The Fourth Estate

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,” sai

d 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 lawyer’s 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.

“I 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 Townsend’s 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 apartment? 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.”