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.