Maxwell's Fall [antikvár]

1 Welcome to Maxwellia I had enjoyed Christmas night, 1989, at home with friends so I was not at my best when the phone rang at 7.50am on Boxing Day morning. 'Good morning. It's Bob Maxwell here. Could I speak to Roy Greenslade?' I cupped the phone and whispered to my wife: There's a guy on here saying he's Robert Maxwell.' She rolled over. 'It's Paul Callan,' she said unhesitatingly. Callan, former Aiirror writer and sometime radio and TV personality, was a noted mimic of Maxwell's booming baritone voice. 'Mr Maxwell,' I said. 'Would you be kind enough to give me your number and I'll call you back.' He took this equably enough and my wife - a Daily Mirror feature writer who had become, without effort on her part, a favourite of Maxwell's - confirmed that it was the correct private line number. However, an inebriated impressionist might just know it too. Collecting my thoughts, I rang back. Maxwell answered right away. 'I want you and your lovely wife to come and see me.' 'Today?' I asked. 'Is it that important?' 'Yes. Are you doing something then?' 'No,' I said, knowing only that we were attending a party in the early evening hosted by an editor Maxwell had recently sacked from her post. We agreed to meet at 1