The Fourth Estate

22 The Times 1 April 1966 Labor Sweeps to Power: Majority of 100 Assured

Armstrong glanced at a typist he didn’t recognize, and walked on into his office to find Sally on the phone.

‘Who’s my first appointment?’

‘Derek Kirby,’ she said, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece.

‘And who’s he?’

‘A former editor of the Daily Express. The poor man only lasted eight months, but he claims to have some interesting information for you. Shall I ask him to come in?’

‘No, let him wait a little longer,’ said Armstrong. ‘Who’s on the line now?’

‘Phil Barker. He’s calling from Leeds.’

Armstrong nodded and took the phone from Sally to speak to the new chief executive of the West Riding Group.

‘Did they agree to my terms?’

‘They settled for £1.3 million, to be paid over the next six years in equal installments — as long as sales remain constant. But if sales drop during the first year, every succeeding payment will also drop pro rata.’

‘They didn’t spot the flaw in the contract?’

‘No,’ said Barker. ‘They assumed that you would want to put the circulation up in the first year.’

‘Good. Just see that you fix the lowest audited figure possible, then we’ll start building them up again in the second year. That way I’ll save myself a fortune. How about the Hull Echo and the Grimsby Times?’

‘Early days yet, but now that everybody realizes you’re a buyer, Dick, my task isn’t made any easier.’

‘We’ll just have to offer more and pay less.’

‘And how do you propose to do that?’ asked Barker.

‘By inserting clauses that make promises we have absolutely no intention of keeping. Never forget that old family concerns rarely sue, because they don’t like ending up in court. So always take advantage of the letter of the law. Don’t break it, just bend it as far as it will go without snapping. Get on with it.’ Armstrong put the phone down.

‘Derek Kirby is still waiting,’ Sally reminded him.

Armstrong checked his watch. ‘How long has he been hanging about?’

‘Twenty, twenty-five minutes.’

‘Then let’s go through the post.’

After twenty-one years, Sally knew which invitations Armstrong would accept, which charities he didn’t want to support, which gatherings he was willing to address and whose dinner parties he wanted to be seen at. The rule was to say yes to anything that might advance his career, and no to the rest. When she closed her shorthand pad forty minutes later, she pointed out that Derek Kirby had now been waiting for over an hour.

‘All right, you can send him in. But if you get any interesting calls, put them through.’

When Kirby entered the room, Armstrong made no attempt to rise from his place, but simply jabbed a finger at the seat on the far side of the desk.

Kirby appeared nervous; Armstrong had found that keeping someone waiting for any length of time almost always made them on edge. His visitor must have been about forty-five, though the furrows on his forehead and his receding hairline made him look older. His suit was smart, but not of the latest fashion, and although his shirt was clean and well ironed, the collar and cuffs were beginning to fray. Armstrong suspected he had been living on freelance work since leaving the Express, and would be missing his expense account. Whatever Kirby had to sell, he could probably offer him half and pay a quarter.

‘Good morning, Mr. Armstrong,’ Kirby said before he sat down.

‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,’ said Armstrong, ‘but something urgent came up.’

‘I understand,’ said Kirby.

‘So, what can I do for you?’

‘No, it’s what I can do for you,’ said Kirby, which sounded to Armstrong like a well-rehearsed line.

Armstrong nodded. ‘I’m listening.’

‘I am privy to confidential information which could make it possible for you to get your hands on a national newspaper.’

‘It can’t be the Express,’ said Armstrong, looking out of the window, ‘because as long as Beaverbrook is alive...’

‘No, it’s bigger than that.’

Armstrong remained silent for a moment and then said, ‘Would you like some coffee, Mr. Kirby?’

‘I’d prefer tea,’ replied the former editor. Armstrong picked up one of the phones on his desk. ‘Sally, can we both have some tea?’ — a signal that the appointment might go on longer than expected, and that he was not to be interrupted.

‘You were editor of the Express, if I remember correctly,’ said Armstrong.

‘Yes, one of seven in the last eight years.’

‘I never understood why they sacked you.’

Sally entered the room carrying a tray. She placed one cup of tea in front of Kirby and another in front of Armstrong.

‘The man who followed you was a moron, and you were never really given enough time to prove yourself.’

A smile appeared on Kirby’s face as he poured some milk into his tea, dropped in two sugarcubes and settled back in his chair. He didn’t feel that this was the moment to point out to Armstrong that he had recently employed his replacement to edit one of his own papers.

‘Well, if it isn’t the Express, which paper are we talking about?’

‘Before I say anything more, I need to be clear about my own position,’ said Kirby.

‘I’m not sure I understand.’ Armstrong placed his elbows on the table and stared across at him.

‘Well, after my experience at the Express, I want to be sure my backside is covered.’

Armstrong said nothing. Kirby opened his briefcase and removed a document. ‘My lawyers have drawn this up to protect...’

‘Just tell me what you want, Derek. I’m well known for honoring my pledges.’

‘This document states that if you take control of the paper in question, I will be appointed editor, or paid compensation of £100,000.’ He handed Armstrong the one-page agreement.

Armstrong read quickly through it. As soon as he realized there was no mention of any salary, only of the appointment as editor, he signed above his name at the bottom of the page. He had got rid of a man in Bradford by agreeing he should be editor and then paying him a pound a year. He would have advised Kirby that cheap lawyers always get you cheap results, but he satisfied himself with passing the signed document back to its eager recipient.

‘Thank you,’ said Kirby, looking a little more confident.

‘So, which paper do you want to edit?’

‘The Globe.’

For the second time that morning Armstrong was taken by surprise. The Globe was one of the icons of Fleet Street. No one had ever suggested it might be up for sale.

‘But all the shares are held by one family,’ said Armstrong.

‘That’s correct,’ said Kirby. ‘Two brothers and a sister-in-law. Sir Walter, Alexander, and Margaret Sherwood. And because Sir Walter is the chairman, everyone imagines he controls the company. But that isn’t the case: the shares are split equally between the three of them.’

‘I knew that much,’ said Armstrong. ‘It’s been reported in every profile of Sir Walter I’ve ever read.’

‘Yes. But what hasn’t been reported is that recently there’s been a falling-out between them.’

Armstrong raised an eyebrow.

‘They all met for dinner at Alexander’s apartment in Paris last Friday. Sir Walter flew in from London, and Margaret from New York, ostensibly to celebrate Alexander’s sixty-second birthday. But it didn’t turn out to be a celebration, because Alexander and Margaret let Walter know they were fed up with him not paying enough attention to what was happening to the Globe, and blamed him personally for the drop in sales. They’ve gone from over four million to under two million since he became chairman — falling behind the Daily Citizen, which is boasting that it’s now the paper with the largest daily circulation in the land. They accused him of spending far too much time flitting between the Turf Club and the nearest racecourse. A real shouting match followed, and Alexander and Margaret made it abundantly clear that although they had turned down several offers for their shares in the past, that didn’t mean they would do so in the future, as they had no intention of sacrificing their lifestyle simply because of his incompetence.’

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Armstrong.

‘His cook,’ replied Kirby.

‘His cook?’ repeated Armstrong.

‘Her name’s Lisa Milton. She used to work for Fleet Street Caterers before Alexander offered her the job with him in Paris.’ He paused. ‘Alexander hasn’t been the easiest of employers, and Lisa would resign and return to England if...’

‘...if she could afford to do so?’ suggested Armstrong.

Kirby nodded. ‘Lisa could hear every word they were saying while she was preparing dinner in the kitchen. In fact, she told me she wouldn’t have been surprised if the entire exchange could have been heard on the floors above and below.’

Armstrong smiled. ‘You’ve done well, Derek. Is there any other information you have that might be useful to me?’

Kirby leaned down and removed a bulky file from his briefcase. ‘You’ll find all the details on the three of them in here. Profiles, addresses, phone numbers, even the name of Alexander’s mistress. If you need anything else, you can call me direct.’ He pushed a card across the table.

Armstrong took the file and placed it on the blotter in front of him, slipping the card into his wallet. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘If the cook comes up with any fresh information or you ever want to get in touch with me, I’m always available. Use my direct line.’ He passed his own card over to Kirby.

‘I’ll call the moment I hear anything,’ said Kirby, rising to leave.

Armstrong accompanied him to the door, and when they entered Sally’s room he put an arm round his shoulder. As they shook hands he turned to his secretary and said, ‘Derek must always be able to get in touch with me, night or day, whoever I’m with.’

As soon as Kirby had left, Sally joined Armstrong in his office. He was already studying the first page of the Sherwood file. ‘Did you mean what you just said about Kirby always being able to get in touch with you night and day?’

‘For the foreseeable future, yes. But now I need you to clear my diary to make space for a trip to Paris to see a Mr. Alexander Sherwood. If that proves successful, I’ll need to go on to New York to meet his sister-in-law.’

Sally began flicking over the pages. ‘Your diary’s jam-packed with appointments,’ she said.

‘Like a bloody dentist,’ snapped Armstrong. ‘See they’re all canceled by the time I get back from lunch. And while you’re at it, go through every single piece of paper in this file. Then perhaps you’ll realize why seeing Mr. Sherwood is so important — but don’t let anyone else get their hands on it.’

He checked his watch and marched out of the room. As he walked down the corridor, his eyes settled on the new typist he had noticed that morning. This time she looked up and smiled. In the car on the way to the Savoy, he asked Reg to find out all he could about her.

Armstrong found it hard to concentrate during lunch — despite the fact that his guest was a cabinet minister — because he was already imagining what it might be like to be the proprietor of the Globe. In any case, he had heard that this particular minister would be returning to the back benches as soon as the prime minister carried out his next reshuffle. He was not at all sorry when the minister said he would have to leave early, as his department was answering questions in the House that afternoon. Armstrong called for the bill.

He watched as the minister was whisked away in a chauffeur-driven car, and hoped the poor man hadn’t got too used to it. When he climbed into the back of his own car, his thoughts returned to the Globe.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Benson, glancing into the rear-view mirror.

‘What is it?’ snapped Armstrong.

‘You asked me to find out about that girl.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Armstrong, softening.

‘She’s a temp — Sharon Levitt, covering for Mr. Wakeham’s secretary while she’s on holiday. She’s only going to be around for a couple of weeks.’

Armstrong nodded. When he stepped out of the lift and walked to his office, he was disappointed to find that she was no longer sitting at the desk in the corner.

Sally followed him into his room, clutching his diary and a bundle of papers. ‘If you cancel your speech to SOGAT on Saturday night,’ she said on the move, ‘and lunch on Sunday with your wife—’ Armstrong waved a dismissive hand. ‘It’s her birthday,’ Sally reminded him.

‘Send her a bunch of flowers, go to Harrods and choose a gift, and remind me to call her on the day.’

‘In which case the diary’s clear for the whole weekend.’

‘What about Alexander Sherwood?’

‘I called his secretary in Paris just before lunch. To my surprise, Sherwood himself called back a few minutes ago.’

‘And?’ said Armstrong.

‘He didn’t even ask why you wanted to see him, but wondered if you’d care to join him for lunch at one o’clock on Saturday, at his apartment in Montmartre.’

‘Well done, Sally. I’ll also need to see his cook before I meet him.’

‘Lisa Milton,’ said Sally. ‘She’ll join you at the George V for breakfast that morning.’

‘Then all that’s left for you to do this afternoon is to finish off the post.’

‘You’ve forgotten that I have a dental appointment at four. I’ve already put it off twice, and my toothache is starting to...’

Armstrong was about to tell her to put it off a third time, but checked himself. ‘Of course you mustn’t cancel your appointment, Sally. Ask Mr. Wakeham’s secretary to cover for you.’

Sally couldn’t hide her surprise, as Dick had never allowed anyone to cover for her since the first day she’d worked for him.

‘I think he’s using a temp for the next couple of weeks,’ she said uneasily.

‘That’s fine. It’s only routine stuff.’

‘I’ll go and get her,’ said Sally, as the private phone on Armstrong’s desk began to ring. It was Stephen Hallet, confirming that he had issued a writ for libel against the editor of the Daily Mail, and suggesting it might be wise for Dick to keep a low profile for the next few days.

‘Have you discovered who leaked the story in the first place?’ asked Armstrong.

‘No, but I suspect it came out of Germany,’ said Hallet.

‘But all that was years ago,’ said Armstrong. ‘In any case, I attended Julius Hahn’s funeral, so it can’t be him. My bet is still Townsend.’

‘I don’t know who it is, but someone out there wants to discredit you, and I think we might have to issue a series of gagging writs over the next few weeks. At least that way they’ll think twice about what they print in the future.’

‘Send me copies of anything and everything that mentions my name,’ he said. ‘If you need me urgently, I’ll be in Paris over the weekend.’

‘Lucky you,’ said Hallet. ‘And do give my love to Charlotte.’

Sally walked back into the room, followed by a tall, slim blonde in a miniskirt that could only have been worn by someone with the most slender legs.

‘I’m just about to embark on a very important deal,’ said Armstrong in a slightly louder voice.

‘I understand,’ said Stephen. ‘Be assured I’ll stay on top of it.’

Armstrong slammed the phone down and smiled sweetly up at the temp.

‘This is Sharon. I’ve told her it will only be run-of-the-mill stuff, and you’ll let her go by five,’ said Sally. ‘I’ll be back first thing in the morning.’

Armstrong’s eyes settled on Sharon’s ankles and then moved slowly up. He didn’t even look at Sally as she said, ‘See you tomorrow.’

Townsend finished reading the article in the Daily Mail, swung round on his chair and stared out over Sydney Harbor. It had been an unflattering portrayal of the rise and rise of Lubji Hoch, and his desire to be accepted in Britain as a press baron. They had used several unattributed quotes from Armstrong’s fellow-officers in the King’s Own Regiment, from Germans who had come across him in Berlin, and from past employees.

There was little in the article that hadn’t been lifted from the profile Kate had written for the Sunday Continent some weeks before. Townsend knew that few people in Australia would have any interest in the life of Richard Armstrong. But the article would have landed on the desk of every editor in Fleet Street within days, and then it would be only a matter of time before it was being reproduced in part or in full for dissemination to the British public. He had only wondered which newspaper would publish first.

He knew it wouldn’t take long for Armstrong to discover the source of the original article, which gave him even more pleasure. Ned Brewer, his bureau chief in London, had recently told him that stories about Armstrong’s private life had stopped appearing quite so frequently since the writs had begun falling like confetti on editors’ desks.

Townsend had watched with increasing anger as Armstrong built up WRG into a strong power-base in the north of England. But he was in no doubt where the man’s true ambitions lay. Townsend had already infiltrated two people into Armstrong’s Fleet Street headquarters, and they reported back on anyone and everyone who made an appointment to see him. The latest visitor, Derek Kirby, the former editor of the Express, had left with Armstrong’s arm around his shoulder. Townsend’s advisers thought Kirby was probably taking over as editor of one of WRG’s regional papers. Townsend wasn’t quite so sure, and left instructions that he should be told immediately if Armstrong was discovered bidding for anything. He repeated, ‘Anything.’

‘Is WRG really that important to you?’ Kate had asked him.

‘No, but a man who would stoop so low as to use my mother as a bargaining chip will get what’s coming to him.’

So far Townsend had been briefed on Armstrong’s purchases from Stoke-on-Trent to Durham. He now controlled nineteen local and regional papers and five county magazines, and he had certainly pulled off a coup when he captured 25 percent of Lancashire Television and 49 percent of the regional radio station, in exchange for preference shares in his own company. His latest venture had been to launch the London Evening Post. But Townsend knew that, like himself, what Armstrong most craved was to be the proprietor of a national daily.

Over the past four years Townsend had purchased three more Australian dailies, a Sunday and a weekly news magazine. He now controlled newspapers in every state of Australia, and there wasn’t a politician or businessman in the country who wasn’t available whenever Townsend picked up a phone. He had also visited America a dozen times in the past year, selecting cities where the main employers were in steel, coal, or automobiles, because he nearly always found that companies involved in those ailing industries also controlled the local newspapers. Whenever he discovered such a company having cash-flow problems he moved in, and was often able to close a deal for the newspaper quickly. In almost every case he then found his new acquisition overstaffed and badly managed, because it was rare for anyone on the main board to have any first-hand experience of running a newspaper. By sacking half the staff and replacing most of the senior management with his own people, he could turn the balance sheet round in a matter of months.

Using this approach he had succeeded in picking up nine city papers, from Seattle to North Carolina, and that in turn had allowed him to build up a company which would be large enough to bid for one of America’s flagship newspapers, should the opportunity ever arise.

Kate had accompanied him on several of these trips, and although he was in no doubt that he wanted to marry her, he still wasn’t sure, after his experiences with Susan, that he could ask anyone to spend the rest of her life living out of suitcases and never being quite sure where their roots were.

If he ever envied Armstrong anything, it was that he had a son to take over his empire.

23 The Times 29 October 1966 Channel Tunnel Target Date 1975. Four Years to Build

‘Miss Levitt will be accompanying me to Paris,’ said Armstrong. ‘Book me two first class tickets and my usual suite at the George V.’

Sally carried out his orders as if it was a normal business transaction. She smiled at the thought of the promises that would be made over the weekend and then not kept, of the presents that would be offered but never materialize. On Monday morning she would be expected to settle up with the girl, in cash, just like her predecessors — but at a far higher hourly rate than any agency would have dared to charge for even the most experienced temp.

When Armstrong arrived back from Paris on Monday morning, there was no sign of Sharon. Sally assumed she would be hearing from her later that day. ‘How did the meeting with Alexander Sherwood go?’ she asked after she had placed the morning post on his desk.

‘We agreed on a price for his third of the Globe,’ Armstrong said triumphantly. Before Sally could ask for any details, he added, ‘Your next task is to get hold of the catalog for a sale at Sotheby’s in Geneva that’s taking place on Thursday morning.’

She didn’t bat an eyelid as she flicked over three pages of the diary. ‘You’ve got appointments that morning at ten, eleven and eleven forty-five, and a lunch with William Barnetson, the chairman of Reuters. You’ve already rearranged it twice.’

‘Then you’ll just have to rearrange it for a third time,’ said Armstrong, not even looking up.

‘Including the meeting with the chief secretary to the Treasury?’

‘Including everything,’ he said. ‘Book me two first class tickets for Geneva on Wednesday evening, and my usual room at Le Richemond overlooking the lake.’

So Sharon whatever-her-name-was must have survived for a second outing.

Sally put a line through the seven appointments in the diary on Thursday, well aware that there had to be a good reason for Dick to postpone a cabinet minister and the chairman of Reuters. But what could he be buying? The only thing he had ever bid for in the past had been newspapers, and you couldn’t pick up one of those at an auction house.

Sally returned to her office and asked Benson to drive over to Sotheby’s in Bond Street and purchase a copy of their catalog for the Geneva sale. When he presented it to her an hour later, she was even more surprised. Dick had never shown any interest in collecting eggs in the past. Could it be the Russian connection? Because surely Sharon wasn’t expecting a Fabergé for two nights’ work?

On the Wednesday evening, Dick and Sharon flew into the Swiss city and checked into Le Richemond. Before dinner they strolled over to the Hôtel de Bergues in the center of the city, where Sotheby’s always conduct their Geneva auctions, to inspect the room where the sale would be taking place.

Armstrong watched as the hotel staff put out the chairs on a floor which he estimated would hold about four hundred people. He walked slowly round the room, deciding where he needed to sit to be sure that he had a clear view of the auctioneer as well as the bank of nine telephones placed on a raised platform at one side of the room. As he and Sharon were about to leave, he stopped to glance round the room once more.

As soon as they arrived back at their hotel, Armstrong marched into the small dining room overlooking the lake and headed straight for the alcove table in the corner. He had sat down long before the head waiter could tell him the table was reserved for another guest. He ordered for himself and then passed the menu to Sharon.

As he waited for the first course, he began to butter the bread roll on the plate by his side. When he had eaten it, he leaned across and took Sharon’s roll from her plate. She continued to turn the pages of the Sotheby’s catalog.

‘Page forty-nine,’ he said between mouthfuls. Sharon quickly flicked over a few more pages. Her eyes settled on an object whose name she couldn’t pronounce.

‘Is this to be added to a collection?’ she asked, hoping it might be a gift for her.

‘Yes,’ he replied, with his mouth full, ‘but not mine. I’d never heard of Fabergé until last week,’ he admitted. ‘It’s just part of a bigger deal I’m involved in.’

Sharon’s eyes continued down the page, passing over the detailed description of how the masterpiece had been smuggled out of Russia in 1917, until they settled on the estimated price.

Armstrong reached under the table and put a hand on her thigh.

‘How high will you go?’ she asked, as a waiter appeared by their side and placed a large bowl of caviar in front of them.

Armstrong quickly removed his hand and switched his attention to the first course.

Since their weekend in Paris they had spent every night together, and Dick couldn’t remember how long it was since he had been so obsessed by anyone — if ever. Much to Sally’s surprise, he had taken to leaving the office in the early evening, and not reappearing until ten the next day.

Over breakfast each morning he would offer to buy her presents, but she always rejected them, which made him fearful of losing her. He knew it wasn’t love, but whatever it was, he hoped it would go on for a long time. He had always dreaded the thought of a divorce, even though he rarely saw Charlotte nowadays other than at official functions and couldn’t even remember when they had last slept together. But to his relief Sharon never talked about marriage. The only suggestion she ever made would, she kept reminding him, allow them the best of both worlds. He was slowly coming round to falling in with her wishes.

After the empty caviar bowl had been whisked away, Armstrong began to attack a steak which took up so much of his plate that the extra vegetables he had demanded had to be placed on several other dishes. By using two forks he found he was able to eat from two plates at once, while Sharon contented herself with nibbling a lettuce leaf and toying with some smoked salmon. He would have ordered a second helping of Black Forest gâteau if she hadn’t started running the tip of her right foot along the inside of his thigh.

He threw his napkin down on the table and headed out of the restaurant toward the lift, leaving Sharon to follow a pace behind. He stepped in and jabbed the button for the seventh floor, and the doors closed just in time to prevent an elderly couple from joining them.

When they reached their floor he was relieved that there was no one else in the corridor, because if there had been, they could not have failed to notice the state he was in.

Once he had kicked the bedroom door closed with his heel, she pulled him down on to the floor and began pulling off his shirt. ‘I can’t wait any longer,’ she whispered.

The following morning, Armstrong sat down at a table laid for two in their suite. He ate both breakfasts while checking the exchange rate for the Swiss franc against the pound in the Financial Times.

Sharon was admiring herself in a long mirror at the other end of the room, taking her time to get dressed. She liked what she saw, and smiled before turning round and walking over to the breakfast table. She placed a long, slim leg on the arm of Armstrong’s chair. He dropped his butter knife on the carpet as she began pulling on a black stocking. When she changed legs he stood up to face her, sighing as she slipped her arms inside his dressing-gown.

‘Have we got time?’ he asked.

‘Don’t worry about time, my darling, the auction doesn’t start until ten,’ she whispered, unclipping her bra and pulling him back down to the floor.

They left the hotel a few minutes before ten, but as the only item Armstrong was interested in was unlikely to come up much before eleven, they strolled arm in arm along the side of the lake, making their way slowly in the direction of the city center and enjoying the warmth of the morning sun.

When they entered the foyer of the Hôtel de Bergues, Armstrong felt strangely apprehensive. Despite the fact that he had bargained for everything he had ever wanted in his life, this was the first time he had attended an auction. But he had been carefully briefed on what was expected of him, and he immediately began to carry out his instructions. At the entrance to the ballroom he gave his name to one of the smartly-dressed women seated behind a long table. She spoke in French and he replied in kind, explaining that he was only interested in Lot Forty-three. Armstrong was surprised to find that almost every place in the room had already been taken, including the one he had identified the previous evening. Sharon pointed to two empty chairs on the left-hand side of the room, toward the back. Armstrong nodded and led her down the aisle. As they sat down a young man in an open-necked shirt slipped into a seat behind them.

Armstrong checked that he had a clear view of the auctioneer as well as the bank of temporary phones, each of them manned by an overqualified telephonist. His position wasn’t as convenient as his original choice, but he could see no reason why it should prevent him from fulfilling his part of the bargain.

‘Lot Seventeen,’ declared the auctioneer from his podium at the front of the ballroom. Armstrong turned to the relevant page in his catalog, and looked down at a silver-gilt Easter egg supported by four crosses with the blue enameled cipher of Czar Nicholas II, commissioned in 1907 from Peter Carl Fabergé for the Czarina. He began to concentrate on the proceedings.

‘Do I hear 10,000?’ asked the auctioneer, looking around the room. He nodded at someone toward the back. ‘Fifteen thousand.’ Armstrong tried to follow the different bids, although he wasn’t quite sure where they were coming from, and when Lot Seventeen eventually sold for 45,000 francs, he had no idea who the purchaser was. It came as a surprise that the auctioneer brought the hammer down without saying ‘Going, going, gone.’

By the time the auctioneer had reached Lot Twenty-five, Armstrong felt a little more sure of himself, and by Lot Thirty he thought he could even spot the occasional bidder. By Lot Thirty-five he felt he was an expert, but by Lot Forty, the Winter Egg of 1913, he had begun to feel nervous again.

‘I shall start this lot at 20,000 francs,’ declared the auctioneer. Armstrong watched as the bidding climbed quickly past 50,000, with the hammer finally coming down at 120,000 francs, to a customer whose anonymity was guaranteed by his being on the other end of a telephone line.

Armstrong felt his hands begin to sweat when Lot Forty-one, the Chanticleer Egg of 1896, encrusted in pearls and rubies, went for 280,000 francs. During the sale of Lot Forty-two, the Yuberov Yellow Egg, he began to fidget, continually looking up at the auctioneer and then down at the open page of his catalog.

When the auctioneer called Lot Forty-three, Sharon squeezed his hand and he managed a nervous smile. A buzz of conversation struck up around the room.

‘Lot Forty-three,’ repeated the auctioneer, ‘the Fourteenth Imperial Anniversary Egg. This unique piece was commissioned by the Czar in 1910. The paintings were executed by Vasily Zulev, and the craftsmanship is considered to be among the finest examples of Fabergé’s work. There has already been considerable interest shown in this lot, so I shall start the bidding at 100,000 francs.’

Everyone in the room fell silent except for the auctioneer. The head of his hammer was gripped firmly in his right hand as he stared down into the audience, trying to place the bidders.

Armstrong remembered his briefing, and the exact price at which he should come in. But he could still feel his pulse rate rise when the auctioneer pronounced ‘One hundred and fifty thousand,’ then, turning to his left, said, ‘The bid is now on the telephone at 150,000 francs, 150,000,’ he repeated. He looked intently around the audience, then a smile crossed his lips. ‘Two hundred thousand in the center of the room.’ He paused and looked toward the assistant on the end phone. Armstrong watched her whisper into the receiver, and then she nodded in the direction of the auctioneer, who immediately responded with ‘Two hundred and fifty thousand.’ He turned his attention back to those seated in the room, where there must have been another bid because he immediately switched his gaze back to the assistant on the phone and said, ‘I have a bid of 300,000 francs.’

The woman informed her client of the latest bid and, after a few moments, she nodded again. All heads in the room swung back to the auctioneer as if they were watching a tennis match in slow motion. ‘Three hundred and fifty thousand,’ he said, glancing at the center of the room.

Armstrong looked down at the catalog. He knew it was not yet time for him to join in the bidding, but that didn’t stop him continuing to fidget.

‘Four hundred thousand,’ said the auctioneer, nodding to the woman on the end phone. ‘Four hundred and fifty thousand in the center of the room.’ The woman on the phone responded immediately. ‘Five hundred thousand. Six hundred thousand,’ said the auctioneer, his eyes now fixed on the center aisle. With that one bid Armstrong had learned another of the auctioneer’s skills.

Armstrong craned his neck until he finally spotted who it was bidding from the floor. His eyes moved over to the woman on the phone, who nodded once again. ‘Seven hundred thousand,’ said the auctioneer calmly.

A man seated just in front of him raised his catalog. ‘Eight hundred thousand,’ declared the auctioneer. ‘A new bidder toward the back.’ He turned to the woman on the phone, who took rather longer telling her customer the latest bid. ‘Nine hundred thousand?’ he suggested, as if he was trying to woo her. Suddenly she consented. ‘I have a bid of 900,000 on the phone,’ he said, and looked toward the man at the back of the room. ‘Nine hundred thousand,’ the auctioneer repeated. But this time he received no response.

‘Are there any more bids?’ asked the auctioneer. ‘Then I’m letting this item go for 900,000 francs. Fair warning,’ he said, raising the hammer. ‘I’m going to let...’

When Armstrong raised his catalog, it looked to the auctioneer as if he was waving. He wasn’t, he was shaking.

‘I have a new bidder on the right-hand aisle, toward the back of the room, at one million francs.’ The auctioneer once again directed his attention to the woman on the telephone.

‘One million one hundred thousand?’ said the auctioneer, pointing the handle of his hammer at the assistant on the end phone. Armstrong sat in silence, not sure what he should do next, as a million francs was the figure they had agreed on. People began to turn round and stare in his direction. He remained silent, knowing that the woman on the phone would shake her head.

She shook her head.

‘I have a bid of one million on the aisle,’ said the auctioneer, pointing toward Armstrong. ‘Are there any more bids? Then I’m going to let this go for one million.’ His eyes scanned the audience hopefully, but no one responded. He finally brought the hammer down with a thud and, looking at Armstrong, said, ‘Sold to the gentleman on the aisle for one million francs.’ A burst of applause erupted around the room.

Sharon squeezed his hand again. But before Dick could catch his breath, a woman was kneeling on the floor beside him. ‘If you fill in this form, Mr. Armstrong, someone at the reception desk will advise you on collecting your lot.’

Armstrong nodded. But once he had completed the form, he did not head for the desk, but instead went to the nearest telephone in the lobby and dialed an overseas number. When the phone was answered he said, ‘Put me straight through to the manager.’ He gave the order for a million francs to be sent to Sotheby’s Geneva by swift telegraph transfer, as agreed. ‘And make it swift,’ said Armstrong, ‘because I’ve no desire to hang around here any longer than necessary.’

He replaced the phone and went over to the woman at the reception desk to explain how the account would be settled, just as the young man in the open-necked shirt began dialing an overseas number, despite the fact that he knew he would be waking his boss.

Townsend sat up in bed and listened carefully. ‘Why would Armstrong pay a million francs for a Fabergé egg?’ he asked.

‘I can’t work that out either,’ said the young man. ‘Hang on, he’s just going upstairs with the girl. I’d better stick with him. I’ll ring back as soon as I find out what he’s up to.’

Over lunch in the hotel dining room, Armstrong appeared so preoccupied that Sharon thought it sensible to say nothing unless he started a conversation. It was obvious that the egg had not been purchased for her. When he had put down his empty coffee cup, he asked her to go back to their room and finish packing, as he wanted to leave for the airport in an hour. ‘I have one more meeting to attend,’ he said, ‘but it shouldn’t take too long.’

When he kissed her on the cheek at the entrance to the hotel, the young man in the open-necked shirt knew which of them he would have preferred to follow.

‘See you in about an hour,’ he overheard his quarry say. Then Armstrong turned and almost ran down the wide staircase to the ballroom where the auction had taken place. He went straight to the woman seated behind the long table, checking purchase slips.

‘Ah, Mr. Armstrong, how nice to see you again,’ she said, giving him a million-franc smile. ‘Your funds have been cleared by swift telegraphic transfer. If you would be kind enough to join my colleague in the inner office,’ she said, indicating a door behind her, ‘you will be able to collect your lot.’

‘Thank you,’ said Armstrong, as she passed over his receipt for the masterpiece. He turned round, nearly bumping into a young man standing directly behind him, walked into the back office and presented his receipt to a man in a black tailcoat who was standing behind the counter.

The official checked the little slip carefully, took a close look at Mr. Armstrong, smiled and instructed the security guard to fetch Lot Forty-three, the Imperial Anniversary Egg of 1910. When the guard returned with the egg he was with the auctioneer, who gave the ornate piece one last longing look before holding it up for his customer to inspect. ‘Quite magnificent, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Quite magnificent,’ repeated Armstrong, grabbing the egg as if it were a rugby ball coming out of a loose scrum. He turned to leave without uttering another word, so didn’t hear the auctioneer whisper to his assistant, ‘Strange that none of us has ever come across Mr. Armstrong before.’

The doorman of the Hôtel de Bergues touched his cap as Armstrong slid into the back of a taxi, clinging on to the egg with both hands. He instructed the driver to take him to the Banque de Genève just as another empty taxi drew up behind them. The young man hailed it.

When Armstrong walked into the bank, which he had never entered before, he was greeted by a tall, thin, anonymous-looking man in morning dress, who wouldn’t have looked out of place proposing a toast to the bride at a society wedding in Hampshire. The man bowed low to indicate that he had been waiting for him. He did not ask Mr. Armstrong if he would like him to carry the egg.

‘Will you please follow me, sir?’ he said in English, leading Armstrong across the marble floor to a waiting lift. How did he know who he was? Armstrong wondered. They stepped into the lift and the doors closed. Neither spoke as they traveled slowly up to the top floor. The doors parted and the tailcoated man preceded him down a wide, thickly-carpeted corridor until he reached the last door. He gave a discreet knock, opened the door and announced, ‘Mr. Armstrong.’

A man in a pinstripe suit, stiff collar and silver-gray tie stepped forward and introduced himself as Pierre de Montiaque, the bank’s chief executive. He turned and faced another man seated on the far side of the boardroom table, then indicated that his visitor should take the vacant chair opposite him. Armstrong placed the Fabergé egg in the center of the table, and Alexander Sherwood rose from his place, leaned across and shook him warmly by the hand.

‘Good to see you again,’ he said.

‘And you,’ replied Armstrong, smiling. He took his seat and looked across at the man with whom he had closed the deal in Paris.

Sherwood picked up the Imperial Anniversary Egg of 1910 and studied it closely. A smile appeared on his face. ‘It will be the pride of my collection, and there should never be any reason for my brother or sister-in-law to become suspicious.’ He smiled again and nodded in the direction of the banker, who opened a drawer and extracted a document, which he passed across to Armstrong.

Dick studied the agreement that Stephen Hallet had drawn up for him before he’d flown to Paris the previous week. Once he had checked that no alterations had been made, he signed at the bottom of the fifth page and then pushed the document across the table. Sherwood showed no interest in checking the contents, but simply turned to the last page and penned his signature next to that of Richard Armstrong.

‘Can I therefore confirm that both sides are in agreement?’ said the banker. ‘I am currently holding $20 million on deposit, and only await Mr. Armstrong’s instructions to transfer it to Mr. Sherwood’s account.’

Armstrong nodded. Twenty million dollars was the sum Alexander and Margaret Sherwood had agreed should be paid for Alexander’s third share in the Globe, with an understanding that she would then part with her third for exactly the same amount. What Margaret Sherwood didn’t know was that Alexander had demanded a little reward for setting up the deal: a Fabergé egg, which would not appear as part of the formal contract.

Armstrong might have paid a million more francs than was stated in the contract, but he was now in possession of 33.3 percent of a national newspaper which had once boasted the largest circulation in the world.

‘Then our business is concluded,’ said de Montiaque, rising from his place at the head of the table.

‘Not quite,’ said Sherwood, who remained seated. The chief executive resumed his place uneasily. Armstrong shuffled in his place. He could feel the sweat under his collar.

‘As Mr. Armstrong has been so co-operative,’ said Sherwood, ‘I consider it only fair that I should repay him in kind.’ From the expression on their faces, it was obvious that neither Armstrong nor de Montiaque was prepared for this intervention. Alexander Sherwood then proceeded to reveal a piece of information concerning his father’s will, which brought a smile to Richard Armstrong’s lips.

When he left the bank a few minutes later to return to Le Richemond, he believed his million francs had been well spent.

Townsend didn’t comment when he was woken from a deep sleep for the second time that night. He listened intently and whispered his responses for fear of disturbing Kate. When he eventually put the phone down, he was unable to get back to sleep. Why would Armstrong have paid a million francs for a Fabergé egg, delivered it to a Swiss bank, and left less than an hour later, empty-handed?

The clock by his bed reminded him that it was only 3:30 A.M. He lay watching as Kate slept soundly. His mind drifted from her to Susan; then back to Kate, and how different she was; to his mother, and whether she would ever understand him; and then inevitably back to Armstrong, and how he could find out what he was up to.

When he finally rose later that morning, Townsend was no nearer to solving the little conundrum. He would have remained in the dark if a few days later he had not accepted a reverse-charge call from a woman in London.

24 Daily Telegraph 6 February 1967 Kosygin Sees Wilson in London Today

Armstrong was furious when he returned to the flat and found the note from Sharon. It simply said that she didn’t want to see him again until he had come to a decision.

He sank onto the sofa and read her words a second time. He dialed her number; he was certain she was there, but there was no answer. He left it to ring for over a minute before he replaced the handset.

He couldn’t recall a happier time in his life, and Sharon’s note brought home to him how much she was now a part of it. He had even started having his hair dyed and his hands manicured, so she wouldn’t be constantly reminded of the difference in their ages. After several sleepless nights and unacknowledged deliveries of flowers, and dozens of unanswered telephone calls, he realized that the only way he was going to get her back was to fall in with her wishes. He had been trying to convince himself for some time that she was not altogether serious about the whole idea, but it was now clear that those were the only terms on which she would agree to lead a double life. He decided that he would deal with the problem on Friday.

That morning he arrived unusually late at the office, and immediately asked Sally to get his wife on the phone. Once she had put Charlotte through, she began to prepare the papers for the trip to New York and his meeting with Margaret Sherwood. She was aware that Dick had been on edge all week — at one point he had swept a tray of coffee cups off his desk onto the floor. No one seemed to know what was causing the problem. Benson thought it must be woman trouble; Sally suspected that after getting his hands on 33.3 percent of the Globe, he was becoming increasingly frustrated at having to wait for Margaret Sherwood to return from her annual cruise before he could take advantage of the information he had recently been given by Alexander Sherwood.

‘Every day gives Townsend more time to find out what I’m up to,’ he muttered irritably.

His mood had caused Sally to postpone their annual discussion about her pay rise, which always made him lose his temper. But she had already started to put off paying certain bills that were long overdue, and she knew she was going to have to face up to him soon, however foul his mood.

Armstrong put the phone down on his wife, and asked Sally to come back in. She had already sorted through the morning post, dealt with all the routine letters, drafted provisional replies to the remainder, and put them all in a folder for his consideration. The majority only required his signature. But before she had even closed the door, he began dictating furiously. As the words came tumbling out, she automatically corrected his grammar, and realized that in some cases she would later have to temper his words.

As soon as he had finished dictating, he stormed out of the office for a lunch appointment, without giving her the chance to say anything. She decided that she would have to raise the subject of her salary as soon as he returned. After all, why should her holiday be postponed simply because of her boss’s refusal to consider other people’s lives?

By the time Armstrong came back from lunch, Sally had typed up all his dictation and had the letters in a second folder on his desk awaiting signature. She couldn’t help noticing that, unusually, there was a smell of whiskey on his breath; but she realized she couldn’t put it off any longer.

The first question he asked as she stood in front of his desk was, ‘Who in hell’s name arranged for me to have lunch with the minister of telecommunications?’

‘It was at your specific request,’ said Sally.

‘It most certainly was not,’ said Dick. ‘On the contrary, I distinctly remember telling you that I never wanted to see the prat again.’ His voice rose with every word. ‘He’s basically unemployable, like half this bloody government.’

Sally clenched her hand. ‘Dick, I feel I must...’

‘What’s the latest on Margaret Sherwood?’

‘There’s still no change,’ said Sally. ‘She returns from her cruise at the end of the month, and I’ve arranged for you to see her in New York the following day. The flight is already booked, and I’ve reserved your usual suite at the Pierre, overlooking Central Park. I’m preparing a file, with reference to Alexander Sherwood’s latest piece of information. I understand he’s already let his sister-in-law know the price at which he’s sold you his shares, and has advised her to do the same as soon as she gets back.’

‘Good. So do I have any other problems?’

‘Yes. Me,’ said Sally.

‘You?’ said Armstrong. ‘Why? What’s wrong with you?’

‘My annual pay rise is nearly two months overdue, and I’m becoming...’

‘I wasn’t thinking of giving you a rise this year.’

Sally was about to laugh when she caught the expression on her employer’s face. ‘Oh, come off it, Dick. You know I can’t live on what you pay me.’

‘Why not? Others seem to manage well enough without complaining.’

‘Be reasonable, Dick. Since Malcolm left me...’

‘I suppose you’re going to claim it was my fault he left you?’

‘Most probably.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything, but with the hours I put in...’

‘Then perhaps the time has come for you to look for a job where the hours aren’t quite as demanding.’

Sally couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘After twenty-one years of working for you,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure anyone else would be willing to take me on.’

‘And just what do you mean by that?’ shouted Armstrong.

Sally rocked back, wondering what had come over him. Was he drunk, and unaware of what he was saying? Or had he been drinking because he knew exactly what he wanted to say? She stared down at him. ‘What’s come over you, Dick? I’m only asking for an increase in line with inflation, not even a proper rise.’

‘I’ll tell you what’s come over me,’ he replied. ‘I’m sick and tired of the inefficiency in this place, plus the fact that you’ve got into the habit of fixing up private appointments during office hours.’

‘It’s not the first of April, is it, Dick?’ she asked, trying to lighten the mood.

‘Don’t you get sarcastic with me, or you’ll find it’s more like the Ides of March. It’s exactly that sort of attitude that convinces me the time has come to bring in someone who will carry out this job without always complaining. Someone with fresh ideas. Someone who would bring some much-needed discipline into this office.’ He slammed his clenched fist down on the folder of unsigned letters.

Sally stood shaking in front of his desk, and stared at him in disbelief. Benson must have been right all along. ‘It’s that girl, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘What was her name? Sharon?’ Sally paused before adding, ‘So that’s why she hasn’t been in to see me.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ shouted Armstrong. ‘I simply feel that...’

‘You know exactly what I’m talking about,’ snapped Sally. ‘You can’t fool me after all these years, Dick. You’ve offered her my job, haven’t you? I can hear your exact words. “It will solve all our problems, darling. That way we’ll always be together.”’

‘I said nothing of the sort.’

‘Used a different line this time, did you?’

‘I just feel that I need a change,’ he said lamely. ‘I’ll see that you’re properly compensated.’

‘Properly compensated?’ shouted Sally. ‘You know damn well that at my age it will be almost impossible for me to find another job. And in any case, how do you propose to “compensate” me for all the sacrifices I’ve made for you over the years? A dirty weekend in Paris, perhaps?’

‘How dare you speak to me like that.’

‘I shall speak to you in any way I like.’

‘Carry on like this and you’ll live to regret it, my girl.’

‘I am not your girl,’ said Sally. ‘In fact I am the one person in this organization you can neither seduce nor bully. I’ve known you far too long for that.’

‘I agree, far too long. Which is why the time has come for you to leave.’

‘To be replaced by Sharon, no doubt.’

‘It’s none of your god-damned business.’

‘I only hope she’s good in bed,’ said Sally.

‘And what do you mean by that?’

‘Only that when she temped here for a couple of hours, I had to retype seven of her nine letters because she couldn’t spell, and the other two because they were addressed to the wrong person. Unless of course you wanted the prime minister to know your inside-leg measurements.’

‘It was her first day. She’ll improve.’

‘Not if your fly buttons are undone the whole time, she won’t.’

‘Get out before I have you thrown out.’

‘You’ll have to do it yourself, Dick, because there’s no one on your staff who’d be willing to do it for you,’ she said calmly. He rose from his chair, red in the face, placed the palms of his hands on the desk and stared down at her. She gave him a big smile, turned round and walked calmly out of the room. Fortunately he didn’t hear the ripple of applause that greeted her as she walked through the outer office, or several other employees might have ended up having to join her.

Armstrong picked up a phone and dialed an internal number.

‘Security. How can I help you?’

‘It’s Dick Armstrong. Mrs. Carr will be leaving the building in the next few minutes. Do not under any circumstances let her drive off in her company car, and be sure that she is never allowed back on the premises again. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said a disbelieving voice on the other end of the line.

Armstrong slammed down the phone and immediately picked it back up again, then dialed another number.

‘Accounts department,’ said a voice.

‘Put me through to Fred Preston.’

‘He’s on the phone at the moment.’

‘Then get him off the phone.’

‘Who shall I say is calling?’

‘Dick Armstrong,’ he bawled, and the line went dead for a moment. The next voice he heard was the head of the accounts department.

‘It’s Fred Preston here, Dick. I’m sorry that...’

‘Fred, Sally has just resigned. Cancel her monthly check and send her P45 to her home address without delay.’

There was no response. Armstrong shouted, ‘Did you hear me?’

‘Yes, Dick. I assume she is to receive the bonuses that are due, as well as the appropriate long-term severance pay?’

‘No. She is to receive nothing other than what she is entitled to under the terms of her contract and by law.’

‘As I’m sure you’re aware, Dick, Sally’s never had a contract. In fact she’s the longest-serving member of the company. Don’t you feel in the circumstances...’

‘Say another word, Fred, and you’ll be collecting your P45 as well.’ Armstrong slammed the phone down again and picked it up a third time. This time he dialed a number he knew off by heart. Although it was answered immediately, nobody spoke.

‘It’s Dick,’ he began. ‘Before you put the phone down, I’ve just sacked Sally. She’s already left the building.’

‘That’s wonderful news, darling,’ said Sharon. ‘When do I begin?’

‘Monday morning.’ He hesitated. ‘As my secretary.’

‘As your personal assistant,’ she reminded him.

‘Yes, of course. As my PA. Why don’t we discuss the details over the weekend? We could fly down to the yacht...’

‘But what about your wife?’

‘I rang her first thing this morning and told her not to expect me home this weekend.’

There was a long pause before Sharon said, ‘Yes, I’d love to spend the weekend on the yacht with you, Dick, but if anyone should bump into us in Monte Carlo, you will remember to introduce me as your PA, won’t you?’

Sally waited in vain for her final paycheck, and Dick made no attempt to contact her. Friends at the office told her that Miss Levitt — as she insisted on being called — had moved in, and that the place was already in complete chaos. Armstrong never knew where he was meant to be, his letters remained unanswered, and his temper was no longer mercurial, simply perpetual. No one was willing to tell him that he had it in his power to resolve the problem with one phone call — if he wanted to.

Over a drink at her local pub, a barrister friend pointed out to Sally that under new legislation she was, after twenty-one years of unbroken service, in a strong position to sue Armstrong for unfair dismissal. She reminded him that she didn’t have a contract of employment, and no one knew better than she what tactics Armstrong would employ were she to serve him with a writ. Within a month she would find she couldn’t afford her legal fees, and would be left with no choice but to abandon the case. She had seen these tactics used to good effect on so many others who’d dared to retaliate in the past.

Sally had just arrived home one afternoon from a temping job when the phone rang. She picked up the receiver and was asked, over a crackling line, to hold on for a call from Sydney. She wondered why she didn’t simply put the phone down, but after a few moments another voice came on the line. ‘Good evening, Mrs. Carr, my name is Keith Townsend and I’m...’

‘Yes, Mr. Townsend, I am well aware who you are.’

‘I was calling to say how appalled I was to hear how you’ve been treated by your former boss.’

Sally made no comment.

‘It may come as a surprise to you that I’d like to offer you a job.’

‘So you can find out what Dick Armstrong has been up to, and which paper he’s trying to buy?’

There was a long silence, and only the crackling convinced her that the line hadn’t gone dead. ‘Yes,’ said Townsend eventually. ‘That’s exactly what I had in mind. But then at least you could take that holiday in Italy you’ve made the down payment on.’ Sally was speechless.

Townsend continued, ‘I would also make good any compensation you should have been entitled to after twenty-one years of service.’

Sally said nothing for a few moments, suddenly aware why Dick considered this man such a formidable opponent. ‘Thank you for your offer, Mr. Townsend, but I’m not interested,’ she said firmly, and put the phone down.

Sally’s immediate reaction was to contact the accounts department at Armstrong House to try and find out why she hadn’t received her final paycheck. She was kept waiting for some time before the senior accountant came on the line.

‘When can I expect last month’s paycheck, Fred?’ she asked. ‘It’s more than two weeks overdue.’

‘I know, but I’m afraid I’ve been given instructions not to issue it, Sally.’

‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘It’s no more than I’m entitled to.’

‘I realize that,’ said Fred, ‘but...’

‘But what?’

‘It seems there was a breakage during your final week which you’ve been billed for. A fine bone china Staffordshire coffee set, I was told.’

‘The bastard,’ said Sally. ‘I wasn’t even in the room when he smashed it.’

‘And he’s also deducted two days’ wages for taking time off during office hours.’

‘But he knows very well that he told me to keep out of the way himself, so that he could...’

‘We all know that, Sally. But he’s no longer prepared to listen.’

‘I know, Fred,’ she said. ‘It’s not your fault. I appreciate the risk you’re taking by even speaking to me, so thank you.’ She hung up, and just sat at the kitchen table staring into space. When she picked up the telephone again an hour later she asked to be put through to the international operator.

In Sydney, Heather put her head round the door. ‘There’s a reverse-charge call for you from London,’ she said. ‘A Mrs. Sally Carr. Will you take it?’

Sally flew into Sydney two days later. Sam picked her up from the airport. After a night’s rest the debriefing began. At a cost of $5,000, Townsend had employed a former head of the Australian Security Intelligence Organization to conduct the interview. By the end of the week Sally was drained, and Townsend wondered if there was anything else he could possibly know about Richard Armstrong.

On the day she was due to fly back to England, he offered her a full-time job in his London office. ‘Thank you, Mr. Townsend,’ she replied as he handed her a check for $25,000, but added, with the sweetest of smiles, ‘I’ve spent almost half my life working for one monster, and after a week with you, I don’t think I want to spend the rest of it working for another one.’

After Sam had taken Sally to the airport, Townsend and Kate spent hours listening to the tapes. They agreed on one thing: if he was to have any chance of purchasing the remaining shares in the Globe, he had to get to Margaret Sherwood before Armstrong did. She was the key to gaining control of 100 percent of the company.

Once Sally had explained why Armstrong had bid a million francs for an egg at an auction in Geneva, all Townsend needed to discover was the equivalent of Peter Carl Fabergé for Mrs. Margaret Sherwood.

Kate jumped out of bed in the middle of the night, and started playing tape number three. A drowsy Keith raised his head from the pillow when he heard the words ‘the senator’s mistress.’

25 Ocean Times 6 June 1967 Welcome Aboard!

Keith landed at Kingston airport four hours before the liner was due to dock. He checked through customs and took a taxi to the Cunard booking office on the dockside. A man in a smart white uniform, with a little too much gold braid for a booking clerk, asked if he could be of assistance.

‘I’d like to reserve a first class cabin on the Queen Elizabeth’s voyage to New York,’ said Townsend. ‘My aunt is already on board taking her annual cruise, and I was wondering if there might be a cabin available somewhere near her.’

‘And what is your aunt’s name?’ asked the booking clerk.

‘Mrs. Margaret Sherwood,’ Townsend replied.

A finger ran down the passenger list. ‘Ah, yes. Mrs. Sherwood has the Trafalgar Suite as usual. It’s on level three. We only have one first class cabin still available on that level, but it’s not far from her.’ The booking clerk unrolled a large-scale layout of the ship and pointed to two boxes, the second of which was considerably larger than the first.

‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Townsend, and passed over one of his credit cards.

‘Shall we let your aunt know that you’ll be joining the ship?’ the booking clerk asked helpfully.

‘No,’ said Townsend, without missing a beat. ‘That would spoil the surprise.’

‘If you would like to leave your bags with me, sir, I’ll see they are taken to your cabin as soon as the ship docks.’

‘Thank you,’ said Townsend. ‘Can you tell me how to get to the center of town?’

As he strolled away from the dockside he began to think about Kate, and wondered if she had managed to place the article in the ship’s paper.

He dropped into three newsagents on the long walk into Kingston, and purchased Time, Newsweek and all the local newspapers. He then stopped at the first restaurant he came across with an American Express sign on its door, took a quiet table in the corner and settled down for a lengthy lunch.

Other people’s newspapers always fascinated him, but he knew he would leave the island without the slightest desire to be the owner of the Jamaica Times, which, even with nothing else to do, was only a fifteen-minute read. In between articles about how the agriculture minister’s wife spent her day and why the island’s cricket team had been losing so consistently, his mind kept returning to the information Sally Carr had recorded in Sydney. He found it hard to believe that Sharon could be quite as incompetent as she claimed, but if she was, he also had to accept her judgment that she must be remarkable in bed.

Having paid for a lunch best forgotten, Townsend left the restaurant and began to stroll around the town. It was the first time he had spent like a tourist since his visit to Berlin back in his student days. He kept checking his watch every few minutes, but it didn’t help the time pass any quicker. Eventually he heard the sound of a foghorn in the distance: the great liner was at last coming into dock. He immediately began walking back toward the dockside. By the time he arrived, the crew were lowering the gangplanks. After the passengers had flooded down onto the quay, looking grateful for a few hours of escape, Townsend walked up the gangway and asked a steward to direct him to his cabin.

As soon as he had finished unpacking, he began to check the layout on level three. He was delighted to discover that Mrs. Sherwood’s stateroom was less than a minute away from his cabin, but he made no attempt to contact her. Instead he used the next hour to find his way around the ship, ending up in the Queen’s Grill.

The chief steward smiled at the slight, inappropriately dressed man as he entered the large, empty dining room being set up for the evening meal. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked, trying not to sound as if he felt that this particular passenger must have strayed onto the wrong deck.

‘I hope so,’ said Townsend. ‘I’ve just joined the ship, and wanted to find out where you’ve placed me for dinner.’

‘This restaurant is for first class passengers only, sir.’

‘Then I’ve come to the right place,’ said Townsend.

‘Your name, sir?’ asked the steward, sounding unconvinced.

‘Keith Townsend.’

He checked the list of first class passengers who were joining the ship at Kingston. ‘You’re on table eight, Mr. Townsend.’

‘Is Mrs. Margaret Sherwood on that table, by any chance?’

The steward checked again. ‘No, sir, she’s on table three.’

‘Would it be possible for you to find me a place on table three?’ asked Townsend.

‘I’m afraid not, sir. No one from that table left the ship at Kingston.’

Armstrong took out his wallet and removed a hundred-dollar bill.

‘But I suppose if I were to move the archdeacon onto the captain’s table, that might solve the problem.’

Townsend smiled and turned to leave.

‘Excuse me, sir. Were you hoping to sit next to Mrs. Sherwood?’

‘That would be most considerate,’ said Townsend.

‘It’s just that it might prove a little awkward. You see, she’s been with us for the whole trip, and we’ve had to move her twice already because she didn’t care for the passengers at her table.’

Townsend removed his wallet a second time. He left the dining room a few moments later, assured that he would be sitting next to his quarry.

By the time he had returned to his cabin, his fellow-passengers were beginning to come back on board. He showered, changed for dinner and once again read the profile of Mrs. Sherwood that Kate had compiled for him. A few minutes before eight he made his way down to the dining room.

One couple were already seated at the table. The man immediately stood up and introduced himself. ‘Dr. Arnold Percival from Ohio,’ he said, shaking Townsend by the hand. ‘And this is my dear wife, Jenny — also from Ohio.’ He laughed raucously.

‘Keith Townsend,’ he said to them. ‘I’m from...’

‘Australia, if I’m not mistaken, Mr. Townsend,’ said the doctor. ‘How nice that they put you on our table. I’ve just retired, and Jenny and I have been promising ourselves we’d go on a cruise for years. What brings you on board?’ Before Townsend could reply, another couple arrived. ‘This is Keith Townsend from Australia,’ said Dr. Percival. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Osborne from Chicago, Illinois.’

They had just finished shaking hands when the doctor said, ‘Good evening, Mrs. Sherwood. May I introduce Keith Townsend?’

Keith knew from Kate’s profile that Mrs. Sherwood was sixty-seven, but it was clear that she must have spent a considerable amount of time and money trying to deny the fact. He doubted if she had ever been beautiful, but the description ‘well preserved’ certainly came to mind. Her evening dress was fashionable, even if the hem was perhaps an inch too short. Townsend smiled at her as if she was twenty-five years younger.

When Mrs. Sherwood first heard Townsend’s accent, she was barely able to hide her disapproval, but then two other passengers arrived within moments of each other and distracted her. Townsend didn’t catch the name of the general, but the woman introduced herself as Claire Williams, and took the seat next to Dr. Percival on the far side of the table. Townsend smiled at her but she didn’t respond.

Even before Townsend had taken his seat, Mrs. Sherwood demanded to know why the archdeacon had been moved.

‘I think I see him on the captain’s table,’ said Claire.

‘I do hope he’ll return tomorrow,’ said Mrs. Sherwood, and immediately began a conversation with Mr. Osborne, who was seated on her right. As she resolutely refused to speak to Townsend during the first course, he began chatting to Mrs. Percival while trying to listen to Mrs. Sherwood’s conversation at the same time. He found it quite difficult.

Townsend had hardly spoken a dozen words to Mrs. Sherwood by the time the main course was being cleared away. It was over coffee that Claire inquired from the other side of the table if he had ever visited England.

‘Yes, I was up at Oxford just after the war,’ Townsend admitted for the first time in fifteen years.

‘Which college?’ demanded Mrs. Sherwood, swinging round to face him.

‘Worcester,’ he replied sweetly. But that turned out to be the first and last question she addressed to him that evening. Townsend stood as she left the table, and wondered if three days was going to be enough. When he had finished his coffee, he said good night to Claire and the general before returning to his cabin to go over the file again. There was no mention of prejudice or snobbery in the profile, but then, to be fair to Sally, she had never met Margaret Sherwood.

When Townsend took his seat for breakfast the following morning the only vacant place was on his right, and although he was the last to leave, Mrs. Sherwood never appeared. He glanced at Claire as she left the table and just wondered whether to follow her, but then decided against it, as it wasn’t part of the plan. For the next hour he strolled around the ship, hoping to bump into her. But he didn’t see her again that morning.

When he appeared a few minutes late for lunch, he was disconcerted to find that Mrs. Sherwood had moved to the other side of the table, and was now sitting between the general and Dr. Percival. She didn’t even look up when he took his seat. When Claire arrived a few moments later, she had no choice but to take the place next to Townsend, although she immediately began a conversation with Mr. Osborne.

Townsend tried to listen to what Mrs. Sherwood was saying to the general, in the hope that he could find some excuse to join in their conversation, but all she was saying was that this was her nineteenth world cruise, and that she knew the ship almost as well as the captain.

Townsend was beginning to fear that his plan wasn’t going at all well. Should he approach the subject directly? Kate had strongly advised against it. ‘We mustn’t assume she’s a fool,’ she had warned him when they parted at the airport. ‘Be patient, and an opportunity will present itself.’

He turned casually to his right when he heard Dr. Percival ask Claire if she had read Requiem for a Nun.

‘No,’ she replied, ‘I haven’t. Is it any good?’

‘Oh, I have,’ said Mrs. Sherwood from the other side of the table, ‘and I can tell you it’s far from his best.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Sherwood,’ said Townsend, a little too quickly.

‘And why is that, Mr. Townsend?’ she asked, unable to hide her surprise that he even knew who the author was.

‘Because I have the privilege of publishing Mr. Faulkner.’

‘I had no idea you were a publisher,’ said Dr. Percival. ‘How exciting. I’ll bet there are a lot of people on this ship who could tell you a good story.’

‘Possibly even one or two at this table,’ said Townsend, avoiding Mrs. Sherwood’s stare.

‘Hospitals are an endless source for stories,’ continued Dr. Percival. ‘I should know.’

‘That’s true,’ said Townsend, now enjoying himself. ‘But having a good story isn’t enough. You must then be able to commit it to paper. That’s what takes real talent.’

‘Which company do you work for?’ asked Mrs. Sherwood, trying to sound casual.

Townsend had cast the fly and she had leapt right out of the water. ‘Schumann & Co., in New York,’ he replied, equally casually.

At this point the general began to tell Townsend how many people had urged him to write his memoirs. He then proceeded to give everyone at the table a flavor of how the first chapter might turn out.

Townsend wasn’t surprised to find that Mrs. Sherwood had replaced Claire at his side when he appeared for dinner. Over the smoked salmon he spent a considerable time explaining to Mrs. Percival how a book got onto the bestseller list.

‘Can I interrupt you, Mr. Townsend?’ asked Mrs. Sherwood quietly, as the lamb was being served.

‘With pleasure, Mrs. Sherwood,’ said Townsend, turning to face her.

‘I’d be interested to know which department you work in at Schumann’s.’

‘I’m not in any particular department,’ he said.

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Mrs. Sherwood.

‘Well, you see, I own the company.’

‘Does that mean you can override an editor’s decision?’ asked Mrs. Sherwood.

‘I can override anyone’s decision,’ said Townsend.

‘It’s just that...’ She hesitated so as to be sure no one else was listening to their conversation — not that it really mattered, because Townsend knew what she was going to say. ‘It’s just that I sent a manuscript to Schumann’s some time ago. Three months later all I got was a rejection slip, without even a letter of explanation.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Townsend, pausing before he delivered his next well-prepared line. ‘Of course, the truth is that many of the manuscripts we receive are never read.’

‘Why’s that?’ she asked incredulously.

‘Well, any large publishing house can expect to receive up to a hundred, possibly even two hundred, manuscripts a week. No one could afford to employ the staff to read them all. So you shouldn’t feel too depressed.’

‘Then how does a first-time novelist like myself ever get anyone to take an interest in their work?’ she whispered.

‘My advice to anyone facing that problem is to find yourself a good agent — someone who will know exactly which house to approach, and perhaps even which editor might be interested.’

Townsend concentrated on his lamb as he waited for Mrs. Sherwood to summon up the necessary courage. ‘Always let her lead,’ Kate had warned, ‘then there will be no reason for her to become suspicious.’ He didn’t look up from his plate.

‘I don’t suppose,’ she began diffidently, ‘that you would be kind enough to read my novel and give me your professional opinion?’

‘I’d be delighted,’ said Townsend. Mrs. Sherwood smiled. ‘Why don’t you send it over to my office at Schumann’s once we’re back in New York. I’ll see that one of my senior editors reads it and gives me a full written report.’

Mrs. Sherwood pursed her lips. ‘But I have it on board with me,’ she said. ‘You see, my annual cruise always gives me a chance to do a little revision.’

Townsend longed to tell her that thanks to her brother-in-law’s cook he already knew that. But he satisfied himself with, ‘Then why don’t you drop it round to my cabin so I can read the first couple of chapters, which will at least give me a flavor of your style.’

‘Would you really, Mr. Townsend? How very kind of you. But then, my dear husband always used to say that one mustn’t assume all Australians are convicts.’

Townsend laughed as Claire leaned across the table. ‘Are you the Mr. Townsend who is mentioned in the article in the Ocean Times this morning?’ she asked.

Townsend looked surprised. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen it.’

‘It’s about a man called Richard Armstrong—’ neither of them noticed Mrs. Sherwood’s reaction ‘—who’s also in publishing.’

‘I do know a Richard Armstrong,’ admitted Townsend, ‘so it’s quite possible.’

‘Won an MC,’ said the general, butting in, ‘but that was the only good thing the article had to say about him. Mind you, can’t believe everything you read in the papers.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Townsend, as Mrs. Sherwood rose and left them without even saying good night.

As soon as she had gone, the general began regaling Dr. Percival and Mrs. Osborne with the second chapter of his autobiography. Claire rose and said, ‘Don’t let me stop you, General, but I’m also off to bed.’ Townsend didn’t even glance in her direction. A few minutes later, as the old soldier was being evacuated from the beach at Dunkirk, he also made his apologies, left the table and returned to his cabin.

He had just stepped out of the shower when there was a knock on the door. He smiled, put on one of the toweling dressing-gowns supplied by the ship, and walked slowly across the room. At least if Mrs. Sherwood delivered her manuscript now, he would have a good excuse to arrange a meeting with her the following morning. He opened the cabin door.

‘Good evening, Mrs. Sherwood,’ he was about to say, only to find Kate standing in front of him, looking a little anxious. She hurried in and quickly closed the door.

‘I thought we agreed not to meet except in an emergency?’ said Keith.

‘This is an emergency,’ answered Kate, ‘but I couldn’t risk telling you at the dinner table.’

‘Is that why you asked me about the article when you were meant to bring up the subject of what was playing on Broadway?’

‘Yes,’ replied Kate. ‘Don’t forget, I’ve had an extra couple of days to get to know her, and she’s just phoned my cabin to ask me if I really believed that you were in publishing.’

‘And what did you tell her?’ asked Keith, as there was another knock on the door. He put a finger to his lips and pointed in the direction of the shower. He waited until he had heard the curtain pulled across, and then opened the door.

‘Mrs. Sherwood,’ said Keith. ‘How nice to see you. Is everything all right?’

‘Yes, thank you, Mr. Townsend. I thought I’d drop this in for you tonight,’ she said, handing over a thick manuscript. ‘Just in case you had nothing else to do.’

‘How very thoughtful of you,’ said Keith, taking the manuscript from her. ‘Why don’t we get together sometime after breakfast tomorrow? Then I can give you my first impressions.’

‘Oh, would you really, Mr. Townsend? I long to know what you think of it.’ She hesitated. ‘I trust I didn’t disturb you.’

‘Disturb me?’ said Keith, puzzled.

‘I thought I heard voices as I was coming down the passageway.’

‘I expect it was just me humming in the shower,’ said Keith rather feebly.

‘Ah, that would explain it,’ said Mrs. Sherwood. ‘Well, I do hope you’ll find time to read a few pages of The Senator’s Mistress tonight.’

‘I most certainly will,’ said Keith. ‘Good night, Mrs. Sherwood.’

‘Oh, do call me Margaret.’

‘I’m Keith,’ he said with a smile.

‘I know. I’ve just read the article about you and Mr. Armstrong. Most interesting. Can he really be that bad?’ she asked.

Keith made no comment as he closed the door. He turned round to find Kate stepping out of the shower, wearing the other dressing-gown. As she walked toward him, the cord fell to the ground, and the robe came slightly open. ‘Oh, do call me Claire,’ she said as she slipped a hand around his waist. He pulled her toward him.

‘Can you really be that bad?’ she laughed as he guided her across the room.

‘Yes, I am,’ he said as they fell on the bed together.

‘Keith,’ she whispered, ‘don’t you think you ought to start reading the manuscript?’

It was only a matter of hours after Sharon had moved from the bedroom into the office that Armstrong realized Sally hadn’t been exaggerating about her secretarial skills. But he was too proud to call her and admit it.

By the end of the second week his desk was piled high with unanswered letters or, worse, replies he couldn’t consider putting his signature to. After so many years with Sally, he had forgotten that he rarely spent more than a few minutes each day checking over her work before simply signing everything she put in front of him. In fact the only document he had put his signature to that week had been Sharon’s contract, which it was clear she had not drawn up herself.

On Tuesday of the third week, Armstrong turned up at the House of Commons to have lunch with the minister of health, only to discover that he wasn’t expected until the following day. He arrived back at his office twenty minutes later in a furious temper.

‘But I told you that you were having lunch with the chairman of NatWest today,’ Sharon insisted. ‘He’s just rung from the Savoy asking where you were.’

‘Where you sent me,’ he barked. ‘At the House of Commons.’

‘Am I expected to do everything for you?’

‘Sally somehow managed it,’ said Armstrong, barely able to control his anger.

‘If I hear that woman’s name again, I swear I’ll leave you.’

Armstrong didn’t comment, but stormed back out of the office and ordered Benson to get him to the Savoy as quickly as possible. When he arrived at the Grill, Mario told him that his guest had just left. And when he got back to the office, he was informed that Sharon had gone home, saying she had a slight migraine.

Armstrong sat down at his desk and dialed Sally’s number but no one answered. He continued to call her at least once a day, but all he got was a recorded message. At the end of the following week he ordered Fred to pay her monthly check.

‘But I’ve already sent her a P45, as you instructed,’ the chief accountant reminded him.

‘Don’t argue with me, Fred,’ said Armstrong. ‘Just pay it.’

In the fifth week temps began coming and going on a daily basis, some lasting only a few hours. But it was Sharon who opened the letter from Sally, to find a check torn in half and a note attached that read: ‘I have already been amply paid for last month’s work.’

When Keith woke the following morning, he was surprised to find Kate already in his dressing-gown, reading Mrs. Sherwood’s manuscript. She leaned across and gave him a kiss before handing over the first seven chapters. He sat up, blinked a few times, turned to the opening page and read the first sentence: ‘As she stepped out of the swimming pool, the bulge in his trunks started to grow.’ He looked across at Kate, who said, ‘Keep reading. It gets steamier.’

Keith had finished about forty pages when Kate leapt out of bed and headed off toward the shower. ‘Don’t bother with much more,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you how it ends later.’

By the time she reappeared, Keith was halfway through the third chapter. He dropped the remaining pages on the floor. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

She walked across to the bed, pulled back the sheets and stared down at his naked body. ‘Judging from your reaction, either you still fancy me or I’d say we’ve got a bestseller on our hands.’

When Townsend went into breakfast about an hour later, only Kate and Mrs. Sherwood were at the table. They were deep in conversation. They stopped talking immediately he sat down. ‘I don’t suppose...’ Mrs. Sherwood began.

‘Suppose what?’ asked Townsend innocently.

Kate had to turn away to avoid Mrs. Sherwood seeing the look on her face.

‘That you might have dipped into my novel?’

‘Dipped?’ said Townsend. ‘I’ve read it from cover to cover. And one thing is clear, Mrs. Sherwood: no one at Schumann’s could possibly have looked at the manuscript, or they would have snapped it up immediately.’

‘Oh, do you really think it’s that good?’ said Mrs. Sherwood.

‘I certainly do,’ said Townsend. ‘And I can only hope, despite our unforgivably offhand response to your original submission, that you’ll still allow Schumann’s to make an offer.’

‘Of course I will,’ said Mrs. Sherwood enthusiastically.

‘Good. However, may I suggest that this is not the place to discuss terms.’

‘Of course. I quite understand, Keith,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you join me in my cabin a little later?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Shall we say around 10:30?’

Townsend nodded. ‘That would suit me perfectly.’ He rose as she folded her napkin and left the table.

‘Did you learn anything new?’ he asked Kate as soon as Mrs. Sherwood was out of earshot.

‘Not a lot,’ she said, nibbling on a piece of raisin toast. ‘But I don’t think she really believes you read the entire manuscript.’

‘What makes you say that?’ asked Townsend.

‘Because she’s just told me that you had a woman in your cabin last night.’

‘Did she indeed?’ said Townsend. He paused. ‘And what else did she have to say?’

‘She discussed the article in the Ocean Times in great detail, and asked me if...’

‘Good morning, Townsend. Good morning, dear lady,’ said the general as he took his seat. Kate gave him a broad smile and rose from her place.

‘Good luck,’ she said quietly.

‘I’m glad to have this opportunity of a quiet word with you, Townsend. You see, the truth of the matter is that I have already written the first volume of my memoirs, and as I happen to have it with me on board, I wondered if you’d be kind enough to read it and give me your professional opinion.’

It took another twenty minutes for Townsend to escape a book he didn’t want to read, let alone publish. The general hadn’t left him much time to prepare for the meeting with Mrs. Sherwood. He returned to his cabin and went over Kate’s notes one final time before heading off for Mrs. Sherwood’s stateroom. He knocked on her door just after 10:30, and it was opened immediately.

‘I like a man who’s punctual,’ she said.

The Trafalgar Suite turned out to be on two levels, with its own balcony. Mrs. Sherwood ushered her guest toward a pair of comfortable chairs in the center of the drawing room. ‘Would you care for some coffee, Keith?’ she asked as she sat down opposite him.

‘No, thank you, Margaret,’ he replied. ‘I’ve just had breakfast.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Now, shall we get down to business?’

‘Certainly. As I told you earlier this morning,’ said Townsend, ‘Schumann’s would consider it a privilege to publish your novel.’

‘Oh, how exciting,’ said Mrs. Sherwood. ‘I do wish my dear husband were still alive. He always believed I would be published one day.’

‘We would be willing to offer you an advance of $100,000,’ continued Townsend, ‘and 10 percent of the cover price after the advance has been recouped. Paperback publication would follow twelve months after the hardcover, and there would be bonus payments for every week you’re on the New York Times best-seller list.’

‘Oh! Do you really think my little effort might appear on the best-seller list?’

‘I would be willing to bet on it,’ said Townsend.

‘Would you really?’ said Mrs. Sherwood.

Townsend looked anxiously across at her, wondering if he had gone too far.

‘I happily accept your terms, Mr. Townsend,’ she said. ‘I do believe this calls for a celebration.’ She poured him a glass of champagne from a half-empty bottle in the ice bucket beside her. ‘Now that we have come to an agreement on the book,’ she said a few moments later, ‘perhaps you’d be kind enough to advise me on a little problem I’m currently facing.’

‘I will if I possibly can,’ said Townsend, staring up at a painting of a one-armed, one-eyed admiral who was lying on a quarterdeck, dying.

‘I have been most distressed by an article in the Ocean Times that was brought to my attention by... Miss Williams,’ said Mrs. Sherwood. ‘It concerns a Mr. Richard Armstrong.’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘I’ll explain,’ said Mrs. Sherwood, who proceeded to tell Townsend a story he knew rather better than she did. She ended by saying, ‘Claire felt that as you were in publishing, you might be able to recommend someone else who would want to buy my shares.’

‘How much are you hoping to be offered for them?’ asked Townsend.

‘Twenty million dollars. That is the sum I agreed with my brother Alexander, who has already disposed of his stock to this Richard Armstrong for that amount.’

‘When is your meeting with Mr. Armstrong?’ asked Townsend — another question he knew the answer to.

‘He’s coming to see me at my apartment in New York on Monday at 11 A.M.’

Townsend continued to gaze up at the picture on the wall, pretending to give the problem considerable thought. ‘I feel sure that my company would be able to match his offer,’ he said. ‘Especially as the amount has already been agreed on.’ He hoped she couldn’t hear his heart pounding away.

Mrs. Sherwood lowered her eyes and glanced down at a Sotheby’s catalog that a friend had sent her from Geneva the previous week. ‘How fortunate that we met,’ she said. ‘One couldn’t get away with this sort of coincidence in a novel.’ She laughed, raised her glass and said, ‘Kismet.’

Townsend didn’t comment.

After she had put her glass down, she said, ‘I need to give the problem a little more thought overnight. I’ll let you know my final decision before we disembark.’

‘Of course,’ said Townsend, trying to hide his disappointment. He rose from his chair and the old lady accompanied him to the door.

‘I must thank you, Keith, for all the trouble you’ve gone to.’

‘My pleasure,’ he said as she closed the door.

Townsend immediately returned to his cabin to find Kate waiting for him.

‘How did it go?’ were her first words.

‘She hasn’t finally made up her mind, but I think she’s nearly hooked, thanks to your bringing the article to her attention.’

‘And the shares?’

‘As the price has already been settled, she doesn’t seem to care who buys them, as long as her book gets published.’

‘But she wanted more time to think about it,’ said Kate, who remained silent for a few moments before adding, ‘Why didn’t she question you more closely on why you would want to buy the shares?’

Townsend shrugged.

‘I’m beginning to wonder if Mrs. Sherwood wasn’t sitting on board waiting for us, rather than the other way round.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Townsend. ‘After all, she’s going to have to decide if it’s more important to get her book published, or to fall out with Alexander, who’s been advising her to sell to Armstrong. And if that’s the choice she has to make, there’s one thing in our favor.’

‘And what’s that?’ asked Kate.

‘Thanks to Sally, we know exactly how many rejection slips she’s had from publishers over the past ten years. And having read the book, I can’t imagine any of them gave her much cause for hope.’

‘Surely Armstrong is also aware of that, and would be just as willing to publish her book?’

‘But she can’t be sure of that,’ said Townsend.

‘Perhaps she can, and is far brighter than we gave her credit for. Is there a phone on board?’

‘Yes, there’s one on the bridge. I tried to place a call to Tom Spencer in New York so that he could start amending the contract, but I was told the phone can’t be used unless it’s an emergency.’

‘And who decides what’s an emergency?’ asked Kate.

‘The purser says the captain is the sole arbiter.’

‘Then neither of us can do anything until we reach New York.’

Mrs. Sherwood arrived late for lunch, and took the seat next to the general. She seemed content to listen to a lengthy summary of chapter three of his memoirs, and never once raised the subject of her own book. After lunch she disappeared back into her cabin.

When they took their places at dinner, they found that Mrs. Sherwood had been invited to sit at the captain’s table.

After a sleepless night Keith and Kate arrived early at breakfast, hoping to learn her decision. But as the minutes passed and Mrs. Sherwood failed to appear, it became clear that she must be taking breakfast in her suite.

‘Probably fallen behind with her packing,’ suggested the ever helpful Dr. Percival.

Kate didn’t look convinced.

Keith returned to his cabin, packed his suitcase and then joined Kate on deck as the liner steamed toward the Hudson.

‘I have a feeling we’ve lost this one,’ said Kate, as they sailed past the Statue of Liberty.

‘I think you might be right. I wouldn’t mind so much if it weren’t at the hands of Armstrong again.’

‘Has beating him become that important?’

‘Yes, it has. What you have to understand is...’

‘Good morning, Mr. Townsend,’ said a voice behind them. Keith swung round to see Mrs. Sherwood approaching. He hoped she hadn’t spotted Kate before she melted into the crowd.

‘Good morning, Mrs. Sherwood,’ he replied.

‘After some considerable thought,’ she said, ‘I have come to a decision.’

Keith held his breath.

‘If you have both contracts ready for me to sign by ten o’clock tomorrow morning, then you have, to use that vulgar American expression, “got yourself a deal.”’

Keith beamed at her.

‘However,’ she continued, ‘if my book isn’t published within a year of signing the contract, you will have to pay a penalty of one million dollars. And if it fails to get on the New York Times best-seller list, you will forfeit a second million.’

‘But...’

‘You did say when I asked you about the best-seller list that you would be willing to bet on it, didn’t you, Mr. Townsend? So I’m going to give you a chance to do just that.’

‘But...’ repeated Keith.

‘I look forward to seeing you at my apartment at ten tomorrow morning, Mr. Townsend. My lawyer has confirmed that he will be able to attend. Should you fail to turn up, I shall simply sign the contract with Mr. Armstrong at eleven.’ She paused and, looking straight at Keith, said, ‘I have a feeling he would also be willing to publish my novel.’

Without another word she began walking toward the passenger ramp. Kate joined him at the railing and they watched her slow descent. As she stepped onto the quay, two black Rolls-Royces swept up, and a chauffeur leapt out of the first one to open the back door for her. The second stood waiting for her luggage.

‘How did she manage to speak to her lawyer?’ said Keith. ‘Calling him about her novel could hardly be described as an emergency.’

Just before she stepped into the car, Mrs. Sherwood looked up and waved to someone. They both turned and stared in the direction of the bridge.

The captain was saluting.

26 Daily Mail 10 June 1967 End of Six-Day War: Nasser Quits

Armstrong double-checked the flight times for New York. He then looked up Mrs. Sherwood’s address in the Manhattan telephone directory, and even phoned the Pierre to be sure the Presidential Suite had been booked. This was one meeting he couldn’t afford to be late for, and for which he couldn’t turn up on the wrong day or at the wrong address.

He had already deposited $20 million at the Manhattan Bank, gone over the press statement with his public relations adviser and warned Peter Wakeham to prepare the board for a special announcement.

Alexander Sherwood had phoned the previous evening to say that he had called his sister-in-law before she went on her annual cruise. She had confirmed that the agreed figure was $20 million, and was looking forward to meeting Armstrong at eleven o’clock at her apartment on the day after her return. By the time he and Sharon stepped onto the plane, Armstrong was confident that within twenty-four hours he would be the sole proprietor of a national newspaper second only in circulation to the Daily Citizen.

They touched down at Idlewild a few hours before the Queen Elizabeth was due to dock at Pier 90. After they had checked into the Pierre, Armstrong walked across to 63rd Street to be sure he knew exactly where Mrs. Sherwood lived. For $10 the doorman confirmed that she was expected back later that day.

Over dinner in the hotel that night he and Sharon hardly spoke. He was beginning to wonder why he had bothered to bring her along. She was in bed long before he headed for the bathroom, and asleep by the time he came out.

As he climbed into bed, he tried to think what could possibly go wrong between now and eleven o’clock the next morning.

‘I think she knew what we were up to all along,’ said Kate as she watched Mrs. Sherwood’s Rolls disappear out of sight.

‘She can’t have,’ said Townsend. ‘But even if she did, she still accepted the terms I wanted.’

‘Or was it the terms she wanted?’ said Kate quietly.

‘What are you getting at?’

‘Just that it was all a little bit too easy for my liking. Don’t forget, she’s not a Sherwood. She was just clever enough to marry one.’

‘You’ve become too suspicious for your own good,’ said Townsend. ‘Try not to forget, she isn’t Richard Armstrong.’

‘I’ll only be convinced when you have her signature on both contracts.’

‘Both?’

‘She won’t part with her third of the Globe unless she really believes you’re going to publish her novel.’

‘I don’t think there’ll be any problem convincing her of that,’ said Townsend. ‘We mustn’t forget that she’s desperate — she had fifteen rejection slips before she bumped into me.’

‘Or did she see you coming?’

Townsend looked down to the quayside as a black stretch limousine pulled up by the gangplank. A tall, thickset man with a head of unruly black hair jumped out of the back and looked up toward the passengers standing on the deck. ‘Tom Spencer’s just arrived,’ said Townsend. He turned back to Kate. ‘Stop worrying. By the time you’re back in Sydney, I’ll own 33.3 percent of the Globe. And I couldn’t have done it without you. Call me the moment you land at Kingsford-Smith, and I’ll bring you up to date.’ Townsend gave her a kiss and held her in his arms before they returned to their separate cabins.

He grabbed his bags and made his way quickly down to the quayside. His New York attorney was pacing rapidly around the car — a throwback from his days as a cross-country runner, he had once explained to Townsend.

‘We’ve got twenty-four hours, counselor,’ said Townsend, as they shook hands.

‘So Mrs. Sherwood fell in with your plan?’ said the attorney, guiding his client toward the limousine.

‘Yes, but she wants two contracts,’ said Townsend as he climbed into the back of the car, ‘and neither of them is the one I asked you to draw up when I called from Sydney.’

Tom removed a yellow pad from his briefcase and rested it on his knees. He had long ago realized that this was not a client who spent any time indulging in small talk. He began to make notes as Townsend gave him the details of Mrs. Sherwood’s terms. By the time he had heard what had taken place over the past few days, Tom was beginning to have a sneaking admiration for the old lady. He then asked a series of questions, and neither of them noticed when the car drew up outside the Carlyle.

Townsend leapt out and pushed his way through the swing doors into the lobby to find two of Tom’s associates waiting for them.

‘Why don’t you check in?’ suggested Tom. ‘I’ll brief my colleagues on what you’ve told me so far. When you’re ready, join us in the Versailles Room on the third floor.’

After Townsend had signed the registration form, he was handed the key to his usual room. He unpacked before taking the lift down to the third floor. When he entered the Versailles Room he found Tom pacing around a long table, briefing his two colleagues. Townsend took a seat at the far end of the table while Tom continued circling. He stopped only when he needed to ask for more details of Mrs. Sherwood’s demands.

After walking several miles, devouring pile after pile of freshly cut sandwiches and consuming gallons of coffee, they had outline drafts prepared for both contracts.

When a maid came in to draw the curtains just after six, Tom sat down for the first time and read slowly through the drafts. After he had finished the last page, he stood up and said, ‘That’s as much as we can do for now, Keith. We’d better get back to the office and prepare the two documents ready for engrossing. I suggest we meet up at eight tomorrow morning so you can go over the final text.’

‘Anything I ought to be thinking about before then, counselor?’ asked Townsend.

‘Yes,’ replied Tom. ‘Are you absolutely certain we should leave out those two clauses in the book contract that Kate felt so strongly about?’

‘Absolutely. After three days with Mrs. Sherwood, I can assure you that she knows nothing about book publishing.’

Tom shrugged his shoulders. ‘That wasn’t how Kate read it.’

‘Kate was being overcautious,’ said Townsend. ‘There’s nothing to stop me printing 100,000 copies of the damn book and storing every one of them in a warehouse in New Jersey.’

‘No,’ said Tom, ‘but what happens when the book fails to get onto the New York Times best-seller list?’

‘Read the relevant clause, counselor. There’s no mention of a time limit. Anything else you’re worried about?’

‘Yes. You’ll need to have two separate money orders with you for the ten o’clock meeting. I don’t want to risk checks with Mrs. Sherwood — that would only give her an excuse not to sign the final agreement. You can be sure of one thing: Armstrong will have a draft for $20 million in his hand when he turns up at eleven.’

Townsend nodded his agreement. ‘I transferred the money from Sydney to the Manhattan Bank the day I briefed you on the original contract. We can pick up both drafts first thing in the morning.’

‘Good. Then we’ll be on our way.’

When Townsend returned to his room, he collapsed onto the bed exhausted, and immediately fell into a deep sleep. He didn’t wake until five the next morning, and was surprised to find that he was still fully dressed. His first thoughts were of Kate and where she might be at that moment.

He undressed and stood under a warm shower for a long time before ordering an early breakfast. Or should it be a late dinner? He studied the twenty-four — hour menu and settled for breakfast.

As he waited for room service, Townsend watched the early-morning newscasts. They were dominated by Israel’s crushing victory in the Six-Day War, although no one seemed to know where Nasser was. A NASA spokesman was being interviewed on the Today show about America’s chances of putting a man on the moon before the Russians. The weather man was promising a cold front in New York. Over breakfast he read the New York Times, followed by the Star, and he could see exactly what changes he would make to both papers if he were the proprietor. He tried to forget that the FCC was continually badgering him with questions about his expanding American empire, and reminding him of the cross-ownership regulations that applied to foreigners.

‘There’s a simple solution to that problem,’ Tom had told him on several occasions.

‘Never,’ he had always replied firmly. But what would he do if that became the only way he could ever take over the New York Star? ‘Never,’ he repeated, but not with quite the same conviction.

For the next hour he watched the same newscasts and reread the same newspapers. By seven-thirty he knew everything that was happening around the world, from Cairo to Queens, and even in space. At ten to eight he took the lift down to the ground floor, where he found the two young lawyers waiting for him. They appeared to be wearing the same suits, shirts and ties as on the previous day, even if they had somehow found time to shave. He didn’t ask where Tom was: he knew he would be pacing around the lobby, and would join them as soon as he completed his circuit.

‘Good morning, Keith,’ Tom said, shaking his client by the hand. ‘I’ve reserved a quiet table for us in a corner of the coffee room.’

After three black coffees and one white had been poured, Tom opened his briefcase, took out two documents and presented them to his client. ‘If she agrees to sign these,’ he said, ‘33.3 percent of the Globe will be yours — as will the publishing rights for The Senator’s Mistress.’

Townsend was taken through the documents slowly, clause by clause, and began to realize why the three of them had been up all night. ‘So what’s next?’ he asked, as he handed the contracts back to his lawyer.

‘You have to pick up the two money drafts from the Manhattan Bank, and be sure that we’re outside Mrs. Sherwood’s front door by five to ten, because we’re going to need every minute of that hour if these are to be signed before Armstrong turns up.’

Armstrong also began reading the morning papers only moments after they had been dropped outside the door of his hotel room. As he turned the pages of the New York Times, he too kept seeing changes he would make if only he could get his hands on a New York daily. When he had finished the Times he turned to the Star, but it didn’t hold his attention for long. He threw the papers to one side, switched on the television and began flicking between the channels to pass the time. An old black-and-white movie starring Alan Ladd took precedence over an interview with an astronaut.

He left the television on when he disappeared into the bathroom, not giving a thought as to whether it might wake Sharon.

By seven he was dressed and becoming more restless by the minute. He switched to Good Morning America and watched the mayor explaining how he intended to deal with the firemen’s union and their demand for higher redundancy pay. ‘Kick the bastards where it hurts!’ he shouted at the screen. He finally flicked it off after the weather man informed him that it was going to be another hot, cloudless day with temperatures in the high seventies — in Malibu. Armstrong picked up Sharon’s powder puff from the dressing table and dabbed his forehead, then put it in his pocket. At 7:30 he ate breakfast in the room, not having bothered to order anything for Sharon. By the time he left their suite at 8:30 to join his lawyer, she still hadn’t stirred.

Russell Critchley was waiting for him in the restaurant. Armstrong began ordering a second breakfast before he sat down. His lawyer extracted a lengthy document from his briefcase and began to take him through it. While Critchley sipped coffee, Armstrong devoured a three-egg omelette followed by four waffles covered in thick syrup.

‘I can’t foresee any real problems,’ said Critchley. ‘It’s virtually the same document as her brother-in-law signed in Geneva — although of course she has never requested any form of under-the-counter payment.’

‘And she has no choice but to accept $20 million in full settlement if she is to keep to the terms of Sir George Sherwood’s will.’

‘That is correct,’ said the lawyer. He referred to another file before adding, ‘It seems that the three of them signed a binding agreement when they inherited the stock that if they were ever to sell, it must be at a price agreed by at least two of the parties. As you know, Alexander and Margaret have already settled on $20 million.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘If they hadn’t, they would have inherited nothing under the terms of Sir George’s will. He obviously didn’t want the three of them to end up squabbling over the price.’

‘And the two-thirds rule still applies?’ asked Armstrong, spreading syrup over another waffle.

‘Yes, the clause in question is unambiguous,’ Critchley said, flicking over the pages of yet another document. ‘I have it here.’ He began reading:

‘Bloody lawyers. What the hell does that mean?’ asked Armstrong.

‘As I told you over the phone, if you are already in possession of two-thirds of the stock, the owner of the remaining third — in this case Sir Walter Sherwood — has no choice but to sell you his shares for exactly the same price.’

‘So I could own 100 percent of the stock before Townsend even finds out the Globe is on the market.’

Critchley smiled, removed his half-moon spectacles and said, ‘How considerate it was of Alexander Sherwood to bring that fact to your attention when you met him in Geneva.’

‘Don’t forget it cost me a million francs,’ Armstrong reminded him.

‘I think it may turn out to be money well spent,’ said Critchley. ‘As long as you can produce a money order for $20 million in favor of Mrs. Sherwood...’

‘I’ve arranged to pick it up from the Bank of New Amsterdam at ten o’clock.’

‘Then as you already own Alexander’s shares, you’ll be entitled to buy Sir Walter’s third for exactly the same amount, and he won’t be able to do a thing about it.’

Critchley checked his watch, and as Armstrong plastered syrup over another order of waffles, he allowed the hovering waiter to pour him a second cup of coffee.

At 9:55 precisely, Townsend’s limousine drew up outside a smart brownstone on 63rd Street. He stepped onto the pavement and headed for the door, his three lawyers following a pace behind him. The doorman had obviously been expecting some guests for Mrs. Sherwood. All he said when Townsend gave him his name was ‘The penthouse,’ and pointed in the direction of the lift.

When the lift doors on the top floor slid open, a maid was waiting to greet them. A clock in the hall struck ten as Mrs. Sherwood appeared in the corridor. She was dressed in what Townsend’s mother would have described as a cocktail dress, and seemed a little surprised to be faced with four men. Townsend introduced the lawyers, and Mrs. Sherwood indicated that they should follow her through to the dining room.

As they passed under a magnificent chandelier, down a long corridor littered with Louis XIV furniture and Impressionist paintings, Townsend was able to see how some of the Globe’s profits had been spent over the years. When they entered the dining room, a distinguished-looking elderly man with a head of thick gray hair, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and a double-breasted black suit, rose from his chair on the other side of the table.

Tom immediately recognized the senior partner of Burlingham, Healy & Yablon, and suspected for the first time that his task might not prove that easy. The two men shook hands warmly, then Tom introduced Yablon to his client and his two associates.

Once they were all seated and the maid had served tea, Tom opened his briefcase and handed over the two contracts to Yablon. Aware of the time restriction placed on them, he began to take Mrs. Sherwood’s lawyer through the documents as quickly as he could. As he did so, the old man asked him a number of questions. Townsend felt his lawyer must have dealt with them all satisfactorily, because after they had reached the last page, Mr. Yablon turned to his client and said, ‘I am quite happy for you to sign these two documents, Mrs. Sherwood, subject to the drafts being in order.’

Townsend looked at his watch. It was 10:43. He smiled as Tom opened his briefcase and removed the two money orders. Before he could pass them over, Mrs. Sherwood turned to her lawyer and asked, ‘Does the book contract stipulate that if Schumann’s fail to print 100,000 copies of my novel within one year of this agreement being signed, they will have to pay a penalty of $1 million?’

‘Yes, it does,’ said Yablon.

‘And that if the book fails to make the New York Times best-seller list, they will have to forfeit a further million?’

Townsend smiled, knowing that there was no clause about the distribution of the book in the contract, and no mention of a time limit by which the novel had to appear on the best-seller list. As long as he printed 100,000 copies, which he could do on any of his American presses, the whole exercise need only cost him around $40,000.

‘That is all covered in the second contract,’ Mr. Yablon confirmed.

Tom tried to conceal his astonishment. How could a man of Yablon’s experience have overlooked two such glaring omissions? Townsend was proving to be right — they seemed to have got away with it.

‘And Mr. Townsend is able to supply us with drafts for the full amounts?’ asked Mrs. Sherwood. Tom slid the two money orders across to Yablon, who passed them on to his client without even looking at them.

Townsend waited for Mrs. Sherwood to smile. She frowned.

‘This is not what we agreed,’ she said.

‘I think it is,’ said Townsend, who had collected the drafts from the senior cashier of the Manhattan Bank earlier that morning and checked them carefully.

‘This one,’ she said, holding up the draft for $20 million, ‘is fine. But this one is not what I requested.’

Townsend looked confused. ‘But you agreed that the advance for your novel should be $100,000,’ he said, feeling his mouth go dry.

‘That is correct,’ said Mrs. Sherwood firmly. ‘But my understanding was that this check would be for two million one hundred thousand dollars.’

‘But the $2 million was to be paid at some later date, and then only if we failed to meet your stipulations concerning the publication of the book,’ said Townsend.

‘That is not a risk I am willing to take, Mr. Townsend,’ she said, staring at him across the table.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘Then let me explain it to you. I expect you to lodge with Mr. Yablon a further $2 million in an escrow account. He will be the sole arbiter as to who should receive the money in twelve months’ time.’ She paused. ‘You see, my brother-in-law Alexander made a profit of a million Swiss francs, in the form of a Fabergé egg, without bothering to inform me. It is therefore my intention to make a profit of over $2 million on my novel, without bothering to inform him.’

Townsend gasped. Mr. Yablon leaned back in his chair, and Tom realized that he wasn’t the only person who’d been working flat out all night.

‘If your client’s confidence in his ability to deliver proves well-founded,’ said Mr. Yablon, ‘I will return his money in twelve months’ time, with interest.’

‘On the other hand,’ said Mrs. Sherwood, no longer looking at Townsend, ‘if your client never had any real intention of distributing my novel and turning it into a best-seller...’

‘But this isn’t what you and I agreed yesterday,’ said Townsend, staring directly at Mrs. Sherwood.

She looked sweetly across the table, her cheeks not coloring, and said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Townsend, I lied.’

‘But you’ve left my client with only eleven minutes to come up with another $2 million,’ said Tom, glancing at the grandfather clock.

‘I make it twelve minutes,’ said Mr. Yablon. ‘I have a feeling that clock has always been a little fast. But don’t let’s quibble over a minute either way. I’m sure Mrs. Sherwood will allow you the use of one of her phones.’

‘Certainly,’ said Mrs. Sherwood. ‘You see, my late husband always used to say: “If you can’t pay today, why should one believe you’ll be able to pay tomorrow?”’

‘But you have my draft for $20 million,’ said Townsend, ‘and another one for $100,000. Isn’t that proof enough?’

‘And in ten minutes’ time I will have Mr. Armstrong’s draft for the same amount, and I suspect that he will also be happy to publish my book, despite Claire’s — or should I say Kate’s — well-planted article.’

Townsend remained silent for about thirty seconds. He considered calling her bluff, but when he looked at the clock he thought better of it.

He rose from his place and walked quickly over to the phone on the side table, checked the number at the back of his diary, dialed seven digits and, after what seemed an interminable wait, asked to be put through to the chief cashier. There was another click, and a secretary came on the line.

‘This is Keith Townsend. I need to speak to the chief cashier urgently.’

‘I’m afraid he’s tied up in a meeting at the moment, Mr. Townsend, and has left instructions that he’s not to be disturbed for the next hour.’

‘Fine, then you can handle it for me. I have to transfer $2 million to a client account within eight minutes, or the deal he and I discussed this morning will be off.’

There was a moment’s pause before the secretary said, ‘I’ll get him out of the meeting, Mr. Townsend.’

‘I thought you might,’ said Townsend, who could hear the seconds ticking away on the grandfather clock behind him.

Tom leaned across the table and whispered something to Mr. Yablon, who nodded, picked up his pen and began writing. In the silence that followed, Townsend could hear the old lawyer’s pen scratching across the paper.

‘Andy Harman here,’ said a voice on the other end of the line. The chief cashier listened carefully as Townsend explained what he required.

‘But that only gives me six minutes, Mr. Townsend. In any case, where is the money to be deposited?’

Townsend turned round to look at his lawyer. As he did so Mr. Yablon finished writing, tore a sheet off his pad and passed it over to Tom, who handed it on to his client.

Townsend read out the details of Mr. Yablon’s escrow account to the chief cashier.

‘I will make no promises, Mr. Townsend,’ he said, ‘but I will call you back as soon as I can. What’s your number?’

Townsend read out the number on the phone in front of him and replaced the receiver.

He walked slowly back to the table and slumped into his chair, feeling as if he had just spent his last cent. He hoped Mrs. Sherwood wouldn’t charge him for the call.

No one round the table spoke as the seconds ticked noisily by. Townsend’s eyes rarely left the grandfather clock. As each old minute passed, he grew to recognize the familiar click. Each new one made him feel less confident. What he hadn’t told Tom was that the previous day he had transferred exactly twenty million, one hundred thousand U.S. dollars from his account in Sydney to the Manhattan Bank in New York. As it was now a few minutes before two in the morning in Sydney, the chief cashier had no way of checking if he was good for a further two million.

Another click. Each tick began to sound like a time bomb. Then the piercing sound of the phone ringing drowned them. Townsend rushed over to the sideboard to pick it up.

‘It’s the hall porter, sir. Could you let Mrs. Sherwood know that a Mr. Armstrong and another gentleman have arrived, and are on their way up in the lift.’

Beads of sweat appeared on Townsend’s forehead, as he realized that Armstrong had beaten him again. He walked slowly back to the table as the maid headed down the corridor to welcome Mrs. Sherwood’s eleven o’clock appointment. The grandfather clock struck one, two, three, and then the phone rang once again. Townsend rushed over and grabbed it, knowing it was his last chance.

But the caller wanted to speak to Mr. Yablon. Townsend turned toward the table and handed the phone over to Mrs. Sherwood’s lawyer. As Yablon took the call, Townsend began to look around the room. Surely there was another way out of the apartment? He couldn’t be expected to come face to face with a gloating Armstrong.

Mr. Yablon replaced the phone and turned to Mrs. Sherwood. ‘That was my bank,’ he said. ‘They confirm that $2 million has been lodged in my escrow account. As I have said for some time, Margaret, I believe that clock of yours is a minute fast.’

Mrs. Sherwood immediately signed the two documents in front of her, then revealed a piece of information concerning the late Sir George Sherwood’s will that took both Townsend and Tom by surprise. Tom gathered up the papers as she rose from the table and said, ‘Follow me, gentlemen.’ She quickly led Townsend and his lawyers through to the kitchen, and out onto the fire escape.

‘Goodbye, Mr. Townsend,’ she said as he stepped out of the window.

‘Goodbye, Mrs. Sherwood,’ he said, giving a slight bow.

‘By the way—’ she added.

Townsend turned back, looking anxious.

‘Yes?’

‘You know, you really ought to marry that girl — whatever her name is.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Mr. Yablon was saying as Mrs. Sherwood walked back into the dining room, ‘but my client has already sold her shares in the Globe to Mr. Keith Townsend, with whom I understand you are acquainted.’

Armstrong couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He turned to his lawyer, a look of fury on his face.

‘For $20 million?’ Russell Critchley asked the old attorney calmly.

‘Yes,’ replied Yablon, ‘the exact figure that your client agreed with her brother-in-law earlier this month.’

‘But Alexander assured me only last week that Mrs. Sherwood had agreed to sell her shares in the Globe to me,’ said Armstrong. ‘I’ve flown to New York specially...’

‘It was not your flight to New York that influenced me, Mr. Armstrong,’ said the old lady firmly. ‘Rather the one you made to Geneva.’

Armstrong stared at her for some time, then turned and marched back to the lift he had left only a few minutes earlier, and whose doors were still open. As he and his lawyer traveled down he cursed several times before asking, ‘But how the hell did he manage it?’

‘I can only assume he joined Mrs. Sherwood at some point on her cruise.’

‘But how could he possibly have found out that I was involved in a deal to take over the Globe in the first place?’

‘I have a feeling that you won’t find the answer to that question on this side of the Atlantic,’ said Critchley. ‘But all is not lost.’

‘What the hell do you mean?’

‘You are already in possession of one third of the shares.’

‘So is Townsend,’ said Armstrong.

‘True. But if you were to pick up Sir Walter Sherwood’s holding, you would then be in possession of two-thirds of the company, and Townsend would be left with no choice but to sell his third to you — at a considerable loss.’

Armstrong looked across at his lawyer, and the hint of a smile broke out across his jowly face.

‘And with Alexander Sherwood still supporting your cause, the game’s far from over yet.’

27 The Globe 10 June 1967 Your Decision!

‘Can you get me on the next flight to London?’ barked Armstrong when the hotel’s travel desk came on the line.

‘Certainly, sir,’ she said.

His second call was to his office in London, where Pamela — his latest secretary — confirmed that Sir Walter Sherwood had agreed to see him at ten o’clock the following morning. She didn’t add, reluctantly.

‘I’ll also need to speak to Alexander Sherwood in Paris. And make sure Reg is at the airport and Stephen Hallet is in my office when I get back. This all has to be sorted before Townsend gets back to London.’

When Sharon walked into the suite a few minutes later, weighed down by shopping, she was surprised to find Dick was already packing.

‘Are we going somewhere?’ she asked.

‘We’re leaving immediately,’ he said without explanation. ‘Do your packing while I pay the bill.’

A porter took Armstrong’s bags down to a waiting limousine, while he picked up the airline tickets from the travel desk and then went to reception to settle his bill. He checked his watch — he could just make the flight, and would be back in London early the following morning. As long as Townsend didn’t know about the two-thirds rule, he could still end up owning 100 percent of the company. And even if Townsend did know, he was confident Alexander Sherwood would press his claim with Sir Walter.

As soon as Sharon stepped into the back of the limousine, Armstrong ordered the driver to take them to the airport.

‘But my bags haven’t been brought down from the room yet,’ said Sharon.

‘Then they’ll have to be sent on later. I can’t afford to miss this flight.’

Sharon didn’t say another word on the journey to the airport. As they drove up to the terminal, Armstrong fingered the two tickets in his inside pocket to be sure he hadn’t left them behind. They stepped out of the limousine, and he asked the Skycap to check his bags straight through to London, then began running toward passport control with Sharon in his wake.

They were ushered quickly in the direction of the exit gate, where a stewardess was already checking passengers on board. ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ she said. ‘You’ve still got a couple of minutes to spare. You can both catch your breath.’

Armstrong removed the tickets from his pocket and gave one to Sharon. A steward checked his ticket, and he hurried off down the long corridor to the waiting plane.

Sharon handed over her ticket. The steward looked at it and said, ‘This ticket is not for this flight, madam.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Sharon. ‘I’m booked first class on this flight along with Mr. Armstrong. I’m his personal assistant.’

‘I’m sure you are, madam, but I’m afraid this ticket is economy, for Pan Am’s evening flight. I fear you’re going to have rather a long wait.’

‘Where are you phoning from?’ he asked.

‘Kingsford-Smith airport,’ she replied.

‘Then you can turn straight round and book yourself back on the same plane.’

‘Why? Did the deal fall through?’

‘No, she signed — but at a price. A problem has arisen over Mrs. Sherwood’s novel, and I have a feeling you’re the only person who can solve it for me.’

‘Can’t I grab a night’s sleep, Keith? I’d still be back in New York the day after tomorrow.’

‘No, you can’t,’ he replied. ‘There’s something else we need to do before you get down to work, and I’ve only got one afternoon free.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Kate.

‘Get married,’ replied Keith.

There was a long silence on the other end of the line before Kate said, ‘Keith Townsend, you must be the least romantic man God ever put on earth!’

‘Does that mean “yes”?’ he asked. But the line had already gone dead. He put the phone down and looked across the desk at Tom Spencer.

‘Did she accept your terms?’ the lawyer asked with a grin.

‘Can’t be absolutely certain,’ Townsend replied. ‘But I still want you to go ahead with the arrangements as planned.’

‘Right, then I’d better get in touch with City Hall.’

‘And make sure you’re free tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Why?’ asked Tom.

‘Because, counselor, we’ll need a witness to the contract.’

Sir Walter Sherwood had sworn several times that day, well above his average for a month.

The first string of expletives came after he had put the phone down on his brother. Alexander had called from Paris just before breakfast to tell him that he had sold his shares in the Globe to Richard Armstrong, at a price of $20 million. He recommended Walter to do the same.

But everything Sir Walter had heard about Armstrong only convinced him that he was the last man alive who should control a newspaper that was as British as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.

He had calmed down a little after a good lunch at the Turf Club, but then nearly had a heart attack when his sister-in-law called from New York to say that she had also sold her shares, not to Armstrong, but to Keith Townsend, a man Sir Walter considered gave colonials a bad name. He would never forget being stuck in Sydney for a week and having to endure the daily views of the Sydney Chronicle on the subject of ‘the so-called Queen of Australia.’ He had switched to the Continent, only to discover that it was in favor of Australia becoming a republic.

The final call of the day came from his accountant just before he sat down to dinner with his wife. Sir Walter didn’t need to be reminded that sales of the Globe had been falling every week for the past year, and that he would therefore be wise to accept an offer of $20 million from whatever quarter. Not least because, as the bloody man so crudely put it, ‘The two of them have stitched you up, and the sooner you get your hands on the money the better.’

‘But which one of the bounders should I close a deal with?’ he asked pathetically. ‘Each seems to be just as bad as the other.’

‘That is not a matter on which I’m qualified to advise,’ replied the accountant. ‘Perhaps you should settle on the one you dislike least.’

Sir Walter arrived in his office unusually early the following morning, and his secretary presented him with a thick file on each of the interested parties. She told him they had both been delivered by hand, within an hour of each other. He began to dip into them, and quickly realized that each must have been sent by the other. He procrastinated. But as the days passed, his accountant, his lawyer and his wife regularly reminded him about the continued drop in sales figures, and that the easy way out had been presented to him.

He finally accepted the inevitable, and decided that so long as he could remain as chairman of the board for another four years — which would take him up to his seventieth birthday — he could learn to live with either Armstrong or Townsend. He felt it was important for his friends at the Turf Club to know that he had been kept on as chairman.

The following morning, he asked his secretary to invite the rival suitors to lunch at the Turf Club on successive days. He promised he would let them know his decision within a week.

But after having had lunch with them both, he still couldn’t decide which he disliked most — or, for that matter, least. He admired the fact that Armstrong had won the MC fighting for his adopted country, but couldn’t abide the thought of the proprietor of the Globe not knowing how to hold a knife and fork. Against that, he rather enjoyed the idea of the proprietor of the Globe being an Oxford man, but felt ill whenever he recalled Townsend’s views on the monarchy. At least both of them had assured him that he would remain as chairman. But when the week was up, he was still no nearer to reaching a decision.

He began to take advice from everyone at the Turf Club, including the barman, but he still couldn’t make up his mind. It was only when his banker told him that the pound was strengthening against the dollar because of President Johnson’s continuing troubles in Vietnam that he finally came to a decision.

Funny how a single word can trigger a stream of unrelated thoughts and turn them into action, mused Sir Walter. As he put the phone down on his banker, he knew exactly who should be entrusted to make the final decision. But he also realized that it would have to be kept secret, even from the editor of the Globe, until the last moment.

On the Friday afternoon, Armstrong flew to Paris with a girl called Julie from the advertising department, instructing Pamela that he was not to be contacted except in an emergency. He repeated the word ‘emergency’ several times.

Townsend had flown back to New York the previous day, having been given a tip that a major shareholder in the New York Star might at last be willing to sell their stock in the paper. He told Heather he didn’t expect to return to England for at least a fortnight.

Sir Walter’s secret broke on the Friday evening. The first person in Armstrong’s camp to hear the news rang his office immediately, and was given his secretary’s home number. When it was explained to Pamela what Sir Walter was planning, she was in no doubt that this was an emergency by any standards and immediately phoned the George V. The manager informed her that Mr. Armstrong and his ‘companion’ had moved hotels after he had come across a group of Labor ministers, who were in Paris to attend a NATO conference, sitting in the bar. Pamela spent the rest of the evening systematically ringing every first class hotel in Paris, but it wasn’t until a few minutes after midnight that she finally ran Armstrong to ground.

The night porter told her emphatically that Mr. Armstrong had said he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Remembering the age of the girl who was with him, he felt that he wouldn’t get much of a tip if he disobeyed that order. Pamela lay awake all night and phoned again at seven the following morning. But as the manager didn’t come on duty until nine on a Saturday, she received the same frosty reply.

The first person to tell Townsend what was going on was Chris Slater, the deputy features editor of the Globe, who decided that for the trouble it took to make an overseas call, he might well secure his future on the paper. In fact it took several overseas calls to track Mr. Townsend down at the Racquets Club in New York, where he was eventually found playing squash with Tom Spencer for $1,000 a game.

Townsend was serving with a four-point lead in the final set when there was a knock on the glass door and a club servant asked if Mr. Townsend could take an urgent telephone call. Trying not to lose his concentration, Townsend simply asked, ‘Who?’ As the name Chris Slater meant nothing to him, he said, ‘Tell him I’ll call back later.’ Just before he served, he added, ‘Did he say where he was calling from?’

‘No, sir,’ replied the messenger. ‘He only said he was with the Globe.’

Townsend squeezed the ball as he considered the alternatives.

He was currently $2,000 up against a man he hadn’t beaten in months, and he knew that if he left the court, even for a few moments, Tom would claim the match.

He stood staring at the front wall for another ten seconds, until Tom said sharply, ‘Serve!’

‘Is that your advice, counselor?’ he asked.

‘It is,’ replied the lawyer. ‘Get on with it or concede. The choice is yours.’ Townsend dropped the ball, ran out of the court and chased after the messenger. He reached him just before he put the phone down.

‘This had better be good, Mr. Slater,’ said Townsend, ‘because so far you’ve cost me $2,000.’

He listened in disbelief as Slater told him that in the following day’s edition of the Globe, Sir Walter Sherwood would be inviting the paper’s readers to vote on who they felt should be its next proprietor.

‘There will be balanced full-page profiles on both candidates,’ Slater went on to explain, ‘with a voting slip at the bottom of the page.’ He then read out the last three sentences of the proposed editorial.

Townsend thanked Slater, and assured him that if he became proprietor he would not be forgotten. His first thought after he had put the phone down was to wonder where Armstrong was.

He didn’t return to the squash court, but immediately rang Ned Brewer, his bureau chief in London. He briefed him on exactly what he expected him to do during the night, and ended by telling him that he would be in touch again as soon as he landed at Heathrow. ‘In the meantime, Ned,’ he said, ‘make sure you have at least £20,000 in cash available by the time I reach the office.’

As soon as he had put the phone down, Townsend went to the front desk and picked up his wallet from security, walked out onto Fifth Avenue and hailed a taxi. ‘The airport,’ he said. ‘And you get $100 if we’re there in time for the next flight to London.’ He should have added ‘alive.’

As the cab weaved in and out of the traffic, Townsend suddenly remembered that Tom was still waiting for him on the court, and that he was meant to be taking Kate out to dinner that night so she could bring him up to date on her progress with The Senator’s Mistress. Every day that passed, Townsend thanked a God he didn’t believe in that Kate had flown back from Sydney. He felt he had been lucky enough to find the one person who could tolerate his intolerable lifestyle, partly because she had accepted the situation long before they were married. Kate had never once made him feel guilty about the hours he kept, the turning up late or not turning up at all. He only hoped Tom would phone to let her know he had disappeared. ‘No, I have no idea where,’ he could hear him saying.

When he landed at Heathrow the following morning, the cabbie didn’t feel it was his place to ask why his fare was dressed in a tracksuit and carrying a squash racket. Perhaps all the courts in New York were booked.

He arrived at his London office forty minutes later, and took over the operation from Ned Brewer. By ten o’clock every available employee had been sent to all corners of the capital. By lunchtime no one within a twenty-mile radius of Hyde Park Corner could find a copy of the Globe at any price. By nine that evening Townsend was in possession of 126,212 copies of the paper.

Armstrong arrived back at Heathrow on the Saturday afternoon, having spent most of the morning in Paris barking out orders to his staff all over Britain. By nine o’clock on Sunday morning, thanks to a remarkable trawl from the West Riding area, he was in possession of 79,107 copies of the Globe.

He spent the Sunday ringing the editors of all his regional papers and ordering them to write front-page stories for the following morning’s editions, urging their readers to dig out Saturday’s Globe and vote Armstrong. On Monday morning he talked himself on to the Today program and as many news slots as possible. But each of the producers decided it was only fair that Townsend should be allowed the right of reply the following day.

By Thursday, Townsend’s staff were exhausted from signing names; Armstrong’s sick from licking envelopes. By Friday afternoon both men were phoning the Globe every few minutes, trying to find out how the count was going. But as Sir Walter had called in the Electoral Reform Society to count the votes, and they were more interested in accuracy than speed, even the editor wasn’t told the result until just before midnight.

‘The Dodgy Dingo Beats the Bouncing Czech’ ran the banner headline in the first editions of Saturday’s paper. The article that followed informed the Globe’s readers that the voting had been 232,712 in favor of the Colonial, to 229,847 for the Immigrant.

Townsend’s lawyer arrived at the Globe’s offices at nine o’clock on Monday morning, bearing a draft for $20 million. However much Armstrong protested, and however many writs he threatened to issue, he could not stop Sir Walter from signing his shares over to Townsend that afternoon.

At the first meeting of the new board, Townsend proposed that Sir Walter should remain as chairman, on his present salary of £100,000 a year. The old man smiled and made a flattering speech about how the readers had unquestionably made the right choice.

Townsend didn’t speak again until they reached Any Other Business, when he suggested that all employees of the Globe should automatically retire at the age of sixty, in line with the rest of his group’s policy. Sir Walter seconded the motion, as he was keen to join his chums at the Turf Club for a celebratory lunch. The motion went through on the nod.

It wasn’t until Sir Walter climbed into bed that night that his wife explained to him the significance of that final resolution.