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,’ said 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.