Mario ran a finger down the booking list. “A Mr. Keith Townsend, sir.”
That particular piece of the jigsaw had been well worth a pound, thought Armstrong as he marched out of the restaurant in front of his guest.
When they reached the pavement, Armstrong shook hands with the Russian and assured him that the publication process would be set in motion without delay. “That is good to hear, comrade,” said Valchek, in the most refined English accent. “And now,” he said, “I must hurry if I’m not to be late for an appointment with my tailor.” He quickly melted into the stream of people crossing the Strand, and disappeared in the direction of Savile Row.
As Benson drove him back to the office, Armstrong’s mind was not on Tulpanov, Yuri Gagarin, or even Forsdyke. Once he had reached the top floor he ran straight into Sally’s office, where he found her talking on the phone. He leaned across the desk and cut the caller off. “Why should Keith Townsend be interested in something called WRG?”
Sally, still holding the receiver, thought for a moment then suggested, “Western Railway Group?”
“No, that can’t be right—Townsend’s only interested in newspapers.”
“Do you want me to try and find out?”
“Yes,” said Armstrong. “If Townsend’s in London to buy something, I want to know what. Allow only the Berlin team to work on this one, and don’t let anyone else in on it.”
It took Sally, Peter Wakeham, Stephen Hallet and Reg Benson a couple of hours to supply several more pieces of the jigsaw, while Armstrong called his accountant and banker and warned them to be on twenty-four–hour standby.
By 4:15 Armstrong was studying a report on the West Riding Publishing Group which had been hand-delivered to him by Dunn & Bradstreet a few minutes earlier. After he had been through the figures a second time, he had to agree with Townsend that £120,000 was a fair price. But of course that was before Mr. John Shuttleworth knew he would be receiving a counter-offer.
The team were all seated around Armstrong’s desk ready to reveal their findings by six o’clock that evening.
Stephen Hallet had discovered who the other man at the table was, and which firm of solicitors he belonged to. “They’ve represented the Shuttleworth family for over half a century,” he told Armstrong. “Townsend has a meeting with John Shuttleworth, the present chairman, in Leeds tomorrow, but I couldn’t find out where or the precise time.” Sally smiled.
“Well done, Stephen. What have you got to offer, Peter?”
“I have Wolstenholme’s office and home numbers, the time of the train he’ll be catching back to Leeds, and the registration number of the car his wife will be driving when she meets him at the station. I managed to convince his secretary that I’m an old schoolfriend.”
“Good, you’ve filled in a couple of corners of the jigsaw,” said Armstrong. “What about you, Reg?” It had taken him years to stop addressing him as Private Benson.
“Townsend’s staying at the Ritz, and so is the girl. She’s called Kate Tulloh. Twenty-two years old, works on the Sunday Chronicle.?
?
“I think you’ll find it’s the Sydney Chronicle,” interrupted Sally.
“Bloody Australian accent,” said Reg in a cockney twang. “Miss Tulloh,” he continued, “the head porter assures me, is not only booked into a separate room from her boss, but is two floors below him.”
“So she’s not his mistress,” said Armstrong. “Sally, what have you come up with?”
“The connection between Townsend and Wolstenholme is that they were undergraduates at Oxford at the same time, as the Worcester College secretary confirmed. But the bad news is that John Shuttleworth is the sole shareholder of the West Riding Group, and virtually a recluse. I can’t find out where he lives, and he’s not on the telephone. In fact, no one at the group’s headquarters has seen him for several years. So the idea of making a counter-offer before twelve o’clock tomorrow is just not realistic.”
Sally’s news caused a glum silence, finally broken by Armstrong.
“Right then. Our only hope is somehow to stop Townsend attending the meeting in Leeds, and to take his place.”
“That won’t be easy if we don’t know where the meeting’s going to be held,” said Peter.
“The Queen’s Hotel,” said Sally.
“How can you be sure of that?” asked Armstrong.
“I rang all the large hotels in Leeds and asked if they had a reservation in Wolstenholme’s name. The Queen’s said he’d booked the White Rose Room from twelve to three, and would be serving lunch for a party of four at one o’clock. I can even tell you what’s on the menu.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Sally,” said Armstrong. “So now, let’s take advantage of the knowledge we have. Where is Wolst…”
“Already on his way back to Leeds,” interrupted Peter, “on the 6:50 from King’s Cross. He’s expected to be at his desk by nine tomorrow morning.”
“What about Townsend and the girl?” asked Armstrong. “Reg?”