‘One million one hundred thousand?’ said the auctioneer, pointing the handle of his hammer at the assistant on the end phone. Armstrong sat in silence, not sure what he should do next, as a million francs was the figure they had agreed on. People began to turn round and stare in his direction. He remained silent, knowing that the woman on the phone would shake her head.
She shook her head.
‘I have a bid of one million on the aisle,’ said the auctioneer, pointing toward Armstrong. ‘Are there any more bids? Then I’m going to let this go for one million.’ His eyes scanned the audience hopefully, but no one responded. He finally brought the hammer down with a thud and, looking at Armstrong, said, ‘Sold to the gentleman on the aisle for one million francs.’ A burst of applause erupted around the room.
Sharon squeezed his hand again. But before Dick could catch his breath, a woman was kneeling on the floor beside him. ‘If you fill in this form, Mr. Armstrong, someone at the reception desk will advise you on collecting your lot.’
Armstrong nodded. But once he had completed the form, he did not head for the desk, but instead went to the nearest telephone in the lobby and dialed an overseas number. When the phone was answered he said, ‘Put me straight through to the manager.’ He gave the order for a million francs to be sent to Sotheby’s Geneva by swift telegraph transfer, as agreed. ‘And make it swift,’ said Armstrong, ‘because I’ve no desire to hang around here any longer than necessary.’
He replaced the phone and went over to the woman at the reception desk to explain how the account would be settled, just as the young man in the open-necked shirt began dialing an overseas number, despite the fact that he knew he would be waking his boss.
Townsend sat up in bed and listened carefully. ‘Why would Armstrong pay a million francs for a Fabergé egg?’ he asked.
‘I can’t work that out either,’ said the young man. ‘Hang on, he’s just going upstairs with the girl. I’d better stick with him. I’ll ring back as soon as I find out what he’s up to.’
Over lunch in the hotel dining room, Armstrong appeared so preoccupied that Sharon thought it sensible to say nothing unless he started a conversation. It was obvious that the egg had not been purchased for her. When he had put down his empty coffee cup, he asked her to go back to their room and finish packing, as he wanted to leave for the airport in an hour. ‘I have one more meeting to attend,’ he said, ‘but it shouldn’t take too long.’
When he kissed her on the cheek at the entrance to the hotel, the young man in the open-necked shirt knew which of them he would have preferred to follow.
‘See you in about an hour,’ he overheard his quarry say. Then Armstrong turned and almost ran down the wide staircase to the ballroom where the auction had taken place. He went straight to the woman seated behind the long table, checking purchase slips.
‘Ah, Mr. Armstrong, how nice to see you again,’ she said, giving him a million-franc smile. ‘Your funds have been cleared by swift telegraphic transfer. If you would be kind enough to join my colleague in the inner office,’ she said, indicating a door behind her, ‘you will be able to collect your lot.’
‘Thank you,’ said Armstrong, as she passed over his receipt for the masterpiece. He turned round, nearly bumping into a young man standing directly behind him, walked into the back office and presented his receipt to a man in a black tailcoat who was standing behind the counter.
The official checked the little slip carefully, took a close look at Mr. Armstrong, smiled and instructed the security guard to fetch Lot Forty-three, the Imperial Anniversary Egg of 1910. When the guard returned with the egg he was with the auctioneer, who gave the ornate piece one last longing look before holding it up for his customer to inspect. ‘Quite magnificent, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Quite magnificent,’ repeated Armstrong, grabbing the egg as if it were a rugby ball coming out of a loose scrum. He turned to leave without uttering another word, so didn’t hear the auctioneer whisper to his assistant, ‘Strange that none of us has ever come across Mr. Armstrong before.’
The doorman of the Hôtel de Bergues touched his cap as Armstrong slid into the back of a taxi, clinging on to the egg with both hands. He instructed the driver to take him to the Banque de Genève just as another empty taxi drew up behind them. The young man hailed it.
When Armstrong walked into the bank, which he had never entered before, he was greeted by a tall, thin, anonymous-looking man in morning dress, who wouldn’t have looked out of place proposing a toast to the bride at a society wedding in Hampshire. The man bowed low to indicate that he had been waiting for him. He did not ask Mr. Armstrong if he would like him to carry the egg.
‘Will you please follow me, sir?’ he said in English, leading Armstrong across the marble floor to a waiting lift. How did he know who he was? Armstrong wondered. They stepped into the lift and the doors closed. Neither spoke as they traveled slowly up to the top floor. The doors parted and the tailcoated man preceded him down a wide, thickly-carpeted corridor until he reached the last door. He gave a discreet knock, opened the door and announced, ‘Mr. Armstrong.’
A man in a pinstripe suit, stiff collar and silver-gray tie stepped forward and introduced himself as Pierre de Montiaque, the bank’s chief executive. He turned and faced another man seated on the far side of the boardroom table, then indicated that his visitor should take the vacant chair opposite him. Armstrong placed the Fabergé egg in the center of the table, and Alexander Sherwood rose from his place, leaned across and shook him warmly by the hand.
‘Good to see you again,’ he said.
‘And you,’ replied Armstrong, smiling. He took his seat and looked across at the man with whom he had closed the deal in Paris.
Sherwood picked up the Imperial Anniversary Egg of 1910 and studied it closely. A smile appeared on his face. ‘It will be the pride of my collection, and there should never be any reason for my brother or sister-in-law to become suspicious.’ He smiled again and nodded in the direction of the banker, who opened a drawer and extracted a document, which he passed across to Armstrong.
Dick studied the agreement that Stephen Hallet had drawn up for him before he’d flown to Paris the previous week. Once he had checked that no alterations had been made, he signed at the bottom of the fifth page and then pushed the document across the table. Sherwood showed no interest in checking the contents, but simply turned to the last page and penned his signature next to that of Richard Armstrong.
‘Can I therefore confirm that both sides are in agreement?’ said the banker. ‘I am currently holding $20 million on deposit, and only await Mr. Armstrong’s instructions to transfer it to Mr. Sherwood’s account.’
Armstrong nodded. Twenty million dollars was the sum Alexander and Margaret Sherwood had agreed should be paid for Alexander’s third share in the Globe, with an understanding that she would then part with her third for exactly the same amount. What Margaret Sherwood didn’t know was that Alexander had demanded a little reward for setting up the deaclass="underline" a Fabergé egg, which would not appear as part of the formal contract.
Armstrong might have paid a million more francs than was stated in the contract, but he was now in possession of 33.3 percent of a national newspaper which had once boasted the largest circulation in the world.
‘Then our business is concluded,’ said de Montiaque, rising from his place at the head of the table.
‘Not quite,’ said Sherwood, who remained seated. The chief executive resumed his place uneasily. Armstrong shuffled in his place. He could feel the sweat under his collar.