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  After another outburst he slammed down the receiver and dialed Russell’s number himself. Without thinking, he turned a few more pages of his Filofax until he heard the attorney’s voice on the other end of the line. “Have I got $50 million hidden away anywhere in the world?” he asked.

  “What do you need it for?” asked Russell.

  “The Swiss are beginning to threaten me.”

  “I thought you’d settled with them last week.”

  “So did I.”

  “What’s happened to that endless source of funds?”

  “It’s dried up.”

  “I see. How much did you say?”

  “Fifty million.”

  “Well, I can certainly think of one way you could raise at least that amount.”

  “How?” asked Armstrong, trying not to sound desperate.

  Russell hesitated. “You could always sell your 46 percent stake in the New York Star.”

  “But who could come up with that sort of money at such short notice?”

  “Keith Townsend.” Russell held the phone away from his ear and waited for the word “Never” to come booming down the line. But nothing happened, so he carried on. “My guess is that he’d agree to pay above the market price, because it would guarantee him complete control of the company.”

  Russell held the phone away from his ear again, expecting a tirade of abuse. But all Armstrong said was, “Why don’t you have a word with his lawyers?”

  “I’m not sure that would be the best approach,” said Russell. “If I were to phone them out of the blue, Townsend would assume that you were short of funds.”

  “Which I am not!” shouted Armstrong.

  “No one’s suggesting you are,” said Russell. “Will you be attending the bankers’ dinner tonight at the Four Seasons?”

  “Bankers’ dinner? What bankers’ dinner?”

  “The annual get-together for the principal players in the financial world and their guests. I know you’ve been invited, because I read in the Tribune that you’d be sitting between the governor and the mayor.”

  Armstrong checked the printed day-sheet which was lying on his desk. “You’re right, I’m supposed to be going. But so what?”

  “I have a feeling that Townsend will make an appearance, if only to let the banking world know he’s still around after that unfortunate article in the Financial Times.”

  “I suppose the same could apply to me,” said Armstrong, sounding unusually morose.

  “It might be the ideal opportunity to bring up the subject casually and see what sort of reaction you get.”

  Another phone began to ring.

  “Hold on a moment, Russell,” Armstrong said, as he picked up the other phone. It was his secretary on the end of the line. “What do you want?” Armstrong bellowed out the words so loudly that Russell wondered for a moment if he was still talking to him.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Armstrong,” she said, “but the man from Switzerland has just phoned again.”

  “Tell him I’ll call straight back,” said Armstrong.

  “He insisted on holding, sir. Shall I put him through?”

  “I’ll have to call you back in a moment, Russell,” said Armstrong, switching phones.

  He looked down at his Filofax, which was open at the letter T.

  “Jacques, I think I may have solved our little problem.”

  38.

  New York Star

  20 August 1991

  MAYOR TELLS POLICE CHIEF: “THE CUPBOARD’S BARE”

  Townsend hated the idea of having to sell his shares in the Star, and to Richard Armstrong of all people. He checked his bow tie in the mirror and cursed out loud yet again. He knew that everything Elizabeth Beresford had insisted on that afternoon was probably his only hope of survival.

  Perhaps Armstrong might fail to turn up at the dinner? That would at least allow him to bluff for a few more days. How could E.B. begin to understand that of all his assets, the Star was second only to the Melbourne Courier in his affections? He shuddered at the thought that she hadn’t yet told him what she felt would have to be disposed of in Australia.

  Townsend rummaged around in the bottom drawer, searching for a dress shirt, and was relieved to find one neatly wrapped in a cellophane packet. He pulled it on. Damn! He cursed as the top button flew off when he tried to do it up, and cursed again when he remembered that Kate wouldn’t be back from Sydney for another week. He tightened his bow tie, hoping that it would cover the problem. He looked in the mirror. It didn’t. Worse, the collar of his dinner jacket was so shiny that it made him look like a 1950s band leader. Kate had been telling him for years to get a new DJ, and perhaps the time had come to take her advice. And then he remembered: he no longer had any credit cards.

  When he left his apartment that evening and took the elevator down to the waiting car, Townsend couldn’t help noticing for the first time that his chauffeur was wearing a smarter suit than anything he had in his entire wardrobe. As the limousine began its slow journey to the Four Seasons, he sat back and tried to work out just how he might bring up the subject of selling his shares in the Star should he get a moment alone with Dick Armstrong.

  * * *

  One of the good things about a well-cut double-breasted DJ, Armstrong thought, was that it helped to disguise just how overweight you really were. He had spent more than an hour that evening having his hair dyed by his butler and his hands manicured by a maid. When he checked himself in the mirror, he felt confident that few of those attending the bankers’ dinner that night would have believed he was nearly seventy.

  Russell had phoned him just before he left the office to say that he calculated the value of his shares in the Star must be around sixty to seventy million dollars, and he was confident that Townsend would be willing to pay a premium if he could buy the stock in one block.

  All he needed for the moment was fifty-seven million. That would take care of the Swiss, the Russians and even Sir Paul.

  As his limousine drew up outside the Four Seasons, a young man in a smart red jacket rushed up and opened the back door for him. When he saw who it was trying to heave himself out, he touched his cap and said, “Good evening, Mr. Armstrong.”

  “Good evening,” Armstrong replied, and handed the young man a ten-dollar bill. At least one person that night would still believe he was a multimillionaire. He climbed the wide staircase up to the dining room, joining a stream of other guests. Some of them turned to smile in his direction, others pointed. He wondered what they were whispering to each other. Were they predicting his downfall, or talking of his genius? He returned their smiles.

  Russell was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. As they walked on toward the dining room, he leaned over and whispered, “Townsend’s already here. He’s on table fourteen as a guest of J.P. Grenville.” Armstrong nodded, aware that J.P. Grenville had been Townsend’s merchant bankers for over twenty-five years. He entered the dining room, lit up a large Havana cigar and began to weave his way through the packed circular tables, occasionally stopping to shake an outstretched hand, and pausing to chat for a few moments to anyone he knew was capable of loaning large sums of money.

  Townsend stood behind his chair on table fourteen and watched Armstrong make his slow progress toward the top table. Eventually he took his place between Governor Cuomo and Mayor Dinkins. He smiled whenever a guest waved in their direction, always assuming it was him they were interested in.

  “Tonight could well turn out to be your best chance,” said Elizabeth Beresford, who was also looking toward the top table.

  Townsend nodded. “It might not be quite that easy to speak to him privately.”

  “If you wanted to buy his shares, you’d find a way quickly enough.”

  Why was the damned woman always right?

  The master of ceremonies thumped the table with a gavel several times before the room fell quiet enough for a rabbi to deliver a prayer. Over half the people in the room put khiv