“If you don’t move and move quickly, I’ll break your bloody neck,” said Townsend.
“I don’t have to listen to language like that from anyone,” said the driver. He got out of the car, unlocked the boot and began unloading their cases onto the curb.
Townsend was about to leap out after him when Kate took his hand. “Sit still and let me deal with this,” she said firmly.
Townsend was unable to hear the conversation that was taking place behind the car, but after a few moments he could see the cases being put back into the boot.
When Kate rejoined him, he said, “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, thank him,” she whispered.
The driver eased the car away from the curb, turned left at the lights, and joined the morning traffic. He was relieved that the traffic leaving London at that time in the morning wasn’t like the bumper-to-bumper queues that were trying to fight their way into the capital.
“I’ll have to call Downer as soon as we get to the airport,” said Townsend quietly.
“Why do you want to speak to him again?” asked Kate.
“I thought I’d try and have a word with my mother’s doctor in Melbourne before we take off, but I don’t have the number.”
Kate nodded. Townsend began tapping his fingers on the window. He tried to remember the last meeting he had had with his mother. He had briefed her on the possible takeover of the West Riding Group, and she had responded with her usual set of shrewd questions. After dinner he had left, promising her that he would call her from Leeds if he closed the deal.
“And who’s the girl going with you?” she had asked. He’d been cagey, but he knew he hadn’t fooled her. He glanced across at Kate and wanted to take her hand, but she seemed preoccupied. Neither of them spoke until they arrived at the airport. When the car pulled up outside the terminal, Townsend jumped out and went in search of a trolley while the driver unloaded the cases. The moment they were stacked up, he gave him a large tip, said “Thank you” several times, then pushed the trolley as fast as he could through the hall to the checking-in counter, with Kate following a pace behind him.
“Are we still in time for the Melbourne flight?” Townsend asked as he placed his passport on the Qantas check-in desk.
“Yes, Mr. Townsend,” the booking clerk replied, flicking open his passport. “The High Commissioner called earlier.” She looked up and said, “We have reserved two tickets for you, one in your name, the other for Miss Tulloh.”
“That’s me,” said Kate, handing over her passport.
“You’re both in first class, seats 3D and E. Would you please go straight to gate number seventeen, where boarding is about to commence.”
By the time they arrived in the departure lounge, economy was already boarding, and Townsend left Kate to check them in while he went off in search of a telephone. He had to wait in a queue of three for the one available phone, and when he eventually reached the front of the line, he dialed Henry’s home number. It was engaged. He tried three more times, but it continued to give out the same long beeps. As he began dialing the number at the head of the High Commissioner’s writing paper, a booking clerk announced that all remaining passengers should take their seats, as the gates were about to close. The High Commissioner’s number began to ring, and Townsend glanced round to find that the departure lounge was empty, apart from him and Kate. He waved her in the direction of the aircraft.
Townsend let the phone ring for a few more moments, but no one answered. He gave up and replaced the receiver, then ran down the corridor to find Kate waiting by the door of the plane. Once they had entered it, the doors swung closed behind them.
“Any luck?” asked Kate, as she began strapping herself into the seat.
“No,” said Townsend. “Henry was constantly engaged, and the High Commission didn’t answer the phone.”
Kate remained silent as the plane taxied toward the runway. When it came to a halt, she said, “While you were on the phone, I began thinking. It just doesn’t add up.”
The plane began to accelerate down the runway as Townsend fastened his seatbelt.
“What do you mean, it doesn’t add up?”
“The last hour,” said Kate.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, to start with, my ticket.”
“Your ticket?” said Keith, puzzled.
“Yes. How did Qantas know what name to book it in?”
“I suppose the High Commissioner told them.”
“But how could he?” said Kate. “When he sent you the invitation to dinner it didn’t include me, because he had no idea that I was with you.”
“He could have asked the hotel manager.”
“Possibly. But something else has been nagging at the back of my mind.”
“And what’s that?”
“The bellboy knew exactly which table to go to.”
“So what?”
“You were facing me in the corner of the room looking toward the window, but I just happened to look up when he came into the Palm Court. I remember thinking it was strange that he knew exactly where to go, despite you having your back to him.”
“He could have asked the head waiter.”
“No,” said Kate. “He walked straight past the head waiter. Didn’t even give him a glance.”
“What are you getting at?”
“And Henry’s phone—continually engaged even though it was only just after 8:30 in the morning.” The wheels of the plane left the ground. “And why couldn’t you get through to the High Commissioner at 8:30 when you could at 7:20?”
Keith looked straight at her.
“We’ve been taken, Keith. And by someone who wanted to be certain that you wouldn’t be in Leeds at twelve o’clock to sign that contract.”
Keith flicked off his seatbelt, ran up the aisle and barged into the cockpit before the steward could stop him. The captain listened to his story sympathetically, but pointed out that there was nothing he could do now that the plane was on its way to Bombay.
* * *
“Flight 009 has taken off for Melbourne with both pieces of cargo on board,” said Benson from a telephone in the observation tower. He watched as the Comet disappeared through a bank of clouds. “They will be in the air for at least the next fourteen hours.”
“Well done, Reg,” said Armstrong. “Now get back to the Ritz. Sally’s already booked the room Townsend was in, so wait there for Wolstenholme to call. My guess is that it will be soon after twelve. By then I’ll have arrived at the Queen’s Hotel, and I’ll let you know my room number.”
Keith sat in his seat on the plane, banging the armrests with the palms of his hands. “Who are they, and how did they manage it?”
Kate was fairly certain she knew who, and a great deal of how.
* * *
Three hours later, a call came through to the Ritz for Mr. Keith Townsend. The switchboard operator followed the instructions she’d been given by the extremely generous gentleman who’d had a word with her earlier that morning, and put the call through to room 319, where Benson was sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Is Keith there?” asked an anxious voice.
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Henry Wolstenholme,” he boomed.
“Good morning, Mr. Wolstenholme. Mr. Townsend tried to call you this morning, but your line was continually engaged.”
“I know. Someone called me at home around seven, but it turned out to be a wrong number. When I tried to dial out later, the line had gone dead. But where is Keith?”
“He’s on a plane to Melbourne. His mother’s had a heart attack and the High Commissioner arranged to hold up the flight for him.”
“I’m sorry to hear about Keith’s mother, but I fear Mr. Shuttleworth may not be willing to hold up the contract. It’s been hard enough to get him to agree to see us at all.”
Benson read out the exact words Armstrong had written down for him: “Mr. Tow
nsend instructed me to say that he has sent a representative up to Leeds with the authority to sign any contract, as long as you have no objection.”
“I have no objection,” said Wolstenholme. “When is he expected to arrive?”
“He should be at the Queen’s Hotel by now. He left for Leeds soon after Mr. Townsend departed for Heathrow. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was already in the hotel looking for you.”
“I’d better go down to the foyer and see if I can find him,” said Wolstenholme.
“By the way,” said Benson, “our accountant just wanted to check the final figure—£120,000.”
“Plus all the legal expenses,” said Wolstenholme.
“Plus all the legal expenses,” repeated Benson. “I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Wolstenholme.” He put the phone down.
Wolstenholme left the White Rose Room and headed down in the lift, confident that if Keith’s lawyer had a money draft for the full amount, he could still have everything settled before Mr. Shuttleworth arrived. There was only one problem: he had no idea who he was looking for.
Benson asked the switchboard operator to connect him to a number in Leeds. When the call was answered, he asked to be put through to room 217.
“Well done, Benson,” said Armstrong after he had confirmed the figure of £120,000. “Now book out of the hotel, pay the bill in cash and take the rest of the day off.”
Armstrong left room 217 and took the lift down to the ground floor. As he stepped out into the foyer he saw Hallet talking to the man he had seen at the Savoy. He went straight over to them. “Good morning,” he said. “My name is Richard Armstrong, and this is the company lawyer. I think you’re expecting us.”
Wolstenholme stared at Armstrong. He could have sworn he’d seen him somewhere before. “Yes. I’ve booked us into the White Rose Room so we won’t be disturbed.”
The two men nodded and followed him. “Sad news about Keith’s mother,” said Wolstenholme as they stepped into the lift.
“Yes, wasn’t it?” said Armstrong, careful not to add anything that might later incriminate him.
Once they had taken their places round the boardroom table in the White Rose Room, Armstrong and Hallet checked over the details of the contract line by line, while Wolstenholme sat in the corner drinking coffee. He was surprised that they were going over the final draft so thoroughly when Keith had already given it his blessing, but he accepted that he would have done the same in their position. From time to time Hallet came up with a question which was invariably followed by a whispered exchange with Armstrong. An hour later they passed the contract back to Wolstenholme and confirmed that everything was in order.
Wolstenholme was about to ask some questions of his own, when a middle-aged man shuffled in, dressed in a prewar suit that hadn’t yet come back into fashion. Wolstenholme introduced John Shuttleworth, who smiled shyly. After they had shaken hands Armstrong said, “Nothing left for us to do except sign the contract.”
John Shuttleworth nodded his agreement, and Armstrong removed a pen from inside his jacket and bent down to sign where Stephen’s trembling finger was poised. He passed the pen over to Shuttleworth, who signed between the penciled crosses without uttering a word. Stephen then handed over a draft for £120,000 to Wolstenholme. The lawyer nodded when Armstrong reminded him that as it was a draft for cash, it would perhaps be wise to bank it immediately.
“I’ll just pop across to the nearest Midland while they’re setting up for lunch,” said Wolstenholme. “I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
When Wolstenholme returned, he found Shuttleworth seated at the lunch table on his own. “Where are the other two?” he asked.
“They were most apologetic, but said they couldn’t wait for lunch—had to get back to London.” Wolstenholme looked perplexed. There were still several questions he wanted to ask—and he didn’t know where to send his bill. Shuttleworth poured him a glass of champagne and said, “Congratulations, Henry. You couldn’t have done a more professional job. I must say your friend Townsend is obviously a man of action.”
“Not much doubt about that,” said Wolstenholme.
“And generous, too,” said Shuttleworth.
“Generous?”
“Yes—they may have left without saying goodbye, but they threw in a couple of bottles of champagne.”
* * *
When Wolstenholme arrived home that night, the phone was ringing. He picked it up to find Townsend on the other end of the line.
“I was so sorry to hear about your mother,” were Henry’s opening words.
“There’s nothing wrong with my mother,” said Townsend sharply.
“What?” said Henry. “But…”
“I’m returning on the next available flight. I’ll be in Leeds by tomorrow evening.”
“No need to do that, old chap,” said Henry, slightly bemused. “Shuttleworth has already signed.”
“But the contract still needs my signature,” said Townsend.
“No it doesn’t. Your representative signed everything on your behalf,” said Henry, “and I can assure you that all the paperwork was in order.”
“My representative?” said Townsend.
“Yes, a Mr. Richard Armstrong. I banked his draft for £120,000 just before lunch. There’s really no need for you to come all the way back. WRG now belongs to you.”
Townsend slammed the phone down and turned round to find Kate standing behind him. “I’m going on to Sydney, but I want you to return to London and find out everything you can about a man called Richard Armstrong.”
“So that’s the name of the man who was sitting in the next alcove to us at the Savoy.”
“It would seem so,” said Townsend, spitting out the words.
“And he now owns the West Riding Group?”
“Yes, he does.”
“Can’t you do anything about it?”
“I could sue him for misrepresentation, even fraud, but that could take years. In any case, a man who would go to that amount of trouble will have made sure he stayed within the letter of the law. And one thing’s for sure: Shuttleworth isn’t going to agree to appear in any witness box.”
Kate frowned. “Well then, I can’t see much point in returning to London now. I suspect your battle with Mr. Richard Armstrong has only just begun. We may as well spend the night in Bombay,” she suggested. “I’ve never been to India.”
Townsend looked at her, but didn’t say anything until he spotted a TWA captain heading toward them.
“Which is the best hotel in Bombay?” he asked him.
The captain stopped. “They tell me the Grand Palace is in a class of its own, but I’ve never actually stayed there myself,” he replied.
“Thank you,” said Townsend, and began pushing their baggage toward the exit. Just as they stepped out of the terminal it began to rain.
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.