The Fourth Estate (52 page)

Everyone in the
room fell silent except for the auctioneer. The head of his hammer was gripped
firmly in his right hand as he stared down into the audience, trying to place
the bidders.

Armstrong
remembered his briefing, and the exact price at which he should come in. But he
could still feel his pulse rate rise when the auctioneer pronounced “One
hundred and fifty thousand,” then, turning to his left, said, ‘The bid is now
on the telephone at 150,000 francs, 150,000,” he repeated. He looked intently
around the audience, then a smile crossed his lips. ‘Two hundred thousand in
the center of the room.” He paused and looked toward the assistant on the end
phone. Armstrong watched her whisper into the receiver, and then she nodded in
the direction of the auctioneer, who immediately responded with “Two hundred
and fifty thousand.” He turned his attention back to those seated in the room,
where there must have been another bid because he immediately switched his gaze
back to the assistant on the phone and said, I have a bid of 300,000 francs.”

The woman
infon-ned her client of the latest bid and, after a few moments, she nodded
again. All heads in the room swung back to the auctioneer as if they were
watching a tennis match in slow motion. “Three hundred and fifty thousand,” he
said, glancing at the center of the room.

Armstrong looked
down at the catalog. He knew it was not yet time for him to join in the
bidding, but that didn’t stop him continuing to fidget.

“Four hundred
thousand,” said the auctioneer, nodding to the woman on the end phone. “Four
hundred and fifty thousand in the center of the room.” The woman on the phone
responded immediately. “Five hundred thousand. Six hundred thousand,” said the
auctioneer, his eyes now fixed on the center aisle. With that one bid Armstrong
had learned another of the auctioneer’s skills.

Armstrong craned
his neck until he finally spotted who it was bidding from the floor. His eyes
moved over to the woman on the phone, who nodded once again. “Seven hundred
thousand,” said the auctioneer calmly.

A man seated
just in front of him raised his catalog.

“Eight hundred
thousand,” declared the auctioneer. “A new bidder toward the back.” He turned
to the woman on the phone, who took rather longer telling her customer the
latest bid. “Nine hundred thousand?” he suggested, as if he was trying to woo
her. Suddenly she consented. “I have a bid of 900,000 on the phone,” he said,
and looked toward the man at the back of the room. “Nine hundred thousand,” the
auctioneer repeated. But this time he received no response.

“Are there any
more bids?” asked the auctioneer. “Then I’m letting this item go for 900,000
francs. Fair warning,” he said, raising the hammer.

“I’m going to
let . – .”

When Armstrong raised
his catalog, it looked to the auctioneer as if he was waving. He wasn’t, he was
shaking.

“I have a new
bidder on the right-hand aisle, toward the back of the room, at one million
francs.” The auctioneer once again directed his attention to the woman on the
telephone.

“One million one
hundred thousand?” said the auctioneer, pointing the handle of his hammer at
the assistant on the end phone. Armstrong sat in silence, not sure what he
should do next, as a million francs was the figure they had agreed on. People
began to turn round and stare in his direction. He remained silent, knowing
that the woman on the phone would shake her head.

She shook her
head.

“I have a bid of
one million on the aisle,” said the auctioneer, pointing toward Armstrong. “Are
there any more bids? Then I’m going to let this go for one million.” His eyes
scanned the audience hopefully, but no one responded. He finally brought the
hammer down with a thud and, looking at Armstrong, said, “Sold to the gentleman
on the aisle for one million francs.” A burst of applause erupted around the
room.

Sharon squeezed
his hand again. But before Dick could catch his breath, a woman was kneeling on
the floor beside him. “If you fill in this form, Mr. Armstrong, someone at the
reception desk will advise you on collecting your lot.”

Armstrong
nodded. But once he had completed the form, he did not head for the desk, but
instead went to the nearest telephone in the lobby and dialed an overseas
numher. When the phone was answered he said, “Put me straight through to the
manager.” He gave the order for a million francs to be sent to Sotheby’s Geneva
by swift telegraph transfer, as agreed. “And make it swift,” said Armstrong,
“because I’ve no desire to hang around here any longer than necessary.”

He replaced the
phone and went over to the woman at the reception desk to explain how the
account would be settled, just as the young man in the open-necked shirt began
dialing an overseas number, despite the fact that he knew he would be waking
his boss.

Townsend sat up
in bed and listened carefully. “Why would Armstrong pay a million francs for a
Faberg6 egg?” he asked.

“I can’t work
that out either,” said the young man. “Hang on, he’s just going upstairs with
the girl. I’d better stick with him. I’ll ring back as soon as I find out what
he’s up to.”

Over lunch in
the hotel dining room, Armstrong appeared so preoccupied that Sharon thought it
sensible to say nothing unless he started a conversation. It was obvious that
the egg had not been purchased for her. When he had put down his empty coffee
cup, he asked her to go back to their room and finish packing, as he wanted to
leave for the airport in an hour. “I have one more meeting to attend,” he said,
“but it shouldn’t take too long.”

When he kissed
heron the cheek at the entrance to the hotel, the young man in the open-necked
shirt knew which of them he would have preferred to follow.

“See you in
about an hour,” he overheard his quarry say. Then Armstrong turned and almost
ran down the wide staircase *to the ballroom where the auction had taken place.
He went straight to the woman seated behind the long table, checking purchase
slips.

“Ah, Mr.
Armstrong, how nice to see you again,” she said, giving him a million-franc
smile. “Your funds have been cleared by swift telegraphic transfer. If you
would be kind enough to join my colleague in the inner office,” she said,
indicating a door behind her, “you will be able to collect your lot.”

“Thank you,”
said Armstrong, as she passed over his receipt for the masterpiece. He turned
round, nearly bumping into a young man standing directly behind him, walked
into the back office and presented his receipt to a man in a black tailcoat who
was standing behind the counter.

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 H6tel 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 Gen~ve 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- I ooki ng 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. Arrnstrong placed
the Faberg6 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 Faberg6 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 fathees 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 Faberg~ 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.

DAILY TELEGRAPH

6 FEBRUARY 1967

K
osygin 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 numberi 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.