The Fourth Estate (58 page)

“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 hornrimmed 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 lie 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 confinned.

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 brotherin-law Alexander
made a profit of a million Swiss francs, in the form of a Faberg6 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-wel I -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 lawyees 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.

1 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 Townsends 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 apartment2 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.