The Fourth Estate (34 page)

He began
Studying Miss Youngees curriculum vitae, searching for any excuse not to have
to see her. When he reached the bottom of the page, he said reluctantly, I’ll
see her now.”

When Heather
Younger entered the room, Townsend stood and waited until she had taken the
seat on the opposite side of the desk. Miss Younger was about live foot nine,
and Townsend knew from her curriculum vitae that she was twenty-eight, though
she looked considerably older. She was dressed in a green pullover and tweed
skirt. Her brown stockings brought back memories for Townsend of ration books,
and she wore a pair of shoes that his mother Would have described as sensible.

Her auburn hair
was done up in a bun, with not a hair out of place.

Townsend’s first
impression was of being revisited by Miss Steadman, an illusion that was
reinforced when Miss Younger began to answer his questions crisply and
efficiently.

The interview
lasted for eleven minutes, and Miss Younger began work the following Monday.

Townsend had to
wait another six weeks before the Cbronicle was legally his.

During that time
he saw Susan almost every day. Whenever she asked him why he remained in
Adelaide when he felt the Cbronicle needed so much of his time and attention,
he told her simply, “Until I own the paper I can’t do anything about it. And if
they had any idea what I have in mind for them, they would tear up the contract
long before the six weeks was up.”

If it hadn’t
been for Susan, those six weeks would have seemed interminable, even though she
still regularly teased him about how rarely he was on time for a date. He
finally solved the problem by suggesting, “Perhaps it would be easier if you
moved in with me.”

On the Sunday
evening before Townsend was officially due to take over the Chronicle, he and
Susan flew up to Sydney together. Townsend asked the taxi driver to stop
outside the paper’s offices before going on to the hotel. He took Susan by the
elbow and guided her across the road. Once they had reached the pavement on the
far side, he turned to look up at the Cbronicle building. “At midnight it
belongs to me,” he said, with a passion she had never heard before.

I was rather
hoping you’d belong to me at midnight,” she teased.

When they
arrived at the hotel, Susan was surprised to find Bruce Kelly waiting for them
in the foyer. She was even more surprised when Keith asked him to join them for
dinner.

She found her
attention drifting while Keith went over his plans for the future of the
newspaper as if she wasn’t there. She was puzzled as to why the Chronicle’s
editor hadn’t also been invited to join them. When Bruce eventually left, she
and Keith took the lift to the top floor and disappeared into their separate
rooms. Keith was sitting at the desk, going over some figures, when she slipped
through the connecting door to join him.

The proprietor
of the Chronicle rose at a few minutes before six the following morning, and
had left the hotel long before Susan was awake. He walked to Pitt Street,
stopping to check every news stand on the way. Not as bad as his first
experience with the Gazette, he thought, as he arrived outside the Cbronicle
building, but it could still be a lot better.

As he walked
into the lobby, he told the security man on the front desk that he wanted to
see the editor and the chief executive the moment they came in, and that he required
a locksmith immediately. This time as he walked through the building no one
asked who he was.

Townsend sat in
Sir Somerset’s chair for the first time and began reading the final edition of
that morning’s Cbronide. He jotted down some notes, and when he had read the
paper from cover to cover he rose from his chair and began to pace around the
office, occasionally stopping to look out over Sydney Harbor. When the
locksmith appeared a few minutes later, he told him exactly what needed to be
done.

“When?” asked
the locksmith.

“Now,” said
Townsend. He returned to his desk, wondering which of the two men would arrive
first. He had to wait another forty minutes before there was a knock on the
door. Nick Watson, the editor of the Cbronicle, walked in to find Townsend,
head down, reading through a bulky file.

“I’m so sorry,
Keith,” he began. “I had no idea that you would be in so early on your first
day.” Townsend looked up as Watson added, “Can we make this quick? I’m chairing
morning conference at ten.”

“You won’t be
taking morning conference today,” said Townsend. “I’ve asked Bruce Kelly to.”

“What? But I’m
the editor,” said Nick.

“Not any longer
you aren’t,” said Townsend. “I’m promoting you.”

“Promoting me?”
said Nick.

“Yes. You’ll be
able to read the announcement in tomorrow’s paper. You’re to be the Cbronicle’s
first Editor Emeritus.”

“What does that
mean?”

“‘E’ means ex,
and ‘meritus’ means you deserve it.” Townsend paused as he watched the realization
sink in. “Don’t worry, Nick. You’ve got a grand title and a yeaes fully paid
leave.”

“But you told
Sir Somerset, in my presence, that you were looking forward to working with
me.”

“I know I did,
Nick,” he said, and reddened slightly. “I’m sorry, I...”

He would have
completed the sentence if there hadn’t been another knock at the door.

Duncan Alexander
walked in and said, “I apologize for bothering you, Keith, but someone’s
changed the lock on my office door.”

EVENING
CHRONICLE

20 NoVEMBIER
1947

T
his Happy Day Radiant Princess Elizabeth
Weds Her Sailor Dulke CHARLOTTE DECIDED THAT she wouldn’t attend Arno Schultz’s
sixtieth birthday party because she didn’t feel confident enough yet to leave
David with their German nanny. Since she had returned from Lyon, Dick had
become more attentive, and sometimes he even got home in time to see their
firstborn before he was put to bed.

That evening
Armstrong left the flat for Arno’s house just after seven. He assured Charlotte
that he only intended to drop in and drink Arno’s health, and then return home.
She smiled and promised his dinner would be ready by the time he came back.

He hurried
across the city in the hope that if he arrived before they sat down for dinner,
he would be able to get away after just a quick drink.

Then he might
even have 292 time to join Max Sackville for a couple of games of poker before
going home.

It was a few
minutes before eight when Armstrong knocked on Arno’s front door. As soon as
his host had escorted him into the packed drawing room, it became clear that
they had all been waiting for him before sitting down to dinner. He was
introduced to Arno’s friends, who greeted him as if he was the guest of honor.

Once Arno had
placed a glass of white wine in his hand-from a bottle that Armstrong realized
the moment he sipped it had not come from the French sector-he was led into the
small dining room and placed next to a man who introduced himself as Julius
Hahn, and who Arno described as “my oldest friend and greatest rival.”

Armstrong had
heard the name before, but couldn’t immediately place it. At first he ignored
Hahn, and concentrated on the food that was set in front of him. He had started
on his bowl of thin soup, uncertain which animal it had originated from, when
Hahn began to question him about how things were back in London. It quickly
became clear to Armstrong that this particular German had a far greater
knowledge of the British capital than he did.

“I do hope it
won’t be too long before foreign travel restrictions are lifted,” said Hahn. “I
desperately need to visit your country again.”

1 can’t see the
Allies agreeing to that for some time yet,” said Armstrong, as Mrs. Schultz
replaced his empty soup bowl with a plate of rabbit pie.

“That distresses
me,” said Hahn. “I am finding it increasingly difficult to keep track of some
of my business interests in London.” And then the name clicked, and for the
first time Armstrong rested his knife and fork on the plate. Hahn was the
proprietor of Der Berliner, the rival paper, published in the American sector.
But what else did he own?

“I’ve been
wanting to meet you for some time,” said Armstrong. Hahn looked surprised,
because up until that moment Captain Armstrong had shown no interest in him at
all. “How many copies of Der Berliner are you printing?”

Armstrong asked,
already knowing, but wanting to keep Hahn talking before he asked the one
question to which lie really needed an answer.

“Around 260,000
copies a day,” replied Hahn. “And our other daily in Frankfurt is, I’m happy to
say, back to selling well over two hundred thousand.”

“And how many
papers do you have in all?” asked Armstrong casually, picking up his knife and
fork again.

‘Just the two.
It used to be seventeen before the war, as well as several specialist scientific
magazines. But I can’t hope to return to those sorts of numbers again until all
the restrictions are lifted.”

“But I thought
Jews-and I am a Jew myself-” once again Hahn looked surprised “-weren’t allowed
to own newspapers before the war.”

“That’s true,
Captain Armstrong. But I sold all my shares in the company to my partner, who
was not Jewish, and he returned them to me at the price he had paid for them
within days of the war ending.”

“And the
magazines?” asked Armstrong, picking at his rabbit pie. “Could they make a
profit during these hard times?”

“Oh, yes.
Indeed, in the long run they may well prove to be a more reliable source of
income than the newspapers. Before the war, my company had the lion’s share of
Germany’s scientific publications. But from the moment Hitler marched into
Poland, we were forbidden to publish anything that might prove useful to
enemies of the Third Reich. I am presently sitting on eight years of
unpublished research, including most of the scientific papers produced in Germany
during the war. The publishing world would pay handsomely for such material if
only I could find an outlet for it.”

“What’s stopping
you from publishing it now?” asked Armstrong.

“The London publishing
house which had an arrangement with me is no longer willing to distribute my
work.”

The lightbulb
hanging from the ceiling was suddenly switched off, and a small cake boasting a
single candle was placed in the center ol the table.

“And why is that?”
asked Armstrong, determined not to let the conversation be interrupted, as Arno
Schultz blew out his candle to a round of applause.

“Sadly, because
the only son of the chairman was killed on the beaches of Dunkirk,” said Hahn,
as the largest slice of cake was placed on Armstrong’s plate. “I have written
to him often to express my condolences, but he simply doesn’t reply.”

“There are other
publishing houses in England,” said Armstrong, picking up the cake and stuffing
it into his mouth.

“Yes, but my contract
doesn’t allow me to approach anyone else at the present time. I only have to
wait a few more months now. I’ve already decided which London publishing house
would best represent my interests.”

“Have you?” said
Armstrong, wiping the crumbs off his mouth.

“if you could
find the time, Captain Armstrong,” the German publisher said, 1 would consider
it an honor to show you round my presses.”

“My schedule is
fairly hectic at the moment.”

“Of course,”
said Hahn. “I quite understand.”

“But perhaps
when I’m next visiting the American sector I could drop by.”

“Please do,”
said Hahn.

Once dinner was
over, Armstrong thanked his host for a memorable evening, and timed his
departure so that he left at the same time as Julius Hahn.

“I hope we will
meet again soon,” said Hahn as they stepped out onto the pavement.

“I’m sure we
will,” said Armstrong, shaking hands with Arno Schultzs closest friend.

When Dick
arrived back at the apartment a few minutes before midnight, Charlotte was
already asleep. He undressed, threw on a dressing-gown and crept upstairs to
David’s room. He stood by the side of the cot for some time, staring down at
his son.

“I shall build
you an empire,” he whispered, “which one day you will be proud to take over.”

The next
morning, Armstrong reported to Colonel Oakshott that he had attended Arno
Schultzs sixtieth birthday party, but not that he had met Julius Hahn. The only
piece of news Oakshott had for Dick was that Major Forsdyke had phoned to say
he wanted him to make another trip to the Russian sector. Armstrong promised he
would contact Forsdyke, but didn’t add that he planned to visit the American
sector first.

“By the way,
Dick,” said the colonel. “I never did see your article about the way we’re
treating the Germans in our internment camps.”

“No, sir. I’m
sorry to say that the bloody Krauts just wouldn’t cooperate. I’m afraid it all
turned out to be a bit of a waste of time.”