Townsend loaded their bags into a waiting taxi that he felt certain would have been decommissioned in any other country. Once he had joined Kate in the back, they began the long journey into Bombay. Although some of the street lights were working, the taxi’s were not, nor were its windscreen wipers. And the driver didn’t seem to know how to get out of second gear. But he was able to confirm every few minutes that the Grand Palace was ‘in a class of its own.’
When they eventually swept into the driveway, a clap of thunder struck above them. Keith had to admit that the ornate white building was certainly large and palatial, even if the more seasoned traveler might ungraciously have added the word ‘faded.’
‘Welcome,’ said a man in a fashionable dark suit as they entered the marble-floored foyer. ‘My name is Mr. Baht. I am the general manager.’ He bowed low. ‘May I ask what name your booking is in?’
‘We don’t have a reservation. We’ll be needing two rooms,’ said Keith.
‘That is indeed unfortunate,’ said Mr. Baht, ‘because I am almost certain that we are fully booked for the night. Let me find out.’ He ushered them toward the reservation desk and spoke for some time to the booking clerk. The clerk kept shaking his head. Mr. Baht studied the reservation sheet himself and finally turned to face them again.
‘I’m very very sorry to tell you that we have only one room vacant,’ he said, placing his hands together, perhaps in the hope that through the power of prayer one room might miraculously turn into two. ‘And I fear...’
‘You fear...?’ said Keith.
‘It is the Royal Suite, sahib.’
‘How appropriate,’ said Kate, ‘remembering your views on the monarchy.’ She was trying not to laugh. ‘Does it have a sofa?’ she asked.
‘Several,’ said a surprised general manager, who had never been asked that question before.
‘Then we’ll take it,’ said Kate.
After they had filled in the booking form, Mr. Baht clapped his hands and a porter in a long red tunic, red pantaloons and a red turban came bustling forward.
‘Very fine suite,’ said the porter as he carried their bags up the wide staircase. This time Kate did laugh. ‘Slept in by Lord Mountbatten,’ he added with obvious pride, ‘and many maharajahs. Very fine suite.’ He placed the bags by the entrance to the Royal Suite, put a large key in the lock and pushed open the double door, then switched on the lights and stood aside to usher them in.
The two of them walked into an enormous room. Up against the far wall was a vast, opulent double bed, which could have slept half a dozen maharajahs. And to Keith’s disappointment there were, as Mr. Baht had promised, several large sofas.
‘Very fine bed,’ said the porter, placing their bags in the center of the room. Keith handed him a pound note. The porter bowed low, turned and left the room as a flash of lightning shot across the sky and the lights suddenly went out.
‘How did you manage that?’ asked Kate.
‘If you look out of the window, I think you’ll find it was carried out by a far higher authority than me.’ Kate turned to see that the whole city was in darkness.
‘So, shall we just stand around waiting for the lights to come back on, or shall we go in search of somewhere to sit down?’ Keith put out his hand in the darkness, and touched Kate’s hip. ‘You lead,’ she said, taking his hand. He turned in the direction of the bed and began taking small paces toward it, sweeping the air in front of him with his free arm until he eventually hit the corner post. They fell onto the large mattress together, laughing.
‘Very fine bed,’ said Keith.
‘Slept in by many maharajahs,’ said Kate.
‘And by Lord Mountbatten,’ said Keith.
Kate laughed. ‘By the way, Keith, you didn’t have to buy off the Bombay electricity company just to get me into bed. I’ve spent the last week thinking you were only interested in my brain.’
Fourth Edition
Armstrong and Townsend Battle for the Globe
22
The Times
1 April 1966
Labor Sweeps to Power: Majority of 100 Assured
Armstrong glanced at a typist he didn’t recognize, and walked on into his office to find Sally on the phone.
‘Who’s my first appointment?’
‘Derek Kirby,’ she said, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece.
‘And who’s he?’
‘A former editor of the Daily Express. The poor man only lasted eight months, but he claims to have some interesting information for you. Shall I ask him to come in?’
‘No, let him wait a little longer,’ said Armstrong. ‘Who’s on the line now?’
‘Phil Barker. He’s calling from Leeds.’
Armstrong nodded and took the phone from Sally to speak to the new chief executive of the West Riding Group.
‘Did they agree to my terms?’
‘They settled for £1.3 million, to be paid over the next six years in equal installments — as long as sales remain constant. But if sales drop during the first year, every succeeding payment will also drop pro rata.’
‘They didn’t spot the flaw in the contract?’
‘No,’ said Barker. ‘They assumed that you would want to put the circulation up in the first year.’
‘Good. Just see that you fix the lowest audited figure possible, then we’ll start building them up again in the second year. That way I’ll save myself a fortune. How about the Hull Echo and the Grimsby Times?’
‘Early days yet, but now that everybody realizes you’re a buyer, Dick, my task isn’t made any easier.’
‘We’ll just have to offer more and pay less.’
‘And how do you propose to do that?’ asked Barker.
‘By inserting clauses that make promises we have absolutely no intention of keeping. Never forget that old family concerns rarely sue, because they don’t like ending up in court. So always take advantage of the letter of the law. Don’t break it, just bend it as far as it will go without snapping. Get on with it.’ Armstrong put the phone down.
‘Derek Kirby is still waiting,’ Sally reminded him.
Armstrong checked his watch. ‘How long has he been hanging about?’
‘Twenty, twenty-five minutes.’
‘Then let’s go through the post.’
After twenty-one years, Sally knew which invitations Armstrong would accept, which charities he didn’t want to support, which gatherings he was willing to address and whose dinner parties he wanted to be seen at. The rule was to say yes to anything that might advance his career, and no to the rest. When she closed her shorthand pad forty minutes later, she pointed out that Derek Kirby had now been waiting for over an hour.
‘All right, you can send him in. But if you get any interesting calls, put them through.’
When Kirby entered the room, Armstrong made no attempt to rise from his place, but simply jabbed a finger at the seat on the far side of the desk.
Kirby appeared nervous; Armstrong had found that keeping someone waiting for any length of time almost always made them on edge. His visitor must have been about forty-five, though the furrows on his forehead and his receding hairline made him look older. His suit was smart, but not of the latest fashion, and although his shirt was clean and well ironed, the collar and cuffs were beginning to fray. Armstrong suspected he had been living on freelance work since leaving the Express, and would be missing his expense account. Whatever Kirby had to sell, he could probably offer him half and pay a quarter.
‘Good morning, Mr. Armstrong,’ Kirby said before he sat down.