The Fourth Estate

by Jeffrey Archer

  “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,” sai
d 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 stil
l 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.”