The Fourth Estate

“There are two signs, sir, with different numbers on them.”

“I need both,” Townsend said. The driver read the numbers out, and Townsend wrote them on the back of a five-dollar bill. Then he picked up the car phone and dialed the first number.

When the line was answered with, “Good morning, Wood, Knight & Levy. How may I assist you?” Townsend said he was interested in the details of 147 Lower Broadway.

“I’ll put you through to Offices, sir,” he was told. A click followed and a second voice asked, “How may I assist you?” Townsend repeated his query, and was put through to a third voice.

“Number 147 Broadway? Ah, yes, I’m afraid we already have a prospective buyer for that property, sir. We’ve been instructed to draw up a lease, with a view to closing on Monday. However, we do have other properties in the same locality.”

Townsend pressed the END button without saying another word. Only in New York would no one be surprised by such bad manners. He immediately dialed the second number. While he waited to be connected to the right person, he became distracted by a taxi drawing up outside the building. A tall, elegantly-dressed middle-aged man jumped out and walked over to the stretch limousine. He had a word with the driver, and then climbed into the back as a voice came onto the line.

“You’ll have to move quickly if you’re interested in number 147,” said the agent. “Because I know the other firm involved with the property already has a party interested who is close to nailing a deal, and that’s no bullshit. In fact they’re looking over the building right now, so I couldn’t even take you round before ten.”

“Ten will suit me just fine,” said Townsend. “I’ll meet you outside the building then.” He pressed the END button.

Townsend had to wait only a few more minutes before Armstrong, Summers and Angela came out onto the sidewalk. After only a short exchange and a handshake, Armstrong stepped into the back of the limousine. He didn’t seem at all surprised to find someone waiting there for him. As the car moved off, Summers waved effusively until Armstrong was out of sight. Angela stood a pace behind him, looking fed up. Townsend ducked as the limousine passed him, and when he looked back up, he saw Summers hailing a Yellow Cab. He and Angela got in, and Townsend watched them as they disappeared in the opposite direction to the limousine.

Once the cab had turned the corner, Townsend got out of his car and walked across the road to study the building from the outside. After a few moments he walked a little further down the pavement, and found that there was a similar property up for sale a few doors away, the number of which he also wrote down on the back of the five-dollar bill. He then returned to the car.

One more phone call, and he had discovered that the price of number 171 was $2.5 million. Not only was Summers getting an apartment thrown in, but it also looked as if he was making a handsome profit on the side.

The driver tapped on the internal window and pointed toward number 147. Townsend looked up and saw a young man climbing the steps. He put the phone down and went across to join him.

After an extensive viewing of all five floors, Townsend had to agree with Angela that at $3 million it was perfect—but for only one person. As they stepped back out onto the sidewalk he asked the agent, “What’s the minimum deposit you would require on this building?”

“Ten percent, non-returnable,” he replied.

“With the usual thirty days for completion, I assume?”

“Yes, sir,” said the agent.

“Good. Then why don’t you draw up a lease immediately,” Townsend said, handing the young man his card. “Send it round to me at the Carlyle.”

“Yes, sir,” the agent repeated. “I’ll make sure it’s with you by this afternoon.”

Tow

nsend finally extracted a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and held it up so that the young man could see which president was on it. “And I want the other agent who’s trying to sell this property to know that I will be putting down a deposit first thing on Monday morning.”

The young man pocketed the hundred-dollar bill, and nodded.

When Townsend arrived back in his room at the Carlyle, he immediately called Tom at his office. “What have you got planned for the weekend?” he asked his lawyer.

“A round of golf, a little gardening,” said Tom. “And I was also hoping to watch my youngest pitch for his high school. But from the way you phrased that question, Keith, I have a feeling I won’t even be taking the train back to Greenwich.”

“You’re right, Tom. We’ve got a lot of work to do before Monday morning if I’m going to be the next proprietor of the New York Star.”

“Where do I start?”

“With a lease that needs checking over before I sign it. Then I want you to close a deal with the one person who can make this all possible.” When Townsend eventually put the phone down, he leaned back in his chair and gazed at the little red book that had kept him awake the previous night. A few moments later he picked it up, and turned to page 47.

For the first time in his life he was grateful for an Oxford education.

33.

New York Times

11 December 1986