The Fourth Estate

Townsend spent the morning being shown round the Chronicle’s offices by Duncan Alexander, who kept the conversation businesslike, making no attempt to be friendly. Townsend waited until they were alone in the lift before he turned to him and said, “You once told me many years ago, ‘We Alexanders have long memories. Call on me when you need me.’”

“Yes, I did,” Duncan admitted.

“Good, because the time has come for me to call in my marker.”

“What do you expect from me?”

“I want Sir

Somerset to be told what a good man I am.”

The lift came to a halt, and the doors opened.

“If I do that, will you guarantee I’ll keep my job?”

“You have my word on it,” said Townsend as he stepped out into the corridor.

After lunch, Sir Somerset—who seemed a little more restrained than when they had first met—accompanied Townsend around the editorial floor, where he was introduced to the journalists. All of them were relieved to find that the new proprietor just nodded and smiled at them, making himself agreeable to even the most junior staff. Everyone who came in contact with Townsend that day was pleasantly surprised, especially after what they had been told by reporters who had worked for him on the Gazette. Even Sir Somerset began to wonder if Sir Colin hadn’t exaggerated about Townsend’s behavior in the past.

“Don’t forget what happened to the sales of the Messenger when Sir Colin took over as chairman,” Bruce Kelly whispered into several ears, including his editor’s, soon after Townsend had left.

The staff on the Chronicle would not have given Townsend the benefit of the doubt if they had seen the notes he was compiling on the flight back to Adelaide. It was clear to him that if he hoped to double the paper’s profits, there was going to have to be some drastic surgery, with cuts from top to bottom.

Townsend found himself looking up from time to time and thinking about Susan. When another steward offered him a copy of the evening paper, he asked if he had any idea where she was now working.

“Do you mean Susan Glover?” he asked.

“Blonde, curly hair, early twenties,” said Townsend.

“Yes, that’s Susan. She left us when she was offered a job at Moore’s. Said she couldn’t take the irregular hours any longer, not to mention being treated like a bus conductor. I know just how she feels.”

Townsend smiled. Moore’s had always been his mother’s favorite store in Adelaide. He was sure it wouldn’t take him long to discover which department Susan worked in.

The following morning, after he had finished going through the mail with Bunty, he dialed Moore’s number the moment she had closed the door behind her.

“Can you put me through to Miss Glover, please?”

“Which department does she work in?”

“I don’t know,” said Townsend.

“Is it an emergency?”

“No, it’s a personal call.”

“Are you a relative?”

“No, I’m not,” he said, puzzled by the question.

“Then I’m sorry, but I can’t help. It’s against company policy for staff to take private calls during office hours.” The line went dead.

Townsend replaced the phone, rose from his chair and walked into Bunty’s office. “I’ll be away for about an hour, maybe a little longer, Bunty. I’ve got to pick up a birthday present for my mother.”

Miss Bunting was surprised, as she knew his mother’s birthday was four months away. But at least he was an improvement on his father, she thought. She’d always had to remind Sir Graham the day before.

When Townsend stepped out of the building it was such a warm day that he told his driver, Sam, he would walk the dozen or so blocks to Moore’s, which would give him a chance to check all the paper stands on the way. He was not pleased to find that the first one he came across, on the corner of King William Street, had already sold out of the Gazette, and it was only a few minutes past ten. He made a note to speak to the distribution manager as soon as he returned to the office.

As he approached the massive department store on Rundle Street, he wondered just how long it would take him to find Susan. He pushed his way through the revolving door and walked up and down between the counters on the ground floor: jewelry, gloves, perfume. But he could see no sign of her. He took the escalator to the second floor, where he repeated the process: crockery, bedding, kitchenware. Still no success. The third floor turned out to be menswear, which reminded him that he needed a new suit. If she worked there he could order one immediately, but there wasn’t a woman in sight.