The Fourth Estate

“No, you didn’t,” said Townsend with a smile.

“It’s just that I’ve never…”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he assured her. “You fell asleep and I put you to bed.” He paused. “Fully dressed.”

“That’s a relief.” She looked at her watch. “Good heavens, is that really the time, or did I put my watch on upside down?”

“It’s twenty past eight,” said Townsend.

“I’ll have to grab a cab immediately. I’ve got a site meeting in SoHo with the new chairman at nine, and I must make a good impression. If he refuses to buy the new building, it could be my one chance.”

“Don’t bother with a cab,” said Townsend. “My driver will take you wherever you want to go. You’ll find him parked out front in a white BMW.”

“Thank you,” she said. “That’s really generous of you.”

She quickly drained her coffee. “It was a great dinner last night, and you were very thoughtful,” she said as she rose from her chair. “But if I’m to be there ahead of Mr. Armstrong, I really must leave now.”

“Of course.” Townsend stood up and helped her on with her coat.

When they reached the door she turned and faced him again. “If I didn’t do anything foolish last night, did I say anything I might regret?”

“No, I don’t think so. You just chatted about your work at the foundation,” he said as he opened the door for her.

“It was kind of you to listen. I do hope we meet again.”

“I have a feeling we will,” said Townsend.

She leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “By the way,” she said, “you never did tell me your name.”

“Keith Townsend.”

“Oh shit,” she said, as the door closed behind her.

* * *

When Armstrong arrived outside 147 Lower Broadway that morning, he was greeted by the sight of Lloyd Summers waiting on the top step standing next to a rather thin, academic-looking woman, who was either very tired or simply bored.

“Good morning, Mr. Armstrong,” said Summers as he stepped out of the car.

“Good morning,” he replied, forcing a smile as he shook the director’s hand.

“This is Angela Humphries, my deputy,” he explained. “You may have met her at the opening last night.”

Armstrong could recall her face, but didn’t remember meeting her. He nodded curtly.

“Angela’s speciality is the Renaissance period,” said Summers, opening the door and standing to one side.

“How interesting,” said Armstrong, making no attempt to sound interested.

“Let me start by showing you round,” said the director, as they entered a large empty room on the ground floor. Armstrong put a hand in his pocket and flicked on a switch.

“So many wonderful walls for hanging,” enthused the director.

Armstrong tried to appear fascinated by a building he had absolutely no intention of buying. But he knew that he couldn’t admit as much until he had been confirmed as the Star’s chairman on Monday, and that wouldn’t be possible without Summers’s 5 percent. He somehow managed to punctuate the director’s effusive monologue with the occasional “Wonderful,” “Ideal,” “Perfect,” “I do agree,” and even “How clever of you to find it,” as they entered each new room.

When Summers took him by the arm and started to lead him back down to the ground floor, Armstrong pointed to a staircase that led up to another floor. “What goes on up there?” he asked suspiciously.

“It’s just an attic,” replied Summers dismissively. “It might prove useful for storage,