“McAlvoy didn’t edit the paper last night.”
“Then who in heaven’s name did?”
“Kevin Rushcliffe,” the lawyer replied.
Armstrong didn’t get back to sleep that night. Nor did most of Fleet Street, who were frantically trying to contact the foreign secretary and/or the actress/model. By the time their final editions came out, most of them had established that he had never actually met Miss Soda Water Syphon 1983.
The story was so widely discussed the following morning that few people spotted a little item tucked away on page seven of the Citizen under the headline “Bricks but no Mortarboard,” which claimed that one of Britain’s leading architects was designing council houses which kept falling down. A hand-delivered letter from his equally distinguished solicitor pointed out that Sir Angus had never designed a council house in his life. The solicitor enclosed a copy of the apology he expected to be published on the front page of the following day’s paper, and a note stating the size of the donation that should be sent to the architect’s favorite charity.
On the food pages a leading restaurant was accused of poisoning a customer a day, while the travel section named the tour company alleged to have left the most holiday-makers stranded in Spain without a hotel room. On the back page the England football manager was said to have …
McAlvoy made it clear to everyone who called him at home that morning that he had been sacked by Armstrong the previous day and told to clear his desk immediately. He had left Armstrong House at 4:19, leaving the deputy editor in charge. “That’s Rushcliffe with an e,” he added helpfully.
Every member of staff who was approached confirmed McAlvoy’s story.
Stephen Hallet rang Armstrong five times during the day, telling him on every occasion that he had received a writ, and recommending that each of them be settled, and settled quickly.
The Globe reported on page two the sad departure of Alistair McAlvoy from the Citizen after a decade’s devoted service. They went on to describe him as the doyen of Fleet Street editors, who would be sadly missed by all true professionals.
* * *
When the Globe sold three million copies for the first time, Townsend held a party to celebrate. This time most of the leading politicians and media personalities did attend—despite Armstrong’s rival party to celebrate the Citizen’s eightieth anniversary.
“Well, at least he got the date right this time,” said Townsend.
“Talking about dates,” said Bruce, “when can I hope to return to Australia? I don’t suppose you’ve noticed, but I haven’t been home for five years.”
“You don’t go home until you’ve removed the words ‘Britain’s Best-Selling Daily’ from the Citizen’s masthead,” replied Townsend.
Bruce Kelly didn’t book a flight to Sydney for another fifteen months, when the audit commission announced that the Globe’s daily sales for the previous month had averaged 3,612,000 against the Citizen’s 3,610,000. The Globe’s banner headline the following morning was “GET ’EM OFF,” above a picture of the twenty-two-stone Armstrong in boxer shorts.
When the Citizen’s boast remained firmly in place, the Globe informed “the world’s most discerning readers” that the proprietor of the Citizen still hadn’t honored his debt of £100,000 from his lost bet, and was “not only a bad loser, but also a welcher.”
Armstrong sued Townsend for libel the following day. Even The Times felt this was worthy of comment: “Only the lawyers will benefit,” it concluded.
The case reached the High Court eighteen months later, and lasted for over three weeks, regularly making every front page except that of the Independent. Mr. Michael Beloff QC, on behalf of the Globe, argued that the official audit figures proved his client’s case. Mr. Anthony Grabinar QC pointed out for the Citizen that the audited figures did not include the sales of the Scottish Citizen, which when combined with those of the Daily kept its circulation comfortably ahead of the Globe.
The jury retired for five hours to consider their verdict, and by a majority of ten to two came down in favor of Armstrong. When the judge asked what damages they were recommending, the foreman stood up and declared without hesitation, “Twelve pence, m’Lud,”—the price of a copy of the Citizen.
The judge told leading counsel that in the circumstances he felt both sides should pay their own costs, which were conservatively estimated at one million pounds each. Counsel nodded their acquiescence and began gathering up their briefs.
The following day the Financial Times, in a long article on the two press barons, predicted that one of them must eventually cause the other’s downfall. However, the reporter went on to reveal that the trial had helped to increase the sales of both papers, which in the case of the Globe had passed four million copies for the first time.
Next day both groups’ shares rose by a penny.
* * *
While Armstrong was reading about himself in the acres of column inches devoted to the trial, Townsend was concentrating on an article in the New York Times which had been faxed over to him by Tom Spencer.
Although he had never heard of Lloyd Summers, or the art gallery that was coming to the end of its lease, when he reached the last line of the fax he realized why Tom had written boldly across the top: FOR IMMEDIATE ATTENTION.
After he had read the piece for a second time, Townsend asked Heather to get Tom on the line, and after she had done that, to book him onto the earliest possible flight to New York.
Tom wasn’t surprised that his client rang back within minutes of the fax being placed on his desk. After all, he had been looking for an opportunity to get his hands on a substantial shareholding in the New York Star for over a decade.
Townsend listened intently as Tom told him everything he had found out about Mr. Lloyd Summers and why his art gallery was looking for new premises. When he had exhausted all his questions, he instructed his lawyer to arrange a meeting with Summers as quickly as possible. “I’ll be flying to New York tomorrow morning,” he added.
“No need for you to come all this way, Keith. I can always see Summers on your behalf.”
“No,” Townsend replied. “With the Star it’s personal. I want to close this particular deal myself.”
“Keith, you do realize that if you succeed you’ll have to become an American citizen,” said Tom.
“As I’ve told you many times, Tom, never.”
He put the phone down and jotted some notes on a pad. Once he had worked out how much he was willing to offer, he picked up the receiver and asked Heather what time his flight was. If Armstrong wasn’t on the same plane, he could close a deal with Summers before anyone realized that a lease on an art gallery in SoHo could hold the key to his becoming the owner of the New York Star.
* * *
“My bet is that Townsend will be on the first flight to New York,” said Armstrong, once Russell Critchley had finished reading the article out to him.
“Then you’d better be on the same plane,” said his New York attorney, sitting on the end of his bed.
“No way,” said Armstrong. “Why alert the bastard to the fact that we know as much as he does? No, my best bet is to make a move even before his plane touches down. Set up an appointment to see Summers as soon as possible.”
“I doubt if the gallery opens much before ten.”
“Then make sure you’re outside waiting for him at five to ten.”
“How much leeway have I got?”
“Give him anything he wants,” said Armstrong. “Even offer to buy him a new gallery. But whatever you do, don’t let Townsend get anywhere near him, because if we can convince Summers to back us, that will open the door to his mother.”
“Right,” said Critchley, pulling on a sock. “I’d better get moving.”
“Just make sure you’re outside the gallery before it opens,” said Armstrong. He paused. “And if Townsend’s lawyer gets there before you, run him over.”
Critchley would have laughed, but he wasn�
��t entirely sure that his client was joking.
* * *
Tom was waiting outside the customs hall when his client came through the swing doors.
“The news isn’t good, Keith,” were his first words after they had shaken hands.
“What do you mean?” said Townsend as they headed toward the exit. “Armstrong couldn’t have got to New York ahead of me, because I know he was still at his desk at the Citizen when I flew out of Heathrow.”
“He may still be at his desk right now, for all I know,” said Tom, “but Russell Critchley, his New York attorney, had an appointment with Summers earlier this morning.”
Townsend stopped in the middle of the road, ignoring the screeching of brakes and the immediate cacophony of taxi horns.
“Did they sign a deal?”
“I have no idea,” said Tom. “All I can tell you is that when I got into my office, Summers’s secretary had left a message on my machine saying that your appointment had been canceled.”
“Damn. Then our first stop has to be the gallery,” said Townsend, finally stepping onto the sidewalk. “They can’t have signed a contract yet. Damn. Damn,” he repeated. “I should have let you see him in the first place.”
* * *
“He’s agreed to pledge you his 5 percent share in the Star if you’ll put up the money for a new gallery,” said Critchley.
“And what’s that going to cost me?” asked Armstrong, putting down his fork.
“He hasn’t found the right building yet, but he thinks around three million.”
“How much?”
“You would of course own the lease on the building…”
“Of course.”
“… and as the gallery is registered as a non-profit-making charity, there are some tax advantages.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line before Armstrong said, “So how did you leave it?”
“When he reminded me for the third time that he had an appointment with Townsend later this morning, I said yes, subject to contract.”
“Did you sign anything?”
“No. I explained that you were on your way over from London, and I didn’t have the authority to do so.”
“Good. Then we still have a little time to…”
“I doubt it,” said Russell. “Summers knows only too well that he’s got you by the balls.”
“It’s when people think they’ve got me by the balls,” said Armstrong, “that I most enjoy screwing them.”
32.
Wall Street Journal
12 November 1986
NEW YORK STOCKS DIVE RECORD 86.61 POINTS
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Armstrong began. “I have called this press conference to announce that I informed the Securities Exchange Commission this morning that it is my intention to make an official takeover bid for the New York Star. I am delighted to report that a major shareholder in the paper, Mrs. Nancy Summers, has sold her stock to Armstrong Communications at a price of $4.10 per share.”
Although some journalists continued to write down Armstrong’s every word, this piece of news had been flagged up in most papers for over a week. Most of the journalists’ pencils remained poised as they waited for the real news.
“But I am especially proud to announce today,” continued Armstrong, “that Mr. Lloyd Summers, the son of Mrs. Summers and the director of the foundation which bears her name, has also pledged the 5 percent of the company held in trust to my cause.
“It will come as no surprise to you that it is my intention to continue to support the outstanding work the Summers Foundation does in prompting the careers of young artists and sculptors who would not normally be given the chance to exhibit in a major gallery. I have, as many of you will know, had a lifelong involvement with the arts, in particular with young artists.” Not one journalist present could remember a single artistic event Armstrong had ever attended, let alone supported. Most of the pencils remained poised.
“With Mr. Summers’s backing, I am now in control of 19 percent of the Star’s stock, and I look forward in the near future to becoming the majority shareholder and taking over as chairman of the paper at the AGM next month.”
Armstrong looked up from the statement that had been prepared for him by Russell Critchley, and smiled at the sea of faces. “I shall now be happy to answer your questions.”
Russell felt that Dick handled the first few questions well, but then he pointed to a woman seated in the third row.
“Janet Brewer, Washington Post. Mr. Armstrong, may I ask for your reaction to the press release issued this morning by Keith Townsend?”
“I never read Mr. Townsend’s press releases,” said Armstrong. “They’re about as accurate as his newspapers.”
“Then allow me to enlighten you,” she said, looking down at a sheet of paper. “It seems that Mr. Townsend has the backing of the bankers J.P. Grenville, who have pledged 11 percent of their portfolio stock in support of his bid to take over the Star. With his own shareholding, that gives him over 15 percent.”
Armstrong looked straight at her and said, “As chairman of the Star, I shall look forward to welcoming Mr. Townsend to next month’s AGM—as a minority shareholder.”
This time the pencils wrote down his every word.
* * *
Sitting in his newly acquired apartment on the thirty-seventh floor of Trump Tower, Armstrong read over Townsend’s press release. He chuckled when he came to the paragraph in which Townsend praised the work of the Summers Foundation. “Too late,” he said out loud. “That 5 percent belongs to me.”
He immediately gave instructions to his brokers to buy up any Star stock that came on the market, whatever the price. The shares rocketed as it became clear that Townsend had given the same order. Some financial analysts suggested that because of “a strong personal animosity,” both men were paying well above the real value.
For the next four weeks Armstrong and Townsend, accompanied by a battery of lawyers and accountants, spent every waking hour in planes, trains and cars as they zigzagged across America, trying to convince banks and institutions, trusts and even the occasional wealthy widow to support them in the battle to take over the Star.
The chairman of the paper, Cornelius J. Adams IV, announced that he would hand over the reins of power at the AGM to whichever contender controlled 51 percent of the shares. With only two weeks to go before the Star’s AGM, the financial editors were still unable to agree on who had the largest shareholding in the company. Townsend announced that he now controlled 46 percent of the stock, while Armstrong claimed that he had 41 percent. The analysts therefore concluded that whichever one of them was able to capture the 10 percent held by the Applebaum Corporation must surely carry the day.
Vic Applebaum was determined to enjoy his fifteen minutes of fame, and declared to anyone who cared to listen that it was his intention to see both would-be proprietors before he came to a final decision. He chose the Tuesday before the AGM to conduct the interviews which would decide on whom he should bestow his favor.
The two rivals’ lawyers met on neutral ground, and agreed that Armstrong should be allowed to see Applebaum first, which Tom Spencer assured his client was a tactical error. Townsend agreed, until Armstrong emerged from the meeting clutching the share certificates which proved he was in possession of Applebaum’s 10 percent.
“How did he manage that?” Townsend asked in disbelief.
Tom didn’t have an answer until he read the first edition of the New York Times at breakfast the following morning. Its media correspondent informed readers on the front page that Armstrong had not spent a great deal of time explaining to Mr. Applebaum how he would manage the Star, but had concentrated more on telling him in Yiddish that he had never really recovered from losing his entire family in the Holocaust, and that he had ended their meeting by disclosing that the proudest moment in his life had been when the prime minister of Israel had appointed him as the country’s roving ambassador to the US
SR, with a special brief to assist Russian Jews who wished to emigrate to Israel. At this point Applebaum apparently broke down in tears, handed over the stock and refused to see Townsend.
Armstrong announced that as he now controlled 51 percent of the company, he was therefore the new owner of the New York Star. The Wall Street Journal concurred, declaring that the Star’s AGM would be nothing more than an anointing ceremony. But it added a postscript pointing out that Keith Townsend shouldn’t be too depressed about having lost the paper to his great rival. Because of the huge rise in the share price, he would make a profit in excess of $20 million.
The New York Times arts section reminded its readers that the Summers Foundation would be opening an avant-garde exhibition on Thursday evening, After the press barons’ claims of support for Lloyd Summers and the foundation’s work, it said, it would be interesting to see if either of them bothered to turn up.
Tom Spencer advised Townsend that it might be wise to drop in for a few minutes, as Armstrong was certain to be there, and you never knew what you might pick up on such occasions.
* * *
Townsend regretted his decision to attend the exhibition moments after he arrived. He circled the room once, glanced at the selection of paintings chosen by the trustees and concluded that they were, without exception, what Kate would have described as “pretentious rubbish.” He decided to leave as quickly as possible. He had successfully negotiated a route to the door when Summers tapped a microphone and called for silence. The director then proceeded to “say a few words.” Townsend checked his watch. When he looked up he saw Armstrong, firmly clutching a catalog, standing next to Summers and beaming at the assembled guests.
Summers began by saying how sad he was that his mother was unable to be with them because of a prolonged illness, and delivered a lengthy disquisition extolling the virtues of the artists whose works he had selected. He declared twenty minutes later how delighted he was that the New York Star’s new chairman had been able to find the time to attend “one of our little soirées.”
The Fourth Estate Page 47