The Fourth Estate

“Am I meant to understand that?”

“No,” replied Armstrong. As soon as he had put the phone down, he called for his secretary.

“Pamela, when you’ve typed up the conversation that took place over lunch today, I want you to put a copy of it in this file,” he said, pointing to the pile of papers Don Sharpe had left on his desk.

“And then what do I do with the file?”

“Lock it in the large safe. I’ll let you know if I need it again.”

* * *

When the editor of the London Evening Post requested a private meeting with Keith Townsend, he received an immediate response. It was well understood in Fleet Street that Armstrong’s staff had a standing invitation to see Townsend if they had any interesting information about their boss. Not many of them had taken advantage of the offer, because they all knew that if they were caught, they could clear their desks the same day, and would never work for any of Armstrong’s newspapers again.

It had been some time since anyone as senior as Don Sharpe had contacted Townsend direct. He suspected that Mr. Sharpe already knew his days were numbered, and had calculated that he had nothing to lose. But like so many others before him, he had insisted that the meeting should take place on neutral ground.

Townsend always hired the Fitzalan Suite at the Howard Hotel for such purposes, as it was only a short distance from Fleet Street, but wasn’t a haunt of prying journalists. One phone call from Heather to the head porter and all the necessary arrangements were made with complete discretion.

Sharpe told Townsend in detail about the conversation that had taken place between himself and Armstrong following the proprietor’s lunch with Ray Atkins the previous day, and waited for his reaction.

“Ray Atkins,” said Townsend.

“Yes, the minister for industry.”

“The man who will make the final decision as to who takes control of the Citizen.”

“Precisely. That’s why I thought you would want to know immediately,” said Sharpe.

“And Armstrong kept the file?”

“Yes, but it would only take me a few days to get duplicates of everything. If you broke the story on the front page of the Globe, I’m sure that under the circumstances the Monopolies and Mergers Commission would have to remove Armstrong from their calculations.”

“Perhaps,” said Townsend. “Once you’ve put the documentation together, send it to me direct. Make sure you put my initials, K.R.T., on the bottom left-hand corner of the package. That will ensure that no one else opens it.”

Sharpe nodded. “Give me a week, a fortnight at the most.”

“And should I end up as proprietor of the Citizen,” said Townsend, “you can be sure that there will be a job for you on the paper if ever you want it.”

Sharpe was about to ask him what job he had in mind when Townsend added, “Don’t leave the hotel for another ten minutes.” As he stepped out onto the street, the senior porter touched the rim of his top hat. Townsend was driven back to Fleet Street, confident that the Citizen must now surely fall into his hands.

A young porter, who had seen the two men arrive separately and leave separately, waited for his boss to take a tea break before he made a phone call.

* * *

Ten days later two envelopes arrived in Townsend’s office with “K.R.T.” printed boldly in the bottom left-hand corners. Heather left them on his desk unopened. The first was from a former employee of the New York Times, who supplied him with the full list of shops that reported to the best-seller list. For $2,000 it had been a worthwhile investment, thought Townsend. He put the list on one side, and opened the second envelope. It contained pages and pages of research supplied by Don Sharpe on the extracurricular activities of the minister for industry.

An hour later, Townsend felt confident not only that he would retrieve his second million, but also that Armstrong would live to regret suppressing the minister’s secret. He picked up a phone and told Heather that he needed to send a package to New York by special delivery. When she had taken one of the sealed envelopes away, he picked up the phone and asked the editor of the Globe to join him.

“When you’ve had a chance to read through this,” he said, pushing the second envelope across his desk, “you’ll know what to lead on tomorrow.”

“I already have a lead story for tomorrow,” said the editor. “We have evidence that Marilyn Monroe is alive.”

“She can wait for another day,” said Townsend. “Tomorrow we lead on the minister for industry and his attempt to suppress the story of his illegitimate child. Make sure I have a dummy front page on my desk by five this afternoon.”

* * *

A few minutes later Armstrong received a call from Ray Atkins.

“How can I help you, Ray?” he asked, as he pressed a button on the side of his phone.