“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.