The Fourth Estate

“What do you mean, I was?” said Armstrong. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“But the article was sent to us directly from your office, sir.”

“Not by me it wasn’t,” said Armstrong.

“But the man said you had told him to deliver it personally.”

&nbs

p; “What man? Have you ever seen him before?” asked Armstrong.

“No, sir, but he assured me that he had come straight from your office.”

“How was he dressed?”

The deputy editor remained silent for a few moments. “In a gray suit, if I remember, sir,” he eventually said.

“But anyone who works for me would have been in uniform,” said Armstrong.

“I know, sir, but…”

“Did he give you his name? Did he show you any form of identification or proof of authority?”

“No, sir, he didn’t. I just assumed…”

“You ‘just assumed’? Why didn’t you pick up a phone and check that I had authorized the article?”

“I didn’t realize…”

“Good heavens, man. Once you’d read the piece, didn’t you consider editing it?”

“No one edits your work, sir,” said the deputy editor. “It’s just put straight on the presses.”

“You never even checked the contents?”

“No, sir,” replied the deputy editor, his head now bowed low.

“So there is no one else to blame?”

“No, sir,” said the deputy editor, shaking.

“Then you’re sacked,” shouted Armstrong, staring down at him. “I want you off the premises immediately. Immediately, do you understand?”

The deputy editor looked as if he was about to protest, but Armstrong bellowed, “If your office hasn’t been cleared of all your possessions within fifteen minutes, I’ll call in the military police.”

The deputy editor crept out of the room without uttering another word.

Armstrong smiled, took off his jacket and hung it on the chair behind Arno’s desk. He checked his watch, and was confident that enough time had passed. He rolled up his sleeves, walked out of the office and pressed a red button on the wall. All the presses came to a grinding halt.

Once he was certain he had everyone’s attention, he began barking out a series of orders. “Tell the drivers to get out there and bring me back every copy of the first edition they can lay their hands on.” The transport manager ran out into the yard, and Armstrong turned to the chief printer.

“I want that front-page story about Hahn pulled and this set up in its place,” he said, extracting a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handing it over to the bewildered chief printer, who immediately began to set up a new block for the front page, leaving a space in the top right-hand corner for the most recent picture they had of the Duke of Gloucester.

Armstrong turned round to see a group of stackers waiting for the next edition to come off the presses. “You lot,” he shouted. “See that every copy of the first edition that’s still on the premises is destroyed.” They scattered, and began gathering up every paper they could find, however old.

Forty minutes later, a proof copy of the new front page was hurried up to Schultz’s office. Armstrong studied the other story he had written that morning about the proposed visit to Berlin by the Duke of Gloucester.

“Good,” he said, once he had finished checking it through. “Let’s get on with bringing out the second edition.”