“Aladdin’s Cave,” whispered
Tipper as Sowerbutt turned the key in the solid wine cellar door at the Savoy. From floor to
ceiling, the racks were full of dusty bottles, many with copper-plate written
labels detailing the vintage and the year.
“One of the best cellars in
London,” Sowerbutt smiled. “They’ve been laying down the good stuff for 50
years or more. Pop told me his dad was a waiter here for a spell when it opened
back in Queen Victoria’s day. I only want the Pol Roger, lads, over
there on the left. I’ve got a special client in mind.
“Box them up and start
getting it out to the cart. Plenty of straw there for the bottles. Keep the
noise down, don’t want to wake any of the distinguished guests up. I’ll take a
few notes of what’s here for future reference, then I’ll give you a hand.
Before we slip away, Tipper, make sure you have a go at the door-lock to make
it look like a break-in. Nothing too extravagant, just a few scratches. No need
for them to notice in a hurry.”
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