Best Kept Secret

usual channels. Don’t appear to be in a rush, and make it look as if they are taking the decisions.’
    ‘But how do we know they won’t turn us down anyway?’
    ‘You’ll have to nudge them in the right direction, won’t you, Mrs Clifton.’
    ‘What are you suggesting?’
    ‘When you fill in the application form, you’re asked to put down any preferences you might have. It saves everyone a lot of time and trouble. So if you make it clear that
you’re looking for a girl of around five or six, as you already have a son who’s a little older, it should help narrow the field.’
    ‘Any other suggestions?’
    ‘Yes,’ replied Mitchell. ‘Under religion, tick the box marked no preference.’
    ‘Why will that help?’
    ‘Because Miss Jessica Smith’s registration form states mother Jewish, father unknown.’

3
    ‘H OW DID A LIMEY ever get the Silver Star?’ asked the immigration officer at Idlewild as he studied Harry’s entry visa.
    ‘It’s a long story,’ said Harry, thinking it might not be wise to tell him that the last time he’d set foot in New York he’d been arrested for murder.
    ‘Have a great time while you’re in the States.’ The officer shook Harry by the hand.
    ‘Thank you,’ said Harry, trying not to look surprised as he passed through immigration and followed the signs to the baggage claim area. As he waited for his suitcase to appear, he
once again checked his arrival instructions. He was to be met by Viking’s chief publicist, who would accompany him to his hotel and brief him on his schedule. Whenever he visited a city in
Britain, he was always accompanied by the local sales rep, so he wasn’t quite sure what a publicist was.
    After retrieving his old school trunk, Harry made his way towards customs. An officer asked him to open the trunk, made a cursory check, then chalked a large cross on the side before ushering
him through. Harry walked under a huge semi-circular sign that declared
Welcome to New York
, above a beaming photograph of the mayor, William O’Dwyer.
    Once he emerged into the arrivals hall, he was greeted by a row of uniformed chauffeurs holding up name cards. He searched for ‘Clifton’ and, when he spotted it, smiled at the driver
and said, ‘That’s me.’
    ‘Good to meet you, Mr Clifton. I’m Charlie.’ He grabbed Harry’s heavy trunk as if it was a briefcase. ‘And this is your publicist, Natalie.’
    Harry turned to see a young woman who had been referred to on his instructions simply as ‘N. Redwood’. She was almost as tall as him, with fashionably cut blonde hair, blue eyes, and
teeth straighter and whiter than any he’d ever seen, except for on a billboard advertising toothpaste. If that wasn’t enough, her head rested on an hourglass figure. Harry had never
come across anything like Natalie in post-war, ration-book Britain.
    ‘Nice to meet you, Miss Redwood,’ he said, shaking her hand.
    ‘And it’s good to meet you, Harry,’ she replied. ‘Do call me Natalie,’ she added as they followed Charlie out of the concourse. ‘I’m a huge fan. I just
love William Warwick, and have no doubt your latest book is going to be another winner.’
    Once they reached the kerb, Charlie opened the rear door of the longest limousine Harry had ever seen. Harry stood aside to allow Natalie to get in first.
    ‘Oh, I do love the English,’ she said as he climbed in beside her, and the limo joined a stream of traffic making its slow progress into New York. ‘First, we’ll be going
to your hotel. I’ve booked you into the Pierre, where you have a suite on the eleventh floor. I’ve left just enough time in your schedule for you to freshen up before you join Mr
Guinzburg for lunch at the Harvard Club. By the way, he’s looking forward to meeting you.’
    ‘Me too,’ said Henry. ‘He published my prison diaries, as well as the first William Warwick novel, so I’ve a lot to thank him for.’
    ‘And he’s invested a great deal of time and money to make sure
Nothing Ventured
gets on to the bestseller list, and he asked me to brief you fully on how we plan to go about
that.’
    ‘Please do,’ said Harry as he glanced out of the window to enjoy sights he’d last seen from the back of a yellow prison bus that was taking him off to a jail cell rather than a
suite at the Pierre Hotel.
    A hand touched his leg. ‘There’s a lot we have to cover before you see Mr Guinzburg.’ Natalie handed him a thick blue folder. ‘Let me