The Almighty

by Irving Wallace

  "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," Liddington 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 8o,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 only 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 Moët 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 Arm-stead . . . 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 it 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?"

  "I 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."

  "I 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 duty—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—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 the 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," Arm-stead 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 fiat 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."

  "It wasn't published," said Armstead simply. "It wasn't published until Yinger's escape revealed its existence."

  "Okay, if you want to be technical."

  "Mr. Pagano, hear me out. I have a business proposition for you. But before presenting it, let me state my policy unequivocally-1 believe that there is nothing in the world not for publication once it has been given to the Record. Everything on earth is for publication. If I know it, it is for publication. What did you get paid for talking to our reporter about Yinger and the cell?"

  Two hundred and fifty bucks."

  Not enough," said Armstead. "For services rendered, you deserve better. I'm making that payment a thousand dollars for the tip. And I'm offering you a proposition. How'd you like to be on my payroll at a thousand a week?"

  Pagano sat up, his beady eyes brightening. But he was hesitant. "For doing what?"

  "For doing what comes naturally. I don't want a thousand dollars a week to make you go straight. I want you to stay where you are—underground. Qive me more leads like the Yinger one."

  "They don't happen often."

  "You need come through only once in a while. Look, I know a little about you. You like to live well. You're always short of money. This would give you enough to live on, and to live well. At the same time, I don't want you to lose your contacts. I just don't want you involved in armed robbery anymore. Hang around with your regular friends, but take no risks. Keep your ears open."

  "And let you know what I hear."

  "If it might be a lead to a news story, yes. Just give us a little more."

  "I wouldn't want to get my friends in trouble."

  "You don't have to. What you report doesn't have to involve them exactly."

  Pagano stubbed out his cigarette thoughtfully. "It's still a dangerous scam," he said. "My friends wouldn't like it if they learned they had a stool pigeon around."

  "You won't be a stool pigeon. You'll listen a lot. You won't hurt anybody. You'll be selective, tell us what you can tell us."

  "Yeah."

  "A grand a week, Gus. Maybe some bonuses down the line for special services."

  "Yeah."

  Armstead stood up. "What do you say, Gus?"

  Gus Pagano came to his feet. He stuck out his hand. "You got a deal, Mr. Armstead."

  Armstead shook his hand heartily. Releasing it, Armstead came around the desk. He was beaming again. This' was a good day. Things were falling into place. He joined Pagano and took his arm. "Come on. You need to talk to Harry Dietz. He is now my assistant, and he'll be the one you keep in touch with. I want you two to work out a modus operandi. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  Armstead was about to leave his office when the telephone call had come from his wife Hannah.

  She had wanted to know if he would be coming back for dinner, because she had something she wanted to discuss with him.

  "I can't be home for dinner," he had told her, "but as a matter of fact I will be coming by right now, just for a few minutes. I've got several appointments lined up, and I want to change clothes before going out again. I'll be by in a little bit. We can talk then."


  Now, in his bedroom of their penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, Armstead had finished his dressing. He had three appointments ahead of him, and it was for his second appointment—date, really, a date with Kim Nesbit—that he had come back to change from a staid business suit into a younger and sportier outfit, lively cashmere sports jacket and Savile Row slacks. Inspecting himself in the full-length mirror, he was pleased. He hadn't looked better in years.

  He realized that time was closing in, he would have to be on his way shortly. He had better leave five minutes for Hannah, who was still waiting for him in the living room. He wondered what she wanted to talk about when he was so busy. He had already told her all about the Yinger beat at breakfast this morning. What more was there to discuss? If it was something Hannah had on her mind, it couldn't be good. He hoped it would be nothing to mar his perfect day.

  He went through the corridor into the living room. Hannah, he was pleased to note, was not in her usual wheelchair, the constant invalid. She was seated, instead, in the armchair near the television set. She even had color in her face. Going toward her, he wondered if he should sit briefly, but decided against it. Relaxing might invite a prolonged conversation. He decided to remain on his feet.

  "Meant to tell you," he said, "we passed the New York Times today, beat them out all the way. How's that?"

  "Congratulations, Ed. I'm pleased for you."

  "I knew I could do it, and I've done it," he said, extracting a cigar from his sports jacket and unpeeling it. Snipping off one end, he brought out his pocket lighter and lit up. "Okay, Hannah, now what can I do for you? You wanted to talk about something."

  "About our son Roger," she said.

  "What about Roger?"

  "I had a call from him a little while ago, from a hospital in Green Bay, Wisconsin."

  "A hospital? What do you mean? What's wrong? Is it anything serious—no, it couldn't be or he wouldn't have been able to call you, and you'd have told me on the phone."

  "It's not serious," said Hannah, "but it is still the hospital. Roger was climbing a mountain, and slipped and fell—"

  "Climbing a mountain? There are no mountains around Green Bay."