The Fourth Estate

but not much else.” Angela said nothing, and tried to remember if she had told Mr. Townsend what was on the top floor.

By the time they arrived back at the ground floor, Armstrong couldn’t wait to escape. As they stepped out onto the sidewalk, Summers said, “Now you’ll understand, chairman, why I consider this to be the ideal spot for the foundation to continue its work into the next century.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Armstrong said. “Absolutely ideal.” He smiled with relief when he saw who was waiting for him in the back of the limousine. “I’ll deal with all the necessary paperwork just as soon as I get back to my office.”

“I’ll be at the gallery for the rest of the day,” said Summers.

“Then I’ll send the documents round for you to sign this afternoon.”

“Any time—today,” said Summers, offering his hand.

Armstrong shook hands with the director and, without bothering to say goodbye to Angela, stepped into the car. He found Russell, yellow pad on lap, pen poised. “Do you have all the answers?” he asked, before the driver had even turned the key in the ignition. He turned to wave at Summers as the car moved away from the curb.

“Yes, I do,” Russell replied, looking down at his pad. “First, the foundation is currently chaired by Mrs. Summers, who appointed her son director six years ago.” Armstrong nodded. “Second, they spent a little over a million dollars of the Star’s profits last year.”

Armstrong gripped the armrest. “How in hell’s name did they manage that?”

“Well, to start with, Summers is paid a salary of $150,000 a year. But more interestingly,” said Russell, referring to his notes, “he’s somehow managed to get through $240,000 a year in expenses—for each of the past four years.”

Armstrong could feel his pulse-rate increasing. “How does he get away with it?” he asked, as they passed a white BMW he could have sworn he’d seen somewhere before. He turned and stared at it.

“I suspect his mother doesn’t ask too many questions.”

“What?”

“I suspect his mother doesn’t ask too many questions,” Russell repeated.

“But what about the board? Surely they have a duty to be more vigilant. Not to mention the shareholders.”

“Someone did raise the subject at last year’s AGM,” said Russell, referring to his notes. “But the chairman assured them—and I quote—that ‘the Star’s readers thoroughly approve of the paper being involved with the advancement of culture in our great city’.”

“The advancement of what?” said Armstrong.

“Culture,” said Russell.

“And what about the building?” demanded Armstrong, pointing out of the back window.

“No future management is under any obligation to purchase another building once the lease on the old one runs out—which it does on December quarter day.”

Armstrong smiled for the first time that morning.

“Though I must warn you,” said Russell, “that I believe Summers will need to be convinced that you have purchased the building before the AGM takes place on Monday. Otherwise, as director of the trust, he could still switch his 5 percent at the last moment.”

“Then send him two copies of a lease prepared for signature. That will keep him quiet until Monday morning.”

Russell didn’t look convinced.

* * *

When the BMW arrived back at the Carlyle, Townsend was already waiting on the sidewalk. He climbed in next to the driver and asked, “Where did you drop the girl off?”

“SoHo, Lower Broadway,” the driver replied.

“Then that’s where I want to go,” Townsend said. As the driver joined the Fifth Avenue traffic, he remained puzzled by what Mr. Townsend saw in the girl. There had to be an angle he hadn’t worked out. Perhaps she was an heiress.

When the BMW turned into Lower Broadway, Townsend couldn’t miss the stretch limousine parked outside a building with a “For Sale” sign in the front window. “Park on this side of the road, about fifty yards short of the building where you dropped the lady earlier this morning,” he said.

As the driver pulled on the handbrake, Townsend squinted over his shoulder and asked, “Can you read the phone numbers on those signs?”