON PEDRO WAS among the last to leave the garden party, and not until he was finally convinced that the princess would not be returning.

Sebastian joined him in the back of the Rolls. ‘This has been one of the great days of my life,’ Don Pedro repeated. Sebastian remained silent, because he couldn’t think of anything new to say on the subject. Don Pedro was clearly drunk, if not on wine, then on the thought of mixing with royalty. Sebastian was surprised that such a successful man could be so easily flattered. Suddenly, Martinez changed tack.

‘I want you to know, my boy, that if you ever need a job, there will always be one for you in Buenos Aires. The choice is yours. You could be a cowboy or a banker. Come to think of it, there’s not a great deal of difference,’ he said, laughing at his own joke.

‘That’s kind of you, sir,’ said Sebastian. Although he wanted to tell him that he would be joining Bruno at Cambridge after all, he thought better of it, because he would have to explain how he’d found out. But he was already beginning to wonder why his father had come halfway round the world just to tell him . . . Don Pedro interrupted his thoughts by taking a wad of five-pound notes from his pocket, peeling off ninety pounds and handing it to Sebastian.

‘I always believe in paying in advance.’

‘But I haven’t done the job yet, sir.’

‘I know you’ll keep your side of the bargain.’ The words only made Sebastian feel more guilty about his little secret, and if the car hadn’t come to a halt outside Martinez’s office, he might have ignored his father’s advice.

‘Take Mr Clifton back to his hotel,’ Don Pedro instructed his driver. Turning to Sebastian he said, ‘A car will pick you up on Wednesday afternoon and take you to the dock. Make sure you enjoy your last couple of days in Buenos Aires, because this city has a lot to offer a young man.’



Harry was not a man who had ever felt it necessary to resort to foul language, even in his books. His churchgoing mother simply wouldn’t have approved. However, after an hour of listening to an endless monologue on Ted Bolton’s life, from his daughter’s responsibilities as a senior-sixer in the Girl Guides, in which she’d won badges for needlework and cookery, to his wife’s role as membership secretary of the Bristol Mothers’ Union, to the guest speakers he had booked for the Rotary Club this autumn, not to mention his views on Marilyn Monroe, Nikita Khrushchev, Hugh Gaitskell and Tony Hancock, he finally snapped.

He opened his eyes and sat up straight. ‘Mr Bolton, why don’t you bugger off?’

To Harry’s surprise and relief, Bolton got up and returned to his seat without another word. Harry fell asleep within moments.



Sebastian decided to take Don Pedro’s advice and make the most of his last two days in the city, before the time came to board the Queen Mary and return home.

After breakfast the following morning, he exchanged four of his five-pound notes for three hundred pesos and left the hotel to go in search of the Spanish arcade, where he hoped to find a present for his mother and sister. He chose a brooch set in rhodochrosite for his mother, in a pale pink shade that the salesman told him could not be found anywhere else in the world. The price came as a bit of a shock, but then Sebastian remembered what he’d put his mother through during the past two weeks.

As he strolled along the promenade on his way back to the hotel, a drawing in a gallery window caught his eye and made him think of Jessica. He stepped inside to take a closer look. The dealer assured him that the young artist had a future, so not only was it a fine still-life, but it would be a shrewd investment. And, yes, he would accept English money. Sebastian only hoped that Jessica would feel the same way about Fernando Botero’s Bowl of Oranges as he did.

The only thing he bought for himself was a magnificent leather belt with a rancher’s buckle. It wasn’t cheap, but he couldn’t resist it.

He stopped to have lunch in a street café, and ate too much Argentinian roast beef while he read an out-of-date copy of The Times. Double yellow lines were to be introduced in all major British city centres. He couldn’t believe his uncle Giles would have voted for that.

After lunch, with the help of his guidebook, he found the only cinema showing English-language films in Buenos Aires. He sat alone in the back row watching A Place in the Sun, fell in love with Elizabeth Taylor, and wondered how you got to meet a girl like that.

On his way back to the hotel, he dropped into a secondhand bookshop that boasted a shelf of English novels. He smiled when he saw his father’s first book had been reduced to three pesos, and left after he’d purchased a much-thumbed copy of Officers and Gentlemen.

In the evening, Sebastian had dinner in the hotel restaurant and, with the help of his guidebook, selected several places of interest he still hoped to visit if he had time: the Catedral Metropolitana, the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, La Casa Rosada, and the Jardín Botánico Carlos Thays in the old Palermo neighbourhood. Don Pedro was right – the city had a lot to offer.

He signed the bill, and decided to return to his room and continue reading Evelyn Waugh. He would have done just that if he hadn’t noticed her sitting on a stool at the bar. She gave him a coquettish smile, which stopped him in his tracks. The second smile acted like a magnet, and moments later he was standing by her side. She looked about the same age as Ruby, but much more alluring.

‘Would you like to buy me a drink?’ she asked.

Sebastian nodded as he climbed on to the stool next to her. She turned to the barman and ordered two glasses of champagne.

‘My name is Gabriella.’

‘Sebastian,’ he said, offering his hand. She shook it. He’d had no idea a woman’s touch could have that effect on him.

‘Where do you come from?’

‘England,’ he replied.

‘I’m going to visit England one day. The Tower of London and Buckingham Palace,’ she said, as the barman poured them two glasses of champagne. ‘Cheers. Isn’t that what the English say?’

Sebastian raised his glass and said, ‘Cheers.’ He found it difficult not to stare at her slim, graceful legs. He wanted to touch them.

‘Are you staying at the hotel?’ she asked, placing a hand on his thigh.

Sebastian was glad the lights in the bar were so muted she wasn’t able to see the colour of his cheeks. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘And are you alone?’ she said, not removing her hand.

‘Yes,’ he managed.

‘Would you like me to come up to your room, Sebastian?’

He couldn’t believe his luck. He’d found Ruby in Buenos Aires, and the headmaster was 7,000 miles away. He didn’t need to reply, because she had already slipped off the stool, taken him by the hand and was leading him out of the bar.

They headed towards a bank of lifts on the far side of the lobby.

‘What’s your room number, Sebastian?’

‘One one seven zero,’ he said, as they stepped into the lift.

When they reached his room on the eleventh floor, Sebastian fumbled with his key as he tried to open the door. She began to kiss him even before they’d stepped inside, and went on kissing him as she deftly removed his jacket and unbuckled his belt, only stopping when his trousers fell to the floor.

When he opened his eyes, he found her blouse and skirt had joined them. He wanted to just stand there and admire her body, but once again she took him by the hand, this time guiding him towards the bed. He pulled off his shirt and tie, desperate to touch every part of her at once. She fell back on the bed and pulled him on top of her. Moments later he let out a loud sigh.

He lay still for a few seconds before she slipped out from under him, gathered up her clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. He pulled the sheet over his naked body and impatiently waited for her to return. He was looking forward to spending the rest of the night with this goddess, and wondered how many times he could make love before the morning. But when the bathroom door opened, Gabriella stepped out, fully dressed, and looked as if she was about to leave.

‘Was that your first time?’ she asked.

‘Of course not.’

‘I thought so,’ she said. ‘But it’s still three hundred pesos.’

Sebastian sat bolt upright, not sure what she meant.

‘You don’t think it was your good looks and English charm that persuaded me to come up to your room?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Sebastian. He got off the bed, picked up his jacket from the floor and took out his wallet. He stared at the remaining five-pound notes.

‘Twenty pounds,’ she said, obviously having come across this problem before.

He took out four five-pound notes and handed them to her.

She took the money and disappeared even more quickly than he had come.



When the plane finally touched down at London Airport, Harry took advantage of his uniform and joined the crew as they strolled unhindered through customs. He declined Annabel’s offer to accompany her on the bus into London, and instead joined the long queue for a taxi.

Forty minutes later, the cab came to a halt outside Giles’s house in Smith Square. Looking forward to a long bath, an English meal and a good night’s sleep, Harry banged on the brass knocker, hoping Giles would be at home.

A few moments later, the door swung open, and when Giles saw him he burst out laughing, stood to attention and saluted.

‘Welcome home, captain.’



When Sebastian woke the next morning, the first thing he did was to check his wallet. He only had ten pounds left, and he’d hoped to start life at Cambridge having saved eighty. As he looked at his clothes strewn across the floor, even his new leather belt had lost its allure. This morning he would only be able to visit places with no entrance charge.

Uncle Giles had been right when he’d told him there are defining moments in one’s life when you learn a lot about yourself, and you deposit that knowledge in the experience account, so you can draw on it at some later date.

Once Sebastian had packed his few belongings and gathered up his presents, his thoughts turned to England, and starting life as an undergraduate. He couldn’t wait. When he stepped out of the lift on the ground floor, he was surprised to see Don Pedro’s chauffeur, peaked cap under his arm, standing in the lobby. He put the cap back on the moment he saw Sebastian, and said, ‘Boss wants to see you.’

Sebastian climbed into the back of the Rolls-Royce, glad to have an opportunity to thank Don Pedro for all he’d done, although he wasn’t going to admit that he was down to his last ten pounds. On arrival at Martinez House, he was shown straight through to Don Pedro’s office.

‘Sebastian, I am sorry to drag you in like this, but a small problem has arisen.’

Sebastian’s heart sank as he feared he wasn’t going to be allowed to escape. ‘A problem?’

‘I had a call from my friend Mr Matthews at the British Embassy this morning. He pointed out that you’d entered the country without a passport. I told him you’d travelled on my ship, and that while you were in Buenos Aires you were my guest, but, as he explained, that won’t help you get back into Britain.’

‘Does that mean I’ll miss the ship?’ Sebastian couldn’t hide his dismay.

‘Certainly not,’ said Martinez. ‘My driver will take you to the embassy on the way to the port, and the ambassador has promised there will be a passport for you at reception.’

‘Thank you,’ said Sebastian.

‘Of course, it helps that the ambassador is a personal friend,’ said Martinez with a smile. He then handed him a thick envelope and said, ‘Be sure you hand this in to customs when you land at Southampton.’

‘Is this the package I’m meant to take back to England?’ asked Sebastian.

‘No, no,’ said Martinez, laughing. ‘These are just the export documents to verify what’s in the crate. All you have to do is present them to customs, and then Sotheby’s will take over.’

Sebastian had never heard of Sotheby’s, and made a mental note of the name.

‘And Bruno rang last night to say he’s looking forward to seeing you once you’re back in London, and hopes you’ll stay with him at Eaton Square. After all, it must be a better alternative than a guest house in Paddington.’

Sebastian thought about Tibby, and would have liked to tell Don Pedro that the Safe Haven guest house was the equal of the Majestic Hotel in Buenos Aires. ‘Thank you, sir,’ was all he said.

‘Bon voyage, and just make sure that Sotheby’s picks up my package. Once you get to London, let Karl know you’ve delivered it and remind him that I’ll be back on the Monday.’

He stepped out from behind his desk, gripped Sebastian by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘I look upon you as my fourth son.’

Don Pedro’s first son was standing by the window in his office on the floor below when Sebastian left the building carrying a thick envelope worth eight million pounds. He watched as Sebastian climbed into the back of the Rolls, but didn’t move until he’d seen the driver ease away from the kerbside to join the morning traffic.

Diego ran up the stairs and joined his father.

‘Is the statue safely on board?’ Don Pedro asked once the door had been closed.

‘I watched it being lowered into the hold earlier this morning. But I’m still not convinced.’

‘About what?’

‘There’s eight million pounds of your money hidden in that statue, and not one of our team on board to keep an eye on it. You’ve left a boy, barely out of school, responsible for the entire operation.’

‘Which is exactly why no one will take any interest in the statue, or him,’ said Don Pedro. ‘The paperwork is in the name of Sebastian Clifton, and all he has to do is present the manifest to customs, sign the release form, and then Sotheby’s will take over, with no suggestion that we are in any way involved.’

‘Let’s hope you’re right.’

‘When we arrive at London Airport that Monday,’ said Don Pedro, ‘my bet is that there will be at least a dozen customs officers crawling all over our luggage. All they’ll discover is the brand of aftershave I prefer, by which time the statue will be safely at Sotheby’s awaiting the opening bid.’



When Sebastian walked into the embassy to pick up his passport, he was surprised to find Becky standing by the reception desk. ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘The ambassador is looking forward to meeting you,’ and without another word, she turned and walked down the corridor towards Mr Matthews’s office.

Sebastian followed her for a second time, wondering if his father was on the other side of that door and would be coming back to England with him. He hoped so. Becky gave a gentle tap, opened the door and stood to one side.

The ambassador was staring out of the window when Sebastian entered the room. The moment he heard the door open, he turned, marched across and shook Sebastian warmly by the hand.

‘I’m glad to meet you at last,’ he said. ‘I wanted to give you this in person,’ he added, picking up a passport from his desk.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Sebastian.

‘Can I also just check that you won’t be taking more than a thousand pounds into Britain? Wouldn’t want you to break the law.’

‘I’m down to my last ten pounds,’ Seb admitted.

‘If that’s all you’ve got to declare, you should sail through customs.’

‘Except that I’m delivering a sculpture on behalf of Don Pedro Martinez that’s to be collected by Sotheby’s. I don’t know anything about it, except that according to the manifest it’s called The Thinker, and it weighs two tons.’

‘Mustn’t keep you,’ said the ambassador as he accompanied him to the door. ‘By the way, Sebastian, what’s your middle name?’

‘Arthur, sir,’ he said as he stepped back into the corridor. ‘I was named after my grandfather.’

‘Have a pleasant voyage, my boy,’ were Mr Matthews’s last words before he closed the door. He returned to his desk and wrote three names on his pad.





40





‘I RECEIVED THIS communiqué yesterday morning from Philip Matthews, our ambassador in Argentina,’ said the cabinet secretary, handing out copies to everyone seated around the table. ‘Please read it carefully.’

After Sir Alan had received the sixteen-page communiqué from Buenos Aires on his ticker tape machine, he’d spent the rest of the morning checking each paragraph carefully. He knew that what he was looking for would be secreted among the reams of trivia about what Princess Margaret had been up to on her official visit to the city.

He was puzzled about why the ambassador had invited Martinez to the royal garden party, and even more surprised to discover that he had been presented to Her Royal Highness. He assumed that Matthews must have had a good reason for flouting protocol in this way, and hoped there wasn’t a photograph filed away in some newspaper cuttings library to remind everyone of the occasion at some time in the future.

It was just before midday when Sir Alan came across the paragraph he’d been searching for. He asked his secretary to cancel his lunch appointment.

Her Royal Highness was gracious enough to bring me up to date on the result of the first Test match at Lord’s, wrote the ambassador. What a splendid effort by Captain Peter May, and such a pity that he was run out unnecessarily at the last minute.

Sir Alan looked up and smiled at Harry Clifton, who was also engrossed in the communiqué.

I was delighted to learn that Arthur Barrington will be returning for the second Test in Southampton on Sunday 23rd June, because with a test average of just over 8, it could make all the difference for England.

Sir Alan had underlined the words Arthur, Sunday, Southampton, and the number 8, before he continued reading.

However, I was puzzled when HRH told me that Tate would be a welcome edition at No. 5, but she assured me that no less a figure than John Rothenstein, the director of cricket, had told her, which had me thinking.

The cabinet secretary underlined Tate, No. 5, edition and Rothenstein, before he continued reading.

I shall be returning to London in Auguste, well in time to see the last Test at Millbank, so let us hope by then we’ve won the series of nine. And, by the way, that particular pitch will need a two-ton roller.

This time Sir Alan had underlined Auguste, Millbank, nine and two-ton. He was beginning to wish he’d taken a greater interest in cricket when he was at Shrewsbury, but then he’d been a wet bob, not a dry bob. However, as Sir Giles, who was sitting at the end of the table, had been awarded an Oxford cricket blue, he was confident that the intricacies of leather upon willow were about to be explained to him.

Sir Alan was pleased to see that everyone appeared to have finished reading the communiqué, although Mrs Clifton was still making notes.

‘I think I’ve worked out most of what our man in Buenos Aires is trying to tell us, but there are still one or two niceties that are eluding me. For example, I’ll need some help on Arthur Barrington, because even I know the great Test batsman is called Ken.’

‘Sebastian’s middle name is Arthur,’ said Harry. ‘So I think we can assume that he will be arriving in Southampton on Sunday June the twenty-third, because Test matches are never played on a Sunday, and there isn’t a Test ground at Southampton.’

The cabinet secretary nodded.

‘And eight must be how many million pounds the ambassador thinks is involved,’ suggested Giles from the far end of the table, ‘because Ken Barrington’s Test average is over fifty.’

‘Very good,’ said Sir Alan, making a note. ‘But I’m unable to explain why Matthews misspelt addition as edition, and August as Auguste.’

‘And Tate,’ said Giles. ‘Because Maurice Tate used to bat for England at number nine, certainly not number five.’

‘That also had me stumped,’ said Sir Alan, amused by his own little play on words. ‘But can anyone explain the two misspellings?’

‘I think I can,’ said Emma. ‘My daughter Jessica is an artist, and I remember her telling me that many sculptors cast nine editions of their work, which are then stamped and numbered. And the spelling of Auguste hints at the identity of the artist.’

‘I’m still none the wiser,’ said Sir Alan, and from the expressions around the table, it was clear that he was not alone.

‘It has to be Renoir or Rodin,’ said Emma. ‘And as it wouldn’t be possible to conceal eight million pounds in an oil painting, I suspect you’ll find it’s been hidden in a two-ton sculpture by Auguste Rodin.’

‘And is he hinting that Sir John Rothenstein, the director of the Tate Gallery on Millbank, will be able to tell me which sculpture?’

‘He’s already told us,’ said Emma triumphantly. ‘It’s one of the words you failed to underline, Sir Alan.’ Emma was unable to resist a smirk. ‘My late mother would have spotted it long before I did, even on her death bed.’

Both Harry and Giles smiled.

‘And what word did I fail to underline, Mrs Clifton?’

No sooner had Emma answered the question, than the cabinet secretary picked up the phone by his side and said, ‘Call John Rothenstein at the Tate, and make an appointment for me to see him this evening after the gallery has closed.’

Sir Alan put the phone down and smiled at Emma. ‘I’ve always been an advocate of employing more women in the Civil Service.’

‘I do hope, Sir Alan, that you’ll underline more and women,’ said Emma.



Sebastian stood on the upper deck of the Queen Mary and leaned over the railings as Buenos Aires receded in the distance until it looked like no more than a traced outline on an architect’s drawing board.

So much had happened in the short time since he’d been rusticated from Beechcroft, although he was still puzzled why his father had travelled all that way just to let him know he hadn’t lost his place at Cambridge. Wouldn’t it have been a lot easier just to phone the ambassador, who clearly knew Don Pedro? And why had the ambassador personally given him his passport, when Becky could have handed it to him at the reception desk? And even stranger, why had the ambassador wanted to know his middle name? He still didn’t have any answers to these questions by the time Buenos Aires had disappeared from sight. Perhaps his father would supply them.

He turned his thoughts to the future. His first responsibility, for which he had already been handsomely recompensed, was to ensure that Don Pedro’s sculpture passed smoothly through customs, and he didn’t intend to leave the dockside until Sotheby’s had picked it up.

But until then, he decided to relax and enjoy the voyage. He intended to read the last few pages of Officers and Gentlemen, and hoped he might find the first volume in the ship’s library.

Now that he was on the way home, he felt he should give some thought to what he could achieve in his first year at Cambridge that would impress his mother. That was the least he could do after all the trouble he’d caused.



‘The Thinker,’ said Sir John Rothenstein, the director of the Tate Gallery, ‘is considered by most critics to be one of Rodin’s most iconic works. It was originally designed to be part of The Gates of Hell, and was at first entitled The Poet, as the artist wished to pay homage to his hero, Dante. And such became the artist’s association with the piece that the maestro is buried under a cast of this bronze at Meudon.’

Sir Alan continued to circle the great statue. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Sir John, but is this the fifth of the nine editions that were originally cast?’

‘That is correct, Sir Alan. The most sought after works by Rodin are those that were cast in his lifetime by Alexis Rudier at his foundry in Paris. Since Rodin’s death, unfortunately in my opinion, the French government has allowed limited editions to be reproduced by another foundry, but these are not considered by serious collectors to have the same authenticity as the lifetime casts.’

‘Is it known where all the nine original casts are now?’

‘Oh yes,’ said the director. ‘Apart from this one, there are three in Paris – at the Louvre, the Musée Rodin, and the one at Meudon. There is also one at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, and another in the Hermitage in Leningrad, leaving three in hands of private collectors.’

‘Is it known who owns those three?’

‘One is in Baron de Rothschild’s collection, and another is owned by Paul Mellon. The whereabouts of the third has long been shrouded in mystery. All we know for certain is that it’s a lifetime cast and was sold to a private collector by the Marlborough Gallery some ten years ago. However, that shroud might finally be lifted next week.’

‘I’m not sure I’m following you, Sir John.’

‘A 1902 cast of The Thinker is coming under the hammer at Sotheby’s on Monday evening.’

‘And who owns that one?’ asked Sir Alan innocently.

‘I’ve no idea,’ admitted Rothenstein. ‘In the Sotheby’s catalogue, it’s simply listed as the property of a gentleman.’

The cabinet secretary smiled at the thought, but satisfied himself with, ‘And what does that mean?’

‘That the seller wishes to remain anonymous. It often turns out to be an aristocrat who doesn’t want to admit that he’s fallen on hard times and is having to part with one of the family’s heirlooms.’

‘How much would you expect the piece to fetch?’

‘It’s difficult to estimate, because a Rodin of this importance hasn’t come on the market for several years. But I would be surprised if it went for less than a hundred thousand pounds.’

‘Would a layman be able to tell the difference between this one,’ Sir Alan said, admiring the bronze in front of him, ‘and the one that’s coming up for sale at Sotheby’s?’

‘There is no difference,’ said the director, ‘other than the cast number. Otherwise they are identical in every way.’

The cabinet secretary circled The Thinker several more times before he tapped the massive mound the man was sitting on. He was now in no doubt where Martinez had secreted the eight million pounds. He took a pace back and looked more closely at the bronze cast’s wooden base. ‘Would all nine casts have been fixed on the same kind of base?’

‘Not exactly the same, but similar, I suspect. Every gallery or collector will have their own opinion on how it should be displayed. We chose a simple oak base that we felt would be harmonious with its surroundings.’

‘And how is the base attached to the statue?’

‘For a bronze of this size, there would usually be four small steel lips moulded on to the inside of the bottom of the statue. Each will have had a hole drilled in it, through which a bolt and a bevelled rod can be lowered. Then all you have to do is drill four holes through the base, and attach it to the bottom of the statue with what are called butterfly screws. Any decent carpenter could do the job.’

‘So if you wanted to remove the base, all you would have to do is unscrew the butterfly bolts and it would become detached from the statue?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Sir John. ‘But why would anyone want to do that?’

‘Why indeed,’ said the cabinet secretary, allowing himself the suggestion of a smile. He now knew not only where Martinez had hidden the money, but how he intended to smuggle it into Britain. And, far more important, how he planned to be reunited with his £8 million in counterfeit five-pound notes without anyone becoming aware of what he was up to.

‘Clever man,’ he said as he gave the hollow bronze one final tap.

‘A genius,’ said the director.

‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Sir Alan. But to be fair, they were talking about two different people.