The Fourth Estate

Why was the damned woman always right?

The master of ceremonies thumped the table with a gavel several times before the room fell quiet enough for a rabbi to deliver a prayer. Over half the people in the room put khiv

as on their heads, including Armstrong—something Townsend had never seen him do at a public function in London.

As the guests sat down, a band of waiters began serving the soup. It didn’t take long for Townsend to discover that David Grenville had been right in his assessment of E.B.’s small talk, which came to an end long before he had finished the first course. As soon as the main course had been served, she turned toward him, lowered her voice and began to ask a series of questions about his Australian assets. He answered every one of them as best he could, aware that even the slightest inaccuracy would be picked up and later used in evidence against him. Making no concessions to the fact that they were at a social occasion, she then moved on to how he intended to raise the subject of selling his shares in the Star to Armstrong.

The first opportunity to escape E.B.’s interrogation—Townsend’s answers having already filled the back of two menu cards—arrived when a waiter came between them to top up his wine glass. He immediately turned to Carol Grenville, the bank chairman’s wife, who was seated on his left. The only questions Carol wanted answering were “How are Kate and the children?” and “Have you seen the revival of Guys and Dolls?”

“Have you seen the revival of Guys and Dolls, Dick?” the governor asked.

“I can’t say I have, Mario,” replied Armstrong. “What with trying to run the most successful newspapers in New York and London, I just don’t seem to find the time for the theater nowadays. And frankly, with an election coming up, I’m surprised you can either.”

“Never forget, Dick, that voters go to the theater as well,” said the governor. “And if you sit in the fifth row of the stalls, three thousand of them see you at once. They’re always pleased to discover that you have the same tastes they do.”

Armstrong laughed. “I’d never make a politician,” he said, putting a hand up. A few moments later a waiter appeared by his side. “Can I have a little more?” Armstrong whispered.

“Certainly, sir,” said the top-table waiter, although he could have sworn that he had already given Mr. Armstrong a second helping.

Armstrong glanced to his right at David Dinkins, and noticed that he was only picking at his food—a habit common among after-dinner speakers, he had found over the years. The mayor, head down, was checking his typewritten text, making the occasional change with a Four Seasons ballpoint pen.

Armstrong made no attempt to interrupt him, and noticed that when Dinkins was offered a crème brûlée he waved it away. Armstrong suggested to the waiter that he should leave it on one side, in case the mayor changed his mind. By the time Dinkins had finished going over his speech, Armstrong had devoured his dessert. He was delighted to see a plate of petits fours placed between them a few moments after the coffee had been poured.

During the speeches that followed, Townsend became distracted. He tried not to dwell on his current problems, but when the applause had died down after the President of the Bankers’ Association had given his vote of thanks, he realized he could barely recall anything that had been said.

“The speeches were excellent, didn’t you think?” said David Grenville, from the other side of the table. “I doubt if a more distinguished line-up will address an audience in New York this year.”

“You’re probably right,” said Townsend. His only thought now was how long he would have to hang around before E.B. would allow him to go home. When he glanced to his right, he saw that her eyes were fixed firmly on the top table.

“Keith,” said a voice from behind him, and he turned to receive the bearhug for which the mayor of New York was famous. Townsend accepted that there had to be some disadvantages in being the proprietor of the Star.

“Good evening, Mr. Mayor,” he said. “How good to see you again. May I congratulate you on your excellent speech.”

“Thank, you, Keith, but that wasn’t why I came to have a word with you.” He jabbed a finger at Townsend’s chest. “Why do I have the feeling that your editor has got it in for me? I know he’s Irish, but I want you to ask him how I can be expected to give the NYPD another pay increase, when the city’s already run out of money for this year. Does he want me to raise taxes again, or just let the city go bankrupt?”

Townsend would have recommended that the mayor employ E.B. to sort out the problem of the police department, but when David Dinkins finally stopped talking, he agreed to have a word with his editor in the morning. Though he did point out that it had always been his policy not to interfere in the editorial input of any of his papers.

E.B. raised an eyebrow, which indicated just how meticulously she must have been through his files.

“I’m grateful, Keith,” said the mayor. “I was sure that once I’d explained what I’m up against, you’d appreciate my position—although you can hardly be expected to know what it’s like not to be able to pay your bills at the end of the month.”

The mayor looked over Townsend’s shoulder, and announced at the top of his voice, “Now there’s a man who never gives me any trouble.”

Townsend and E.B. turned round to see who he was referring to. The mayor was pointing in the direction of Richard Armstrong.

“I assume you two are old friends,” he said, holding his arms out to them both. One of them might have answered the question if Dinkins hadn’t walked off to continue his milk round. Elizabeth retreated discreetly, but not so far that she couldn’t hear every word that passed between them.

“So, how are you, Dick?” asked Townsend, who had not the slightest interest in Armstrong’s well-being.

“Never better,” Armstrong replied, turning to blow a mouthful of cigar smoke in Elizabeth’s direction.

“It must be quite a relief for you to have finally settled with the unions.”

“They were left with no choice in the end,” said Armstrong. “Either they agreed to my terms, or I would have closed the paper down.”

Russell walked quietly over and hovered behind them.

“At a price,” said Townsend.