‘You know of Yinger’s escape?’
‘I know from Green Haven - and from your newspaper,’ he said wryly.
‘I interviewed Yinger at the prison this afternoon. I asked him what he’d like to do if he were free. He told me that the one reason he’d like to be free is to kill you.’
Van Dusen frowned. ‘He really said that?’
‘I have my notes. He actually said it.’
‘You think he meant it?’
‘I think he did. After all, he had no compunction about killing six children.’ Victoria wanted to emphasize her belief. ‘I’m sure he meant it. He hates you for calling him an animal in court.’
‘He is an animal,’ Van Dusen said.
‘And now he’s on the loose,’ said Victoria.
The district attorney beckoned to a man who had just come out of the ballroom. As Victoria wondered who the man was, she found Van Dusen taking her hand. ‘I want to thank you, Miss -‘
‘Victoria Weston. The New York Record.’
‘- yes, Miss Weston. The chief of police, here will take immediate precautions. He’ll double my protection. Can you spare a few moments more? I want you to tell the chief what you told me. Again, my thanks. I may owe you my life.’
It was several minutes before midnight when Victoria, on the verge of exhaustion, stumbled through the thinly populated newsroom of the Record on the way to her desk. She pulled
her notebook out of her purse, praying she had enough strength left to write up her Yinger interview before it was too late.
When she arrived at her desk, she found her swivel chair occupied. A lazy, and perhaps partially intoxicated, Nick Ramsey lolled in her chair, one long leg hooked over the armrest.
‘Just keeping the seat warm for Lois Lane,’ he said.
‘I appreciate that,’ said Victoria. ‘Now if you don’t mind moving, I have a story to write.’
‘Don’t bother.’
Victoria’s brow furrowed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your story’s just been canceled.’
‘Why?’
‘Hotter news. What you have is old news by now.’ Ramsey removed his leg from the chair arm and straightened up. ‘Sam Yinger is dead.’
‘What?’ Victoria said with disbelief.
‘Yup.’ Ramsey stood up. ‘Purdy phoned it in from the D.A.‘s Gracie Square residence five minutes ago. Van Dusen was returning home from the mayor’s testimonial. Sam Yinger was lying in wait with a gun, ready to assassinate the D.A. Before he could take aim, the D.A.‘s guards gunned him down. Maybe a dozen shots to Yinger’s chest and head. He was killed instantly. The D.A. survived unscathed.’ Ramsey smiled. ‘Thanks to you.’
Victoria moved her head dumbly, trying to comprehend the sudden turn of events.
‘It’s right there in Purdy’s lead. Girl reporter from the Record saves D.A.‘s life. Van Dusen gave you credit by name.’
‘But my story? There’s still a story.’
‘Old news, Vicky dear. After that Yinger escaped. Yinger stalked the D.A. Weston alerted the D.A. Yinger was executed hours earlier than planned. Goodbye, Yinger. Old news.’
‘Old news,’ said Victoria dully. ‘Maybe I should have got my story in earlier. What will Mr. Armstead think?’
‘Can’t say. Van Dusen thinks you’re a heroine. Edward Armstead - he’ll either fire you or give you a raise.’ Ramsey hooked his arm through hers. ‘Right now, I’ll tell you what I think. I think you need a drink.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Harry Dietz could not remember, in all their years together, ever before having seen Edward Armstead as cheerful as he was this morning.
The publisher’s handsome office was bathed in sunshine, which streamed in through the sliding glass doors that opened onto the balcony. It was as if Mother Nature had directed a special yellow spotlight on Edward Armstead. He leaned back, deep in his leather swivel chair, letting the sun warm his beaming face as he called across his massive oak desk to his assistant, ‘Tell me again, Harry.’
Dutifully, Harry Dietz once more reviewed the sheet of paper on his lap. ‘Unofficial figures, mind you, but even if they are off, they won’t be that much off. Yesterday, the daily New York Times sold, in round numbers, 860,000 copies.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The New York Record sold 940,000 copies - all our new presses could turn out. You crushed them. You did it.’
‘Fantastic,’ crowed Armstead. ‘A runaway. The Yinger escape did it. Wow.’
Armstead heard the intercom, and then his secretary’s voice. ‘Mr. Armstead, I have Horace Liddington for you.’
‘Thanks, Estelle,’ said Armstead. ‘I’ll take it.’ He winked at Dietz. ‘This’ll knock our old legal-beagle on his ass.’ Armstead punched the button on his phone marked COL
‘Horace?’
‘Hello, Edward,’ Liddington said. ‘How are you?’
‘Have you heard the news about what the Record did in sales yesterday?’
‘I had an idea -‘
‘You what?’
‘I guessed what was happening. When I heard them break your story on the late television news, I went out to buy the paper for more details. I had to visit three newsstands before I
could find a copy. People were buying it everywhere. You have my congratulations - my heartiest congratulations -‘
Armstead cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and said to Dietz, ‘Liddington says he guessed it. We were a sellout in his neighborhood. He’s congratulating us now.’
Armstead gave his attention to the telephone once more.
‘- I couldn’t be happier for you,’ Lidington was saying.
‘Well, thank you, Horace, thank you.’
‘How on earth did you ever get a scoop like that?’
‘Never mind how we got the scoop. The zinger in my father’s will was obliterated by Yinger.’ He savored the poetic justice. Zinger, Yinger. He resumed. ‘Let me give you the figures on sales yesterday.’ He reached out, took the sheet of paper from Dietz, and said into the phone, ‘We exceeded the sales of the Times by 80,000. Listen to the numbers.’ He read them to Liddington. ‘How does that sound?’
‘It certainly sounds as if you’re in.’
‘You bet I’m in.’
‘I’ll require some official confirmation to fulfill the condition in your father’s will. You’ll take care of that?’
‘Yes, I’ll send you the official figures as soon as I receive them from the Audit Bureau of Circulations in Chicago. But there’s no question -‘
‘I’m merely speaking of a formality, Edward. To all intents and purposes, you have done what was required.’
‘Good, good, I’m glad to hear you say that,’ said Armstead. ‘I have fulfilled the condition in the will. The Record, from this day on, is my newspaper.’
‘Let me repeat, I couldn’t be happier.’
‘Thank you, thanks again. Believe me, Horace, this is only the beginning. From now on, it’s straight onward and upward.’
‘Myra and I want to share in your achievement, to celebrate by taking you and Hannah to dinner next week. I’ll promise, you a bottle of Moet and Chandon Brut Imperial at the table to toast your triumph.’
Armstead could not resist a chuckle, aware that his father’s attorney was a Yankee and knowing his reputation as a tight man with a buck. ‘Thanks, Horace,’ he said. ‘I will accept that generous dinner offer - and the champagne. See you shortly.’
No sooner had Armstead laid down the receiver than
Estelle was on the intercom again. ‘The phone is ringing off the hook, Mr. Armstead. I’m not bothering you with most of the calls. I’ll leave you messages. But maybe you want to take this call. It’s the mayor, the mayor himself.’
Armstead grinned at the telephone. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said. He punched the lighted red button. ‘Hello, this is Edward Armstead… How are you, your honor? … Why, thank you, that’s very kind of you. But after all, we are a public service newspaper. We are only too pleased to be of
use… Yes, I’ll be delighted to have lunch with you next week.’
Armstead slammed the receiver down with a grimace and looked at Dietz. ‘His honor congratulating me. You know what for? No, not the Yinger beat. He’s congratulating me for having a reporter enterprising enough to have alerted the district attorney to the danger he was in and for helping save Van Dusen’s life. Which brings us to Victoria Weston. What do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Dietz frankly.
‘I think I know how to handle her. Be a good guy, Harry, and send her in.’
Edward Armstead watched Victoria as she crossed the office from the door to his desk.
She was a fairly tall girl, he saw again, with long blond hair, a bright, alive pretty face, firm breasts that moved with her motion beneath a clinging gray sweater, long legs. Not as mature as Kim Nesbit, not as sensuous, less a full woman.
But he could see that she carried herself with ease, great poise, and there was a smartness about her that he found enticing. He had to remind himself not to be seduced and softened. He had a hunch that she would make a first-rate reporter. She would seduce and soften other men. She would be an asset for the newspaper. Nevertheless, he would have to be tough with her. The molding of a real reporter had to begin today.
As she sat down across from him, he heard her say, ‘Congratulations, Mr. Armstead. The word’s out all over the plant - that the Record topped the other New York newspapers yesterday. That’s wonderful.’
‘Yes, it is. Thank you Victoria. We’re ahead, and we mean to stay there.’
‘How did you ever pull if off, the exclusive on Yinger’s escape? You had it all alone.’
This was dangerous territory, but Armstead moved through it smoothly. ‘You’re referring to the Green Haven tunnel, of course?’
T can’t imagine how Yinger found out about it.’
‘Well, you found out about it from Gus Pagano. You kept your word not to use it. But I doubt if others were as trustworthy. At any rate, someone in the prison told Yinger, and at the same time someone tipped us that Yinger was using the tunnel. I think we had the story on the presses just as he broke out. I’m not at liberty to give any details.’
‘Oh, I’m not prying, Mr. Armstead.’
‘Nothing wrong with prying, Victoria - as long as it’s into someone else’s affairs. We simply want no one to pry into the paper’s affairs. I know you can be depended upon.’
‘Absolutely, Mr. Armstead,’ she said.
With deliberation, he extracted a cigar from its case and fiddled with it. ‘I’m aware, of course, that you had an excellent interview at the prison with Yinger.’
She became wary. ‘It was - interesting.’
‘During that interview, you learned that Yinger wanted to kill our district attorney, and after you learned Yinger had escaped, you went to great lengths to contact Van Dusen and alert him to the danger.’ Armstead put a light to his cigar. ‘In fact, by so doing you may have saved the district attorney’s life.’
She was still wary. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
T gather everyone has been congratulating you on your humanity and good citizenship. In fact, the mayor called here to congratulate us on your act. And others have as well. But there is one person who is not going to congratulate you. That person is me. I can’t congratulate you for something you should not have done.’
Armstead knew that she knew what he meant. Nevertheless she asked, ‘What do you mean?’
The publisher exhaled a balloon of smoke. He followed its rise, disintegration, evaporation. ‘I’ll tell you what I mean by telling you a story I heard or read somewhere, a story about another woman reporter. I forget her name, but I believe she worked for the New York Daily News. This was back in the
days before the young Prince of Wales became King Edward VIII and finally Duke of Windsor. It was a time when the young prince was frivolous news, but news all the same, a glamorous playboy. The prince, the real Prince of Wales, was an enigma, and the public wanted to know more about him personally. Well, he was visiting Quebec under an assumed name, although everyone knew he was the Prince of Wales, and the New York Daily News decided to attempt a ruse to find out more intimate facts about him. The paper assigned one of its youngest and most beautiful female reporters to go to Quebec, pose as a debutante, meet the prince, gain his confidence, and learn his most private thoughts. Well, it worked - but it didn’t work. Are you following me, Victoria? Are you wondering what went wrong?’
Squirming, Victoria stammered, ‘I - I’m wondering, Mr. Armstead.’
‘Yes, the stunt worked,’ said Armstead. ‘The girl reporter posing as a debutante attracted the Prince of Wales, danced with him endlessly, entranced him, gained his confidence, got her story. But then she couldn’t write it. She felt that the prince had become her friend, that she couldn’t betray him, make his confidences public, write the personal story she was supposed to write. She wrote something, but not the real story she’d been assigned. In the end, her loyalty was to the prince and not to her newspaper. As a reporter, she failed her publisher. Do you see?’
‘I do see,’ said Victoria in a small voice.
‘In the same way, you failed me. You had a story to write for us. Instead of writing it, you devoted yourself to worrying about the district attorney.’
‘But I couldn’t let him be killed!’ Victoria exclaimed.
Armstead poked the stub of his cigar at her. ‘Don’t be childish. There was little chance Yinger would have been able to kill Van Dusen under any circumstances. The district attorney is always well protected.’
‘But Van Dusen himself thanked me.’
‘Nonsense, nonsense, Victoria. A political ploy to play up to the press. Also to create more human interest for himself. You were dealing with a consummate politician, Victoria. No, you had your, priorities wrong. You must learn, once and for
all, that you are not in the public service business. You are in the dog-eat-dog newspaper business. Your first - your only duty - is to me, to me and to this newspaper. You had an exclusive story for us, one we had considerable difficulty arranging. You got a good story. Your instinct should have made you come directly here and write it. We might have had a second beat - and you would have had a by-line. Yes, a second beat. A natural. I can see the headline: “Escaped Murderer Vows to Kill D.A. Van Dusen.” That would have hiked our circulation even higher. Once Yinger was dead, your story was pointless, and Yinger’s death was everyone’s story, not ours, and it became routine news. You had your priorities wrong. Do you understand what I am saying, Victoria?’
‘I think I do, Mr. Armstead. I’m sorry.’ ‘You may get a medal from the district attorney. But you won’t get one from Edward Armstead - until you realize that the paper always comes first. Next time you have a big story, see that you deliver it to the Record. Then you’ll get the right kind of medal.’ He saw that she was unstrung, and he did not want to unravel her completely. ‘Okay, you’ve learned your lesson. You’ll do better from now on.’
As she left, he wondered if he had been unduly harsh. He decided that he had not. He had, indeed, taught her a lesson. From now on she would be a perfect reporter, and a good member of a winning team.
Armstead was determined to have a winning team, a newspaper that was the constant leader.
In pursuit of this goal, he had spent the next hour going through the latest editions of all the New York papers, and the Washington and Chicago papers as well. He had riffled through the future folder, the file folder of potential news stories that might develop in the days ahead.
He wanted another Yinger. More of the same.
A thought had materialized, and he had asked McAllister to locate Nick Ramsey.
He had Nick Ramsey on his phone now. ‘Nick, this is Armstead.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you remember that last Special Project we conceived, the one I had you research abroad - the one my father turned down?’
‘Certainly. It was t
he terrorist thing, the series we were going to call “The Time of the Terrorist.”’
‘That’s the one, the series. As I recall, you did quite a bit of background work on it. Do you still have your notes?’
‘Every note in mint condition.’
‘Good. Leave them with my secretary. I want to read them again. We just may want to reactivate the series.’
‘Great idea. It could be a scorcher.’
‘We’ll see. Let me have a look. I’ll let you know.’
As he put the receiver down, Armstead heard Estelle’s voice and had to pick it up again.
‘Gus Pagano is here for his appointment.’
Armstead had quite forgotten. ‘Send him in,’ he said.
Seconds later Gus Pagano came into the room, twirling his hat in his hand.
Inside the office, he halted and surveyed the space. ‘Quite a layout,’ said Pagano, impressed. ‘Lots of elbowroom.’
Armstead presumed that his visitor meant the office was more habitable than a cell in Green Haven prison. He motioned Pagano to a chair across from him. Armstead had never met the informant before. What surprised him was that Pagano looked like what he was supposed to be, as if type-cast for a small-time racketeer or gangster. The jet-black curly hair, hooked nose, swarthy complexion, pinstriped suit -perfect, except there were no bulges that might indicate a weapon.
Pagano had made himself comfortable and was shaking a cigarette loose from his pack. ‘Do you mind?’ He lit the cigarette without waiting for an answer.
‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Pagano,’ Armstead-said.
‘Likewise,’ said Pagano.
Armstead wasted no time. ‘Your tip about the prison tunnel - that was pretty good.’
‘You used it.’
‘You bet I did.’
‘You weren’t supposed to,’ said Pagano. He wasn’t angry at all. Just a flat statement. ‘It was secret.’
‘Mr. Pagano, once a secret is revealed to another, it is no longer a secret. That should be evident.’
‘I told her it was not for publication.’
(1982) The Almighty Page 9
