The Fourth Estate

He returned to the sitting room, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him, and set about looking for the statute book of the New York Star. Once he had found the thin red volume tucked in the bottom of his briefcase, he sat on the sofa and began to read slowly through the company statutes. He had reached page forty-seven before he nodded off.

* * *

Armstrong couldn’t think of a good excuse for turning Summers down when he suggested they should have dinner together after the exhibition. He was relieved that his lawyer hadn’t gone home. “You’ll join us, won’t you, Russell?” he boomed at his attorney, making it sound more like a command than an invitation.

Armstrong had already expressed privately to Russell his thoughts on the exhibition, which he had just managed to conceal from Summers. He had been trying to avoid a meeting from the moment Summers announced he’d found the perfect site for the foundation to move into. But Russell had warned him that Summers was becoming impatient, and had even begun threatening, “Don’t forget, I still have an alternative.”

Armstrong had to admit that the restaurant Summers had chosen was quite exceptional, but over the past month he had become accustomed to the man’s extravagant tastes. After the main course had been cleared away, Summers reiterated how important it was to sign the lease for the new building as quickly as possible, or the foundation wouldn’t have a home. “I made it clear on the first day we met, Dick, that my condition for pledging the trust’s shares was that in return you would purchase a new gallery for the foundation.”

“And it is still my intention to do so,” said Armstrong firmly.

“And before the AGM.” The two men stared across the table at each other. “I suggest you have the lease drawn up immediately, so it’s ready for signing by Monday.” Summers picked up a glass of brandy and drained it. “Because I know someone else who’d be only too happy to sign it if you don’t.”

“No, no, I’ll have it drawn up immediately,” said Armstrong.

“Good. Then I’ll show you round the premises tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning?” said Armstrong. “I’m sure I’ll be able to fit that in.”

“Shall we say nine o’clock, then?” said Summers, as a decaffeinated coffee was placed in front of him.

Armstrong gulped down his coffee. “Nine o’clock will be fine,” he said eventually, before calling for the bill. He settled another of Summers’s extravagances, threw his napkin on the table and rose from his place. The director of the foundation and Russell followed suit, and accompanied him in silence to his waiting stretch limousine.

“I’ll see you at nine tomorrow morning,” Summers said, as Armstrong climbed into the back of the car.

“You most certainly will,” muttered Armstrong, not looking back.

On their way to the Pierre, Armstrong told Russell that he wanted answers to three questions. The lawyer took a small leather notepad from his inside pocket.

“First, who controls the foundation? Second, how much of the Star’s profits does it eat up each year? And third, is there any legal obligation on me to spend three million on this new building he keeps going on about?”

Russell scribbled away on his little notepad.

“And I want the answers by tomorrow morning.”

The limousine dropped Armstrong outside his hotel, and he nodded good night to Russell, then got out of the car and took a stroll around the block. He picked up a copy of the New York Star on the corner of Sixty-first and Madison, and smiled when he saw a large photo of himself dominating the front page, with the headline “Chairman” underneath. It didn’t please him that Townsend’s photo was also on the same page—even if it was considerably smaller, and below the fold. The caption read: “A $20 million profit?”

Armstrong tucked the paper under his arm. When he reached the hotel, he stepped into a waiting lift and said to the bellboy, “Who cares about $20 million, when you can be the owner of the Star?”

“Excuse me, sir?” said the puzzled bellboy.

“Which would you rather have,” Armstrong asked. “The New York Star or $20 million?”

The bellboy looked up at the giant of a man, who seemed perfectly sober, and said hopefully, “$20 million, sir.”

* * *

When Townsend woke the following morning he had a stiff neck. He stood up and stretched. Then he noticed the New York Star’s statutes lying at his feet. And then he remembered.

He walked across the room and cautiously opened the bedroom door. Angela was still fast asleep. He closed the door quietly, returned to his chair and rang through to room service. He ordered breakfast and five papers, and asked them to clear away the dinner table.

When the bedroom door opened the second time that morning, Angela stepped out gingerly to find Townsend reading the Wall Street Journal and sipping coffee. She asked the same question as she had when they met in the gallery. “Who are you?” He gave her the same reply. She smiled.

“Can I order you some breakfast?”

“No thanks, but you could pour me a large black coffee. I’ll be back in a moment.” The bedroom door closed and didn’t open again for another twenty minutes. When Angela sat down in the chair opposite Townsend, she looked very nervous. He poured her a coffee, but she made no attempt at conversation until she had taken several large gulps.

“Did I do anything foolish last night?” she asked eventually.