F or nine months, I’ve been interviewing Rupert Murdoch, in an unlikely spirit of openness precipitated by his great satisfaction in having bought The Wall Street Journal, about journalism, his business, politics, his family, and the future for a new biography. I was warned about his charm by many other journalists—warned not to fall victim to it. So the surprise was his lack of it. He’s without introspection and self-analysis and doesn’t like to talk about the past. What’s more, he mumbles terribly (and with a heavy Aussie accent) and seldom finishes a sentence. For the first three months of our interviews, he never addressed a word to or even looked at my research assistant, Leela de Kretser, who was at each of the sessions, and ignored her questions—perhaps because it’s not necessary to acknowledge a girl, or possibly because it was embarrassing for him that she was, at the time, a pregnant girl. (She had the baby. He eventually warmed up.)

But his odd lack of seductiveness or felicitousness—contributing to his aura of villainy—became after a while alluring in itself. There’s no spin, because he really can’t explain himself. Rather, what you see is what you get. He’s transparent. The nature of the beast is entirely evident.

One morning when Leela and I arrived at Murdoch’s office for another interview session, we found the 77-year-old News Corp. chairman and C.E.O. hunched over the phone reporting out a story. He’d been out the night before and gotten a tip. Now he was trying to nail it down. His side of the conversation was straight reporter stuff: Who could he call? How could he get in touch? Will they confirm? Barked, impatient, just the facts. Here was the old man, in white shirt, singlet visible underneath, doing one of the same basic jobs he’d been doing since he was 22, having inherited the Adelaide News in Australia from his father. And he was good at it. He was parsing each answer. Re-asking the question. Clarifying every point. His notepad going. He knew the trade. Of how many media-company C.E.O.’s could that be said? This wasn’t a destroyer of journalism—this was a practitioner.

On the other hand, he was trying to smear somebody. At the dinner party he’d attended—since his marriage to Wendi Deng, he’s become an unlikely fixture at fashionable tables—he heard that a seniormost Hillary Clinton operative was a partner in an online porn company. He didn’t like the operative, didn’t like—no matter how much he had tried—Hillary Clinton. So it didn’t much matter that the story itself seemed far-fetched and tenth-hand. It was juicy and would slime somebody he thought was … a slime. True, it didn’t pan out—and, to his credit, that was the end of it. Well, sort of. Because he kept recycling it. While it did not end up on the *Post’*s “Page Six,” it became a staple in Murdoch’s repertoire of whispers and confidences and speculations. Rupert Murdoch doesn’t need to print or broadcast the news to make it … news.

He may be among the biggest gossips in New York. In the months of interviewing him, I found that the most reliable way to hold his interest was to bring him a rich nugget. His entire demeanor would change. He’d instantly light up. He’d go from distracted to absolutely focused. Gossip gives him life (and business opportunities). This, I believe, is how the rumor about Michael Bloomberg’s buying The New York Times got legs. I offered it to him as a bit of speculation—conflating two of his favorite subjects, Bloomberg, whom he greatly admires, and the Times, which he does not—that a Bloomberg-Times deal could be possible. He paused, considered, opened his mouth, seemed blissed out for a second, processed this information against his own needs and interests … and then said, “It makes sense. I think I’ll ask him.” And suddenly the rumor was everywhere—he was telling everybody, which made it true. The mayor’s people seemed to like the rumor so much that they began to talk it up themselves. Bloomberg himself seemed to fancy it (offering only a tepid denial) and, Murdoch thinks, could act on it.