‘Let’s just say that I’m also able to sort out one or two of his requirements,’ said Armstrong, placing a hand on the case of claret.
‘Quite so,’ said Hallet as he rose from his chair. ‘By the way, Dick, my demob papers have finally come through. I expect to be going home very soon.’
‘Congratulations, old chap,’ said Armstrong. ‘That’s marvelous news.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? And of course, should you ever need a lawyer when you get back to England...’
When Armstrong returned to his office twenty minutes later, Sally warned him that there was a visitor in his room who claimed he was a close friend, although she had never seen him before.
Armstrong opened the door to find Max Sackville pacing up and down. The first thing he said was, ‘The bet’s off, old buddy.’
‘What do you mean, “off”?’ said Armstrong, slipping the contract into the top drawer of his desk and turning the key in the lock.
‘What I said — off. My papers have finally come through. They’re shipping me back to North Carolina at the end of the month. Isn’t that great news?’
‘It certainly is,’ said Armstrong, ‘because with you out of the way, Hahn is bound to survive, and then nothing will stop me collecting my thousand dollars.’
Sackville stared at him. ‘You wouldn’t hold an old buddy to a bet when the circumstances have changed, would you?’
‘I most certainly would, old buddy,’ said Armstrong. ‘And what’s more, if you intend to welch, the whole American sector will know by this time tomorrow.’ Armstrong sat at his desk and watched as beads of perspiration appeared on the American’s forehead. He waited for a few moments before saying, ‘Tell you what I’ll do, Max. I’ll settle for $750, but only if you pay up today.’
It was almost a full minute before Max began to lick his lips. ‘Not a hope,’ he said. ‘I can still bring Hahn down by the end of the month. I’ll just have to speed things up a little — old buddy.’
He stormed out of the room, leaving Armstrong not altogether confident that Max could manage Hahn’s downfall on his own. Perhaps the time had come to give him a helping hand. He picked up the phone and told Sally he didn’t want to be disturbed for at least an hour.
When he had finished typing the two articles with one finger, he checked them both carefully before making a few small emendations to the texts. He then slipped the first sheet of paper into an unmarked buff envelope and sealed it. The second sheet he folded and placed in the top pocket of his jacket. He picked up the phone and asked Sally to send in his driver. Benson listened carefully as the captain told him what he wanted him to do, making him repeat his orders so as to be certain that he hadn’t misunderstood anything — especially the part about changing into civilian clothes.
‘And you are never to discuss this conversation with anyone, Reg — and I mean anyone. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Benson. He took the envelope, saluted and left the room.
Armstrong smiled, pressed the buzzer on his phone and asked Sally to bring in the post. He knew that the first edition of Der Telegraf would not be on sale at the station until shortly before midnight. No copies would reach the American or Russian sectors for at least an hour after that. It was vital that his timing should be perfect.
He remained at his desk for the rest of the day, checking the latest distribution figures with Lieutenant Wakeham. He also called Colonel Oakshott and read over the proposed article to him. The colonel didn’t see why a single word should be changed, and agreed that the piece could be published on Der Telegraf’s front page the following morning.
At six o’clock Private Benson, back in uniform, drove Armstrong to the flat, where he spent a relaxed evening with Charlotte. She seemed surprised and delighted that he was home so early. After he had put David to bed, they had supper together. He managed three helpings of his favorite stew, and Charlotte decided not to mention that she thought perhaps he was putting on a little weight.
Shortly after eleven, Charlotte suggested it was time to go to bed. Dick agreed, but said, ‘I’ll just pop out and pick up the first edition of the paper. I’ll only be a few minutes.’ He checked his watch. It was 11:50. He stepped out onto the pavement and walked slowly in the direction of the station, arriving a few minutes before the first edition of Der Telegraf was due to be dropped off.
He checked his watch again: it was almost twelve. They must be running late. But perhaps that was just a consequence of Arno being in the Russian sector, visiting his brother. He had to wait only a few more minutes before the familiar red van swung round the corner and came to a halt by the entrance to the station. He slipped into the shadows behind a large column as a bundle of papers landed on the pavement with a thud, before the van sped off in the direction of the Russian sector.
A man walked out of the station and bent down to untie the string as Armstrong ambled over and stood above him. When he looked up and saw who it was, he nodded in recognition and handed him the top copy.
He quickly read through the front-page article to make sure they hadn’t changed a word. They hadn’t. Everything, including the headline, was exactly as he’d typed it out.
Julius Hahn, the chairman of the famous publishing house that bears his name, was under increasing pressure last night to make a public statement concerning the company’s future.
His flagship paper, Der Berliner, has not been seen on the streets of the capital for the past six days, and some of his magazines are reported to be several weeks behind schedule. One leading wholesaler said last night, ‘We can no longer rely on Hahn’s publications being available from one day to the next, and we are having to consider alternatives.’
Herr Hahn, who spent the day with his lawyers and accountants, was not available for comment, but a spokesman for the company admitted that they would not meet their projected forecasts for the coming year. When contacted last night, Herr Hahn was unwilling to speak on the record about the company’s future.
Armstrong smiled and checked his watch. The second edition would just about be coming off the presses, but would not yet be stacked and ready for the returning vans. He strode purposefully in the direction of Der Telegraf, arriving seventeen minutes later. He marched in and shouted at the top of his voice that he wanted to see whoever was in charge in Herr Schultz’s office immediately. A man whom Armstrong wouldn’t have recognized had he passed him in the street hurried in to join him.
‘Who’s responsible for this?’ Armstrong shouted, throwing his copy of the first edition of the paper down on the desk.
‘You were, sir,’ said the deputy editor, looking surprised.
‘What do you mean, I was?’ said Armstrong. ‘I had nothing to do with it.’
‘But the article was sent to us directly from your office, sir.’
‘Not by me it wasn’t,’ said Armstrong.
‘But the man said you had told him to deliver it personally.’
‘What man? Have you ever seen him before?’ asked Armstrong.
‘No, sir, but he assured me that he had come straight from your office.’
‘How was he dressed?’
The deputy editor remained silent for a few moments. ‘In a gray suit, if I remember, sir,’ he eventually said.