‘That’s exactly what I came back home to talk to you about,’ said Townsend.
The blood drained out of Bruce’s face. ‘Are you serious, chief?’
‘Never been more serious,’ said Townsend, facing his friend. ‘I need you in London.’
‘Whatever for?’ asked Bruce. ‘The Globe is hardly the sort of paper I’ve been trained to edit. It’s far too traditional and British.’
‘That’s exactly why it’s losing sales every week. For one thing, its readers are so old that they’re literally dying on me. If I’m going to tackle Armstrong head-on, I need you as the next editor of the Globe. The whole paper has to be reshaped. The first thing to be done is to turn it into a tabloid.’
Bruce stared at his boss in disbelief. ‘But the unions will never wear it.’
‘I also have plans for them,’ said Townsend.
Armstrong was proud of the strapline that ran below the Citizen’s masthead. But although the sales of the paper had remained steady, he was beginning to feel that Alistair McAlvoy, Fleet Street’s longest-serving editor, might not be the right man to carry out his long-term strategy.
Armstrong remained puzzled as to why Townsend had flown off to Sydney. He couldn’t believe that he would allow the circulation figures of the Globe to keep on dropping without even putting up a fight. But as long as the Citizen was outselling the Globe by two to one, Armstrong didn’t hesitate to remind its loyal readers every morning that he was the proprietor of Britain’s best-selling newspaper. Armstrong Communications had just declared a profit of seventeen million pounds for the previous year, and everyone knew that its chief executive was now looking west for his next big acquisition.
He must have been told a thousand times, by people who imagined they were in the know, that Townsend had been buying up shares in the New York Star. What they didn’t realize was that he had been carrying out exactly the same exercise himself. He had been warned by Russell Critchley, his New York attorney, that once he was in possession of more than 5 percent of the stock he would, under the rules of the Securities and Exchange Commission, have to go public and state whether he intended to mount a full takeover.
He was now holding just over 4 ½ percent of the Star’s stock, and suspected that Townsend was in roughly the same position. But for the moment each was content to sit and wait for the other to make the first move. Armstrong knew that Townsend controlled more city and state newsprint in America than he did, despite his own recent acquisition of the Milwaukee Group and its eleven papers. Both knew that as the New York Times would never come up for sale, the ultimate prize in the Big Apple would be to take control of the tabloid market.
While Townsend remained in Sydney, going over his plans for the launching of the new Globe on an unsuspecting British public, Armstrong flew to Manhattan to prepare for his assault on the New York Star.
‘But Bruce Kelly knew nothing about it,’ said Townsend, as Sam drove him from Tullamarine airport into Melbourne.
‘I wouldn’t expect him to,’ said Sam. ‘He’s never even met the chairman’s driver.’
‘Are you trying to tell me that a driver knows something that no one else in the newspaper world has heard about?’
‘No. The deputy chairman also knows, because he was discussing it with the chairman in the back of the car.’
‘And the driver told you that the board are meeting at ten o’clock this morning?’
‘That’s right, chief. In fact he’s taking the chairman to the meeting right now.’
‘And the agreed price was $12 a share?’
‘That’s what the chairman and deputy chairman settled on in the back of the car,’ said Sam as he drove into the center of the city.
Townsend couldn’t think of any more questions to ask Sam that could prevent him from making a complete fool of himself. ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to take a wager on it?’ he said as the car turned into Flinders Street.
Sam thought about the proposition for some time before saying, ‘OK by me, chief.’ He paused. ‘A hundred dollars says I’m right.’
‘Oh no,’ said Townsend. ‘Your wages for a month, or we turn round and go straight back to the airport.’
Sam ran through a red light and just managed to avoid hitting a tram. ‘You’re on,’ he said finally. ‘But only if Arthur gets the same terms.’
‘And who in hell’s name is Arthur?’
‘The chairman’s driver.’
‘You and Arthur have got yourselves a deal,’ said Townsend, as the car drew up outside the Courier’s offices.
‘How long do you want me to wait?’ asked Sam.
‘Just as long as it takes you to lose a month’s wages,’ Townsend replied, slamming the car door behind him.
Townsend stared up at the building in which his father had begun his career as a reporter in the 1920s, and where he himself had carried out his first assignment as a trainee journalist while he was still at school, which his mother later told him she had sold to a rival without even letting him know. From the footpath he could pick out the room his father had worked in. Could the Courier really be up for sale without any of his professional advisers being aware of it? He had checked the share price that morning before taking the first flight out of Sydney: $8.40. Could he risk it all on the word of his driver? He began to wish Kate was with him, so that he could seek her opinion. Thanks to her, The Senator’s Mistress by Margaret Sherwood had spent two weeks at the bottom of the New York Times best-seller list, and the second million had been returned in full. To the surprise of both of them, the book had also received some reasonable reviews in the non-Townsend press. Keith had been amused to receive a letter from Mrs. Sherwood asking if he’d be interested in a three-book contract.
Townsend walked through the double doors and under the clock above the entrance to the foyer. He stood for a moment in front of a bronze bust of his father, remembering how as a child he had stretched up and tried to touch his hair. It only made him more nervous.
He turned and walked across the foyer, joining a group of people who stepped into the first available lift. They fell silent when they realized who it was. He pressed the button and the doors slid closed. He hadn’t been in the building for over thirty years, but he could still remember where the boardroom was — a few yards down the corridor from his father’s office.
The doors slid open on circulation, advertising and then editorial, until he was finally left alone in the lift. At the executive floor he stepped cautiously out into the corridor, and looked in both directions. He couldn’t see anyone. He turned to the right and walked toward the boardroom, his pace slowing as he passed his father’s old office. It then became slower and slower until he reached the boardroom door.
He was about to turn back, leave the building and tell Sam exactly what he thought of him, and his friend Arthur too, when he remembered the wager. If he hadn’t been such a bad loser, he might not have knocked on the door and, without waiting for a response, marched in.
Sixteen faces turned and stared up at him. He waited for the chairman to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, but no one spoke. It was almost as if they had been anticipating his arrival. ‘Mr. Chairman,’ he began, ‘I am willing to offer $12 a share for your stock in the Courier. As I leave for London tonight, we either close the deal right now or we don’t close it at all.’