The Fourth Estate

“Sure is, Mr. Townsend,” said a surprised-sounding voice with an unmistakable Australian accent.

“It’s been a long time, Malcolm. Too long, in fact. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Keith. Just fine,” came back a more confident reply.

“And how are the children?” asked Townsend, looking down at the piece of paper Heather had left on his desk. “Jill and Alan, isn’t it? In fact, isn’t Alan working for the company out of Dallas?”

A long silence followed, and Townsend began to wonder if he’d been cut off. Eventually McCreedy said, “That’s right, Keith. They’re both doing just fine, thanks. And yours?” He was obviously unable to remember how many there were, or their names.

“They’re doing just fine too, thank you, Malcolm,” said Townsend, purposely mimicking him. “And how are you enjoying Cleveland?”

“It’s OK,” said McCreedy. “But I’d rather be back in Oz. I miss being able to watch the Tigers playing on a Saturday afternoon.”

“Well, that was one of the things I was calling you about,” said Townsend. “But first I need to ask you for some advice.”

“Of course, Keith, anything. You can always rely on me,” said McCreedy. “But perhaps I’d better close the door to my office,” he added, now that he was certain every other journalist on the floor realized who it was on the other end of the line.

Townsend waited impatiently.

“So, what can I do for you, Keith?” asked a slightly out-of-breath voice.

“Does the name Austin Pierson mean anything to you?”

Another long silence followed. “He’s some big wheel in the financial community, isn’t he? I think he heads up one of our banks or insurance companies. Give me a moment, and I’ll just check him out on my computer.”

Townsend waited again, aware that if his father had asked the same question forty years before it might have taken hours, perhaps even days, before someone could have come up with an answer.

“Got him,” said the man from Cleveland a few moments later. He paused. “Now I remember why I recognized the name. We did a feature on him about four years ago when he took over as president at Manufacturers Cleveland.”

“What can you tell me about him?” asked Townsend, unwilling to waste any more time on banalities.

“Not a great deal,” replied McCreedy as he studied the screen in front of him, occasionally pressing more keys. “He appears to be a model citizen. Rose through the ranks at the bank, treasurer of the local Rotary Club, Methodist lay preacher, married to the same woman for thirty-one years. Three children, all residing in the city.”

“Anything known about the kids?”

McCreedy pressed some more keys before he replied. “Yes. One teaches biology in the local high school. The second’s a staff nurse at Cleveland Metropolitan, and the youngest has just been made a partner in the most prestigious law firm in the state. If you’re hoping to do a deal with Mr. Austin Pierson, Keith, you’ll be pleased to know that he seems to have an unblemished reputation.”

Townsend was not pleased to know. “So there’s nothing in his past that…”

“Not that I know of, Keith,” said McCreedy. He quickly read through his five-year-old notes, hoping to find a titbit that would please his former boss. “Yes, now it all comes back. The man was as tight as a gnat’s arse. He wouldn’t even allow me to interview him during office hours, and when I turned up at his place in the evening, all I got for my trouble was a watered-down pineapple juice.”

Townsend decided that he’d come to a dead end with Pierson and McCreedy, and that there wasn’t any purpose in c

ontinuing with the conversation. “Thank you, Malcolm,” he said. “You’ve been most helpful. Call me if you come up with anything on Pierson.”

He was just about to put the phone down when his former employee asked, “What was the other thing you wanted to discuss, Keith? You see, I was rather hoping that there might be an opening in Oz, perhaps even at the Courier.” He paused. “I can tell you, Keith, I’d be willing to take a drop in salary if it meant I could work for you again.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Townsend, “and you can be sure I’ll get straight back to you, Malcolm, if anything should ever cross my desk.”

Townsend put the phone down on a man he felt sure he would never speak to again in his life. All that McCreedy had been able to tell him was that Mr. Austin Pierson was a paragon of virtue—not a breed with whom Townsend had a lot in common, or was at all certain he knew how to handle. As usual, E.B.’s advice was proving to be correct. He could do nothing except sit and wait. He leaned back in his chair and tucked one leg under the other.

It was twelve minutes past eleven in Cleveland, twelve minutes past four in London and twelve minutes past three in Sydney. By six o’clock that evening he probably wouldn’t be able to control the headlines in his own papers, let alone those of Richard Armstrong.

The phone on his desk rang again—was it possible that McCreedy had found out something interesting about Austin Pierson? Townsend always assumed that everyone had at least one skeleton they wanted to keep safely locked up in the cupboard.

He grabbed the phone.

“I have the President of the United States on line one,” said Heather, “and a Mr. Austin Pierson from Cleveland, Ohio, on line two. Which one will you take first?”