On the day the Gazette outsold the Messenger for the first time, Townsend held a celebration party on the fourth floor, and announced the news in a banner headline above a picture of Sir Colin taken the previous year at his wife’s funeral. As each month passed, the gap between the two papers widened, and Townsend never missed an opportunity to inform his readers of the latest circulation figures. He was not surprised when Sir Colin rang and suggested that perhaps the time had come for them to meet.
After weeks of negotiations, it was agreed that the two papers should merge, but not before Townsend had secured the only two concessions he really cared about. The new paper would be printed on his presses, and called the Gazette Messenger.
When the newly-designated board met for the first time, Sir Colin was appointed chairman and Townsend chief executive.
Within six months the word Messenger had disappeared from the masthead, and all major decisions were being taken without any pretense of consulting the board or its chairman. Few were shocked when Sir Colin offered his resignation, and no one was surprised when Townsend accepted it.
When his mother asked what had caused Sir Colin to resign, Townsend replied that it had been by mutual agreement, because he felt the time had come to make way for a younger man. Lady Townsend wasn’t altogether convinced.
Third Edition
Where There’s a Will...
13
Der Telegraf
31 August 1947
Berlin Food Shortages to Continue
‘If Lauber made a will, I need to get my hands on it.’
‘Why is getting hold of this will so important?’ asked Sally.
‘Because I want to know who inherits his shares in Der Telegraf.’
‘I assume his wife does.’
‘No, it’s more likely to be Arno Schultz. In which case I’m wasting my time — so the sooner we find out, the better.’
‘But I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
‘Try the Ministry of the Interior. Once Lauber’s body was returned to Germany, it became their responsibility.’
Sally looked doubtful.
‘Use up every favor we’re owed,’ said Armstrong, ‘and promise anything in return, but find me that will.’ He turned to leave. ‘Right, I’m off to see Hallet.’
Armstrong left without another word, and was driven to the British officers’ mess by Benson. He took the stool at the corner of the bar and ordered a whiskey, checking his watch every few minutes.
Stephen Hallet strolled in a few moments after six-thirty had chimed on the grandfather clock in the hall. When he saw Armstrong, he smiled broadly and joined him at the bar.
‘Dick. Thank you so much for that case of the Mouton-Rothschild ’29. It really is quite excellent. I must confess I’m trying to ration it until my demob papers come through.’
Armstrong smiled. ‘Then we’ll just have to see if we can’t somehow arrange a more regular supply. Why don’t you join me for dinner? Then we can find out why they’re making such a fuss about the Château Beychevelle ’33.’
Over a burnt steak, Captain Hallet experienced the Beychevelle for the first time, while Armstrong found out all he needed to know about probate, and why Lauber’s shares would automatically go to Mrs. Lauber, as his next of kin, if no will was discovered.
‘But what if she’s dead too?’ asked Armstrong as the steward uncorked a second bottle.
‘If she’s dead, or can’t be traced—’ Hallet sipped his refilled glass, and the smile returned to his lips ‘—the original owner would have to wait five years. After that he would probably be able to put in a claim for the shares.’
Because Armstrong was unable to take notes, he found himself repeating questions to make sure he had all the salient information committed to memory. This didn’t seem to worry Hallet, who, Armstrong suspected, knew exactly what he was up to but wasn’t going to ask too many questions as long as someone kept on filling his glass. Once Armstrong was sure he fully understood the legal position, he made some excuse about having promised his wife he wouldn’t be home late, and left the lawyer with a half-full bottle.
After he left the mess, Armstrong made no attempt to return home. He didn’t feel like spending another evening explaining to Charlotte why it was taking so long for his demob papers to be processed when several of their friends had already returned to Blighty. Instead he ordered a tired-looking Benson to drive him to the American sector.
His first call was on Max Sackville, with whom he stopped to play a couple of hours of poker. Armstrong lost a few dollars but gained some useful information about American troop movements, which he knew Colonel Oakshott would be grateful to hear about.
He left Max soon after he had lost enough to ensure that he would be invited back again, and strolled across the road and down an alley before dropping into his favorite bar in the American sector. He joined a group of officers who were celebrating their imminent return to the States. A few whiskies later he left the bar, having added to his store of information. But he would happily have traded everything he’d picked up for one glance at Lauber’s will. He didn’t notice a sober man, wearing civilian clothes, get up and follow him out onto the street.
He was heading back toward his jeep when a voice behind him said, ‘Lubji.’
Armstrong stopped dead in his tracks, feeling slightly sick. He swung round to face a man who must have been about his own age, though much shorter and stockier than he was. He was dressed in a plain gray suit, white shirt and dark blue tie. In the unlit street Armstrong couldn’t make out the man’s features.
‘You must be a Czech,’ said Armstrong quietly.
‘No, Lubji, I am not.’
‘Then you’re a bloody German,’ said Armstrong, clenching his fists and advancing toward him.
‘Wrong again,’ said the man, not flinching.
‘Then who the hell are you?’
‘Let’s just say I’m a friend.’
‘But I don’t even know you,’ said Armstrong. ‘Why don’t you stop playing games and tell me what the hell you want.’
‘Just to help you,’ said the man quietly.
‘And how do you propose doing that?’ snarled Armstrong.
The man smiled. ‘By producing the will you seem so determined to get your hands on.’
‘The will?’ said Armstrong nervously.
‘Ah, I see I have finally touched what the British describe as a “raw nerve”.’ Armstrong stared down at the man as he placed a hand in his pocket and took out a card. ‘Why don’t you visit me when you’re next in the Russian sector?’ he said, handing over his card.
In the dim light, Armstrong couldn’t read the name on the card. When he looked up, the man had disappeared into the night.
He walked on a few paces until he came to a gas light, then looked down at the card again.
When Armstrong saw Colonel Oakshott the following morning, he reported everything that had happened in the American sector the previous evening and handed over Major Tulpanov’s card. The only thing he didn’t mention was that Tulpanov had addressed him as Lubji. Oakshott jotted down some notes on the pad in front of him. ‘Don’t mention this to anyone until I’ve made one or two inquiries,’ he said.
Armstrong was surprised to receive a call soon after he returned to his office: the colonel wanted him to return to headquarters immediately. He was quickly driven back across the sector by Benson. When he walked into Oakshott’s room for the second time that morning, he found his commanding officer flanked by two men he had never seen before, in civilian clothes. They introduced themselves as Captain Woodhouse and Major Forsdyke.