After three black coffees and one white had been poured, Tom opened his briefcase, took out two documents and presented them to his client. “If she agrees to sign these,” he said, “33.3 percent of the Globe will be yours—as will the publishing rights for The Senator’s Mistress.”
Townsend was taken through the documents slowly, clause by clause, and began to realize why the three of them had been up all night. “So what’s next?” he asked, as he handed the contracts back to his lawyer.
“You have to pick up the two money drafts from the Manhattan Bank, and be sure that we’re outside Mrs. Sherwood’s front door by five to ten, because we’re going to need every minute of that hour if these are to be signed before Armstrong turns up.”
* * *
Armstrong also began reading the morning papers only moments after they had been dropped outside the door of his hotel room. As he turned the pages of the New York Times, he too kept seeing changes he would make if only he could get his hands on a New York daily. When he had finished the Times he turned to the Star, but it didn’t hold his attention for long. He threw the papers to one side, switched on the television and began flicking between the channels to pass the time. An old black-and-white movie starring Alan Ladd took precedence over an interview with an astronaut.
He left the television on when he disappeared into the bathroom, not giving a thought as to whether it might wake Sharon.
By seven he was dressed and becoming more restless by the minute. He switched to Good Morning America and watched the mayor explaining how he intended to deal with the firemen’s union and their demand for higher redundancy pay. “Kick the bastards where it hurts!” he shouted at the screen. He finally flicked it off after the weather man informed him that it was going to be another hot, cloudless day with temperatures in the high seventies—in Malibu. Armstrong picked up Sharon’s powder puff from the dressing table and dabbed his forehead, then put it in his pocket. At 7:30 he ate breakfast in the room, not having bothered to order anything for Sharon. By the time he left their suite at 8:30 to join his lawyer, she still hadn’t stirred.
Russell Critchley was waiting for him in the restaurant. Armstrong began ordering a second breakfast bef
ore he sat down. His lawyer extracted a lengthy document from his briefcase and began to take him through it. While Critchley sipped coffee, Armstrong devoured a three-egg omelette followed by four waffles covered in thick syrup.
“I can’t foresee any real problems,” said Critchley. “It’s virtually the same document as her brother-in-law signed in Geneva—although of course she has never requested any form of under-the-counter payment.”
“And she has no choice but to accept $20 million in full settlement if she is to keep to the terms of Sir George Sherwood’s will.”
“That is correct,” said the lawyer. He referred to another file before adding, “It seems that the three of them signed a binding agreement when they inherited the stock that if they were ever to sell, it must be at a price agreed by at least two of the parties. As you know, Alexander and Margaret have already settled on $20 million.”
“Why would they do that?”
“If they hadn’t, they would have inherited nothing under the terms of Sir George’s will. He obviously didn’t want the three of them to end up squabbling over the price.”
“And the two-thirds rule still applies?” asked Armstrong, spreading syrup over another waffle.
“Yes, the clause in question is unambiguous,” Critchley said, flicking over the pages of yet another document. “I have it here.” He began reading:
If any person or company becomes entitled to be registered as the owner of at least 66.66 percent of the issued shares, that person or company shall have the option to purchase the balance of the issued shares at a price per share equal to the average price per share paid by that person or company for its existing shares.
“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 horn-rimmed spectacles and a double-breasted black suit, rose from his chair on the other side of the table.