The Fourth Estate

“I like a man who’s punctual,” she said.

The Trafalgar Suite turned out to be on two levels, with its own balcony. Mrs. Sherwood ushered her guest toward a pair of comfortable chairs in the center of the drawing room. “Would you care for some coffee, Keith?” she asked as she sat down opposite him.

“No, thank you, Margaret,” he replied. “I’ve just had breakfast.”

“Of course,” she said. “Now, shall we get down to business?”

“Certainly. As I told you earlier this morning,” said Townsend, “Schumann’s would consider it a privilege to publish your novel.”

“Oh, how exciting,” said Mrs. Sherwood. “I do wish my dear husband were still alive. He always believed I would be published one day.”

“We would be willing to offer you an advance of $100,000,” continued Townsend, “and 10 percent of the cover price after the advance has been recouped. Paperback publication would follow twelve months after the hardcover, and there would be bonus payments for every week you’re on the New York Times best-seller list.”

“Oh! Do you really think my little effort might appear on the best-seller list?”

“I would be willing to bet on it,” said Townsend.

“Would you really?” said Mrs. Sherwood.

Townsend looked anxiously across at her, wondering if he had gone too far.

“I happily accept your terms, Mr. Townsend,” she said. “I do believe this calls for a celebration.” She poured him a glass of champagne from a half-empty bottle in the ice bucket beside her. “Now that we have come to an agreement on the book,” she said a few moments later, “perhaps you’d be kind enough to advise me on a little problem I’m currently facing.”

“I will if I possibly can,” said Townsend, staring up at a painting of a one-armed, one-eyed admiral who was lying on a quarterdeck, dying.

“I have been most distressed by an article in the Ocean Times that was brought to my attention by … Miss Williams,” said Mrs. Sherwood. “It concerns a Mr. Richard Armstrong.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I’ll explain,” said Mrs. Sherwood, who proceeded to tell Townsend a story he knew rather better than she did. She ended by saying, “Claire felt that as you were in publishing, you might be able to recommend someone else who would want to buy my shares.”

> “How much are you hoping to be offered for them?” asked Townsend.

“Twenty million dollars. That is the sum I agreed with my brother Alexander, who has already disposed of his stock to this Richard Armstrong for that amount.”

“When is your meeting with Mr. Armstrong?” asked Townsend—another question he knew the answer to.

“He’s coming to see me at my apartment in New York on Monday at 11 A.M.”

Townsend continued to gaze up at the picture on the wall, pretending to give the problem considerable thought. “I feel sure that my company would be able to match his offer,” he said. “Especially as the amount has already been agreed on.” He hoped she couldn’t hear his heart pounding away.

Mrs. Sherwood lowered her eyes and glanced down at a Sotheby’s catalog that a friend had sent her from Geneva the previous week. “How fortunate that we met,” she said. “One couldn’t get away with this sort of coincidence in a novel.” She laughed, raised her glass and said, “Kismet.”

Townsend didn’t comment.

After she had put her glass down, she said, “I need to give the problem a little more thought overnight. I’ll let you know my final decision before we disembark.”

“Of course,” said Townsend, trying to hide his disappointment. He rose from his chair and the old lady accompanied him to the door.

“I must thank you, Keith, for all the trouble you’ve gone to.”

“My pleasure,” he said as she closed the door.

Townsend immediately returned to his cabin to find Kate waiting for him.

“How did it go?” were her first words.

“She hasn’t finally made up her mind, but I think she’s nearly hooked, thanks to your bringing the article to her attention.”