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 bef
ore 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:
If any person or company becomes entitled to be registered as the owner of at least 66.66 percent of the issued shares, that person or company shall have the option to purchase the balance of the issued shares at a price per share equal to the average price per share paid by that person or company for its existing shares.
“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.”
The Fourth Estate Page 40