The Fourth Estate Read online

  Armstrong had to admit that the restaurant Summers had chosen was quite exceptional, but over the past month he had become accustomed to the man’s extravagant tastes. After the main course had been cleared away, Summers reiterated how important it was to sign the lease for the new building as quickly as possible, or the foundation wouldn’t have a home. “I made it clear on the first day we met, Dick, that my condition for pledging the trust’s shares was that in return you would purchase a new gallery for the foundation.”

  “And it is still my intention to do so,” said Armstrong firmly.

  “And before the AGM.” The two men stared across the table at each other. “I suggest you have the lease drawn up immediately, so it’s ready for signing by Monday.” Summers picked up a glass of brandy and drained it. “Because I know someone else who’d be only too happy to sign it if you don’t.”

  “No, no, I’ll have it drawn up immediately,” said Armstrong.

  “Good. Then I’ll show you round the premises tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow morning?” said Armstrong. “I’m sure I’ll be able to fit that in.”

  “Shall we say nine o’clock, then?” said Summers, as a decaffeinated coffee was placed in front of him.

  Armstrong gulped down his coffee. “Nine o’clock will be fine,” he said eventually, before calling for the bill. He settled another of Summers’s extravagances, threw his napkin on the table and rose from his place. The director of the foundation and Russell followed suit, and accompanied him in silence to his waiting stretch limousine.

  “I’ll see you at nine tomorrow morning,” Summers said, as Armstrong climbed into the back of the car.

  “You most certainly will,” muttered Armstrong, not looking back.

  On their way to the Pierre, Armstrong told Russell that he wanted answers to three questions. The lawyer took a small leather notepad from his inside pocket.

  “First, who controls the foundation? Second, how much of the Star’s profits does it eat up each year? And third, is there any legal obligation on me to spend three million on this new building he keeps going on about?”

  Russell scribbled away on his little notepad.

  “And I want the answers by tomorrow morning.”

  The limousine dropped Armstrong outside his hotel, and he nodded good night to Russell, then got out of the car and took a stroll around the block. He picked up a copy of the New York Star on the corner of Sixty-first and Madison, and smiled when he saw a large photo of himself dominating the front page, with the headline “Chairman” underneath. It didn’t please him that Townsend’s photo was also on the same page—even if it was considerably smaller, and below the fold. The caption read: “A $20 million profit?”

  Armstrong tucked the paper under his arm. When he reached the hotel, he stepped into a waiting lift and said to the bellboy, “Who cares about $20 million, when you can be the owner of the Star?”

  “Excuse me, sir?” said the puzzled bellboy.

  “Which would you rather have,” Armstrong asked. “The New York Star or $20 million?”

  The bellboy looked up at the giant of a man, who seemed perfectly sober, and said hopefully, “$20 million, sir.”

  * * *

  When Townsend woke the following morning he had a stiff neck. He stood up and stretched. Then he noticed the New York Star’s statutes lying at his feet. And then he remembered.

  He walked across the room and cautiously opened the bedroom door. Angela was still fast asleep. He closed the door quietly, returned to his chair and rang through to room service. He ordered breakfast and five papers, and asked them to clear away the dinner table.

  When the bedroom door opened the second time that morning, Angela stepped out gingerly to find Townsend reading the Wall Street Journal and sipping coffee. She asked the same question as she had when they met in the gallery. “Who are you?” He gave her the same reply. She smiled.

  “Can I order you some breakfast?”

  “No thanks, but you could pour me a large black coffee. I’ll be back in a moment.” The bedroom door closed and didn’t open again for another twenty minutes. When Angela sat down in the chair opposite Townsend, she looked very nervous. He poured her a coffee, but she made no attempt at conversation until she had taken several large gulps.

  “Did I do anything foolish last night?” she asked eventually.

  “No, you didn’t,” said Townsend with a smile.

  “It’s just that I’ve never…”

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” he assured her. “You fell asleep and I put you to bed.” He paused. “Fully dressed.”

  “That’s a relief.” She looked at her watch. “Good heavens, is that really the time, or did I put my watch on upside down?”

  “It’s twenty past eight,” said Townsend.

  “I’ll have to grab a cab immediately. I’ve got a site meeting in SoHo with the new chairman at nine, and I must make a good impression. If he refuses to buy the new building, it could be my one chance.”

  “Don’t bother with a cab,” said Townsend. “My driver will take you wherever you want to go. You’ll find him parked out front in a white BMW.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “That’s really generous of you.”

  She quickly drained her coffee. “It was a great dinner last night, and you were very thoughtful,” she said as she rose from her chair. “But if I’m to be there ahead of Mr. Armstrong, I really must leave now.”

  “Of course.” Townsend stood up and helped her on with her coat.

  When they reached the door she turned and faced him again. “If I didn’t do anything foolish last night, did I say anything I might regret?”

  “No, I don’t think so. You just chatted about your work at the foundation,” he said as he opened the door for her.

  “It was kind of you to listen. I do hope we meet again.”

  “I have a feeling we will,” said Townsend.

  She leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “By the way,” she said, “you never did tell me your name.”

  “Keith Townsend.”

  “Oh shit,” she said, as the door closed behind her.

  * * *

  When Armstrong arrived outside 147 Lower Broadway that morning, he was greeted by the sight of Lloyd Summers waiting on the top step standing next to a rather thin, academic-looking woman, who was either very tired or simply bored.

  “Good morning, Mr. Armstrong,” said Summers as he stepped out of the car.

  “Good morning,” he replied, forcing a smile as he shook the director’s hand.

  “This is Angela Humphries, my deputy,” he explained. “You may have met her at the opening last night.”

  Armstrong could recall her face, but didn’t remember meeting her. He nodded curtly.

  “Angela’s speciality is the Renaissance period,” said Summers, opening the door and standing to one side.

  “How interesting,” said Armstrong, making no attempt to sound interested.

  “Let me start by showing you round,” said the director, as they entered a large empty room on the ground floor. Armstrong put a hand in his pocket and flicked on a switch.

  “So many wonderful walls for hanging,” enthused the director.

  Armstrong tried to appear fascinated by a building he had absolutely no intention of buying. But he knew that he couldn’t admit as much until he had been confirmed as the Star’s chairman on Monday, and that wouldn’t be possible without Summers’s 5 percent. He somehow managed to punctuate the director’s effusive monologue with the occasional “Wonderful,” “Ideal,” “Perfect,” “I do agree,” and even “How clever of you to find it,” as they entered each new room.

  When Summers took him by the arm and started to lead him back down to the ground floor, Armstrong pointed to a staircase that led up to another floor. “What goes on up there?” he asked suspiciously.

  “It’s just an attic,” replied Summers dismissively. “It might prove useful for storage,