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  “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.

  Tom immediately recognized the senior partner of Burlingham, Healy & Yablon, and suspected for the first time that his task might not prove that easy. The two men shook hands warmly, then Tom introduced Yablon to his client and his two associates.

  Once they were all seated and the maid had served tea, Tom opened his briefcase and handed over the two contracts to Yablon. Aware of the time restriction placed on them, he began to take Mrs. Sherwood’s lawyer through the documents as quickly as he could. As he did so, the old man asked him a number of questions. Townsend felt his lawyer must have dealt with them all satisfactorily, because after they had reached the last page, Mr. Yablon turned to his client and said, “I am quite happy for you to sign these two documents, Mrs. Sherwood, subject to the drafts being in order.”

  Townsend looked at his watch. It was 10:43. He smiled as Tom opened his briefcase and removed the two money orders. Before he could pass them over, Mrs. Sherwood turned to her lawyer and asked, “Does the book contract stipulate that if Schumann’s fail to print 100,000 copies of my novel within one year of this agreement being signed, they will have to pay a penalty of $1 million?”

  “Yes, it does,” said Yablon.

  “And that if the book fails to make the New York Times best-seller list, they will have to forfeit a further million?”

  Townsend smiled, knowing that there was no clause about the distribution of the book in the contract, and no mention of a time limit by which the novel had to appear on the best-seller list. As long as he printed 100,000 copies, which he could do on any of his American presses, the whole exercise need only cost him around $40,000.

  “That is all covered in the second contract,” Mr. Yablon confirmed.

  Tom tried to conceal his astonishment. How could a man of Yablon’s experience have overlooked two such glaring omissions? Townsend was proving to be right—they seemed to have got away with it.

  “And Mr. Townsend is able to supply us with drafts for the full amounts?” asked Mrs. Sherwood. Tom slid the two money orders across to Yablon, who passed them on to his client without even looking at them.

  Townsend waited for Mrs. Sherwood to smile. She frowned.

  “This is not what we agreed,” she said.

  “I think it is,” said Townsend, who had collected the drafts from the senior cashier of the Manhattan Bank earlier that morning and checked them carefully.

  “This one,” she said, holding up the draft for $20 million, “is fine. But this one is not what I requested.”

  Townsend looked confused. “But you agreed that the advance for your novel should be $100,000,” he said, feeling his mouth go dry.

  “That is correct,” said Mrs. Sherwood firmly. “But my understanding was that this check would be for two million one hundred thousand dollars.”

  “But the $2 million was to be paid at some later date, and then only if we failed to meet your stipulations concerning the publication of the book,” said Townsend.

  “That is not a risk I am willing to take, Mr. Townsend,” she said, staring at him across the table.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “Then let me explain it to you. I expect you to lodge with Mr. Yablon a further $2 million in an escrow account. He will be the sole arbiter as to who should receive the money in twelve months’ time.” She paused. “You see, my brother-in-law Alexander made a profit of a million Swiss francs, in the form of a Fabergé egg, without bothering to inform me. It is therefore my intention to make a profit of over $2 million on my novel, without bothering to inform him.”

  Townsend gasped. Mr. Yablon leaned back in his chair, and Tom realized that he wasn’t the only person who’d been working flat out all night.

  “If your client’s confidence in his ability to deliver proves well-founded,” said Mr. Yablon, “I will return his money in twelve months’ time, with interest.”

  “On the other hand,” said Mrs. Sherwood, no longer looking at Townsend, “if your client never had any real intention of distributing my novel and turning it into a best-seller…”

  “But this isn’t what you and I agreed yesterday,” said Townsend, staring directly at Mrs. Sherwood.

  She looked sweetly across the table, her cheeks not coloring, and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Townsend, I lied.”

  “But you’ve left my client with only eleven minutes to come up with another $2 million,” said Tom, glancing at the grandfather clock.

  “I make it twelve minutes,” said Mr. Yablon. “I have a feeling that clock has always been a little fast. But don’t let’s quibble over a minute either way. I’m sure Mrs. Sherwood will allow you the use of one of her phones.”

  “Certainly,” said Mrs. Sherwood. “You see, my late husband always used to say: ‘If you can’t pay today, why should one believe you’ll be able to pay tomorrow?’”

  “But you have my draft for $20 million,” said Townsend, “and another one for $100,000. Isn’t that proof enough?”

  “And in ten minutes’ time I will have Mr. Armstrong’s draft for the same amount, and I suspect that he will also be happy to publish my book, despite Claire’s—or should I say Kate’s—well-planted article.”

  Townsend remained silent for about thirty seconds. He considered calling her bluff, but when he looked at the clock he thought better of it.

  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