The Fourth Estate

“Of course,” she said, looking at him as if she were dealing with a moron.

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sp; As there was no sign of a lift, Townsend ran up the stairs to the third floor. He looked up and down the corridor, but there was no clue as to where Mr. Ampthill’s office might be. He had knocked on several doors before someone eventually hollered, “Come in.”

Townsend pushed open the door to find an overweight, balding man in a sweatshirt with his feet up on the desk. He was listening to the closing overs of the match Townsend had been following earlier in the afternoon. He swung round, took one look at Townsend and said, “Have yourself a seat, Mr. Townsend. But don’t say anything just yet, because we only need another eleven runs to win.”

“I support New South Wales too,” said Townsend.

Ben Ampthill smiled as the next ball was hit to the boundary. Still without looking at Townsend, he leaned back and passed him a bottle of Resch’s and an opener.

“A couple more balls should do it, and then I’ll be with you,” he said.

Neither spoke until the last seven runs had been scored. Then Mr. Ampthill leaned forward, punched his fist in the air and said, “That should wrap up the Sheffield Shield for us.” He removed his feet from the desk, swung round, thrust out his hand and said, “I’m Ben Ampthill.”

“Keith Townsend.”

Ampthill nodded. “Yes, I know who you are. My wife rang to tell me you’d been up to the house. She thought you might be a salesman of some sort, in that flashy suit and wearing a tie on a Sunday afternoon.”

Townsend tried not to laugh. “No, Mr. Ampthill, I’m not…”

“Call me Ben, everybody else does.”

“No, Ben, I’m not a seller, I’m a buyer.”

“And what are you hoping to buy, young man?”

“Your radio station.”

“It’s not for sale, Keith. Not unless you also want the local newspaper, a no-star hotel, and a couple of coalmines thrown in. Because they’re all part of the same company.”

“Who owns the company?” asked Townsend. “It’s just possible that the shareholders might consider…”

“There are only two shareholders,” Ben explained. “Pearl and me. So even if I wanted to sell, I’d still have to convince her.”

“But if you own the company—” Townsend hesitated “—along with your wife, you have it in your power to sell me the station.”

“Sure do,” said Ben. “But I’m not going to. If you want the station, you’re just going to have to buy everything else that goes with it.”

After several more Resch’s and another hour of haggling, Townsend came to realize that Ben’s niece had failed to inherit any genes from his side of the family.

When Townsend finally emerged from Ben’s office it was pitch dark, and the receptionist had left. He fell into the car, and told Sam to take him back to the Ampthills’ house. “And by the way,” he said, as the car swung round yet again, “you were right about the coalmines. I’m now the proud owner of two of them, as well as the local paper and a hotel, but most important of all, a radio station. But the deal can’t be finally ratified until I’ve had dinner with the other shareholder, just to be sure she approves of me.”

* * *

When Keith crept into the house at one o’clock the following morning, he wasn’t surprised to find Susan was fast asleep. He quietly closed the bedroom door and went down to his study on the ground floor, where he sat at his desk and began writing some notes. It wasn’t long before he started wondering what was the earliest moment that he could possibly call his lawyer. He settled on six thirty-five, and filled in the time by having a shower, putting on a fresh set of clothes, packing a suitcase, making himself some breakfast and reading the first editions of the Sydney papers, which were always delivered to him by five every morning.

At twenty-five to seven he left the kitchen, returned to his study and dialed his lawyer’s home number. A sleepy voice answered the phone.

“Good morning, Clive. I thought I ought to let you know I’ve just bought a coalmine. Two, in fact.”

“And why in heaven’s name did you do that, Keith?” a more awake voice asked. It took another forty minutes for Townsend to explain how he had spent the previous afternoon, and the price agreed on. Clive’s pen never stopped moving across the pad by the side of his bed, which was always there just in case Townsend phoned.

“My first reaction is that Mr. Ampthill looks as if he’s got himself a good deal,” said Clive when his client finally stopped talking.

“He sure did,” said Townsend. “And had he wanted to prove it, he could also have drunk me under the table.”

“Well, I’ll call you later this morning to fix an appointment so we can flesh this deal out.”