I don’t think he would have been flummoxed if I had said, “A glass of Dom Perignon, please.” But I said, “Nothing, thank you,” and remained standing. I looked about at the lean decor, noting Felix’s desk was bare of everything but a combination telephone-fax-answering machine. A red light glowed on the telephone panel. The square chamber itself resembled an efficient machine, furnishings precisely placed, the off-white walls bearing groupings of abstract graphics I could not identify.
Felix seemed amused by my interest in the artwork. “Fractals,” he said. “Created by computers. Do you like them?”
“Different,” I said.
“A bore,” he said. “I try to disregard them. The decorator insisted the room needed a touch of the infinite. Her words: ‘A touch of the infinite.’ I would have preferred hunting prints or even travel posters.”
As Binky had said, the man did have an unblinking stare. But I did not think it cold. Direct and searching perhaps but not hostile. He had a coffin-shaped face, eyes deep-set and glowing. His features bore a saturnine cast, not sullen you understand, but I doubted if he was a man much given to mirth. No white suit today; he was wearing a gray linen jacket and black trousers with an almost metallic sheen. This time the shirt was white and the knitted silk four-in-hand black. His costume fitted the sterile room perfectly.
He glanced at the gadget on his desk. The red light had gone off. “Mr. Clemens is free now,” he said. “This way, please.”
He ushered me through a door I hadn’t noticed before since it was also painted off-white and set flush into the wall. And it had no knob or lock. Felix opened it by pressing lightly on the edge. The door swung silently inward and I wondered if it could be locked electronically by remote control. Curious.
We marched down a tiled hallway to a closed portal also set smoothly into the wall and sans knob and lock. Felix knocked once and pressed in without waiting for a response. He stepped back, motioned me forward, and then disappeared. The door closed silently behind me and I had the oddest notion of being imprisoned in the lair of a beast.
But there was nothing beastly about the smiling man who came toward me, hand outstretched. He was as tall as I but burlier, and if some of his bulk was fat it was effectively concealed by the bespoke three-piece suit he wore—worsted wool gabardine in a cool shade of French blue. I wished I could afford his tailor, for that suit was a masterpiece, with gently rolled lapels, beautifully fitted neck, and wrinkle-free sleeves with four-button cuffs. They worked of course.
The color was right for him, for his complexion was burnished, his smoothly brushed hair halfway between blond and silver. He had the look and manner of a CEO or perhaps a brigadier in mufti. His handclasp was firm and dry, his voice as resonant as it had been on the phone, full but not boomy. I saw no indication of the oiliness disturbing Natalie Westmore. I thought him a handsome man with enough crag in his face to save it from vapidity. The only unsettling detail of his dress and manner was his wristwatch: a gold Rolex studded with diamonds. I thought it a bit much.
He got me seated in a comfortable leather armchair alongside his desk—and what a desk it was! A polished slab of veined black marble was supported on a frame and twisted legs of verdigrised wrought iron. Atop the marble were the red, white, and blue telephones Binky had mentioned and a desk set (blotter, portfolio, letter file, calendar, and engagement book) trimmed in mellow calfskin. No framed photographs, knickknacks, or stained coffee cup.
The computing equipment occupied a separate table and was placed so Clemens could scoot in front of the monitor and keyboard without rising from his castered swivel chair. To my untrained eye the equipment seemed enormous and complex; I couldn’t guess the function of those power cords, metal boxes and their attached screens, and really had no desire to know. I still haven’t mastered the percentage key on my pocket calculator (two AA batteries).
“There are a number of questions I’d like to ask, Archy,” Clemens started. “If you feel any are too personal or you don’t wish to answer for whatever reason, have no hesitation in telling me so. I won’t be insulted, I assure you.” It was hard to resist his grin—an invitation to share a private joke.
“Ask away,” I said airily.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“A resident of West Palm?”
“No. The Town of Palm Beach.”
“Married?”
“Single.”
“You live alone?”
“No, with my parents.”
“How long have you lived in Palm Beach?”
“All my life.”
“You’re a native Floridian?” he asked, apparently astounded.
“I am indeed.”
He shook his head. “Amazing. The first of the breed I’ve met. Education?”
“B.A. degree.”
“You are employed?”
“Yes. As a paralegal. The salary is not munificent.”
“You have other sources of income?”
“A trust fund,” I lied cheerfully. “Left to me by my paternal grandfather. And my investments of course.”
“Are you heavily in debt?”
“Heavily? Oh no. I do owe but nothing onerous.”
“Where are most of your investments now?”
“The bulk is in two jumbo CD’s, both of which mature next month. A total of slightly more than two hundred thousand. I have no desire to roll them over. The yield offered is miserable.”
“What yield would make you happy? Ten percent? Fifteen? Twenty?”
“I don’t think I can realistically expect more than fifteen, do you? Let’s see—with a fifteen percent return, how long would it take to double my money using the Magic of Seventy-two?”
I said it casually but I was watching him closely. He gave me what I can only describe as a glassy smile. Then he suddenly snapped his fingers and glanced at his watch.
“Good lord!” he said in a fretful tone. “I’m waiting for an important FedEx package and it hasn’t arrived yet. Please excuse me a moment while I check with Felix. Perhaps it’s been delivered and he neglected to inform me. Be right back.”
Then he was gone and I was left alone in that silent room. I was tempted to light a gasper but there was no ashtray in sight and so I refrained. Clemens couldn’t have been absent more than two minutes, then came striding back.
“Hasn’t arrived yet,” he reported. “I asked Felix to call FedEx. Now then—what were we talking about?”
“I mentioned I had two hundred thousand to invest and wondered how long it would take to double under the Magic of Seventy-two if I was able to get a fifteen percent yield.”
“About four-point-eight years,” he said immediately. “But your desire for a fifteen percent return is modest. I think we can do better than that with only slightly more risk. How do you feel about risk, Archy? Would you say you have a high tolerance or low?”
“About average,” I said. “Well, perhaps that is not absolutely correct. Risk doesn’t spook me if the potential benefit is large enough. In other words, under the right conditions I’m willing to take a flier.”
“Good for you,” Frederick Clemens said approvingly. “Well, I think I have a clear picture of your investment objectives. Thank you for your patience and cooperation. Now it’s your turn to ask questions and I’m sure you have many. I’ll answer them to the best of my ability.”
“All right,” I said. “Here we go.... How long has Clemens Investments been in business?”
“Slightly more than ten years. Formerly in La Jolla, California. I made the move to West Palm less than a year ago.”
“Are you a registered investment adviser?”
“Not yet in the state of Florida but my application has been filed.”
“Do you have an M.B.A.?”
“No, I do not,” he said. “But prior to starting my own firm I worked at two of the largest stock brokerages on Wall Street. I also spent two years in the A and M department of a five-sta
r investment banker.”
“A and M?”
“Acquisitions and mergers.”
“Would you call yourself essentially a trader or an investor, Fred?”
“A very cogent question, Archy. I’d say I’m both but favor investing more than I do speculation. I am a buy-and-hold type and usually try to avoid quick in-and-out tactics but I’ll do it if the potential return is too tempting to resist.”
“Do you charge a fixed fee as your compensation or a percentage based on the size of a client’s original investment or investment income?”
“I work in a variety of ways—whichever the client is most comfortable with. Occasionally the client pays me nothing at all; my compensation comes in the form of commissions on the sale of securities to the client.”
“Have you ever been the subject of an investigation by the SEC or any other law enforcement agency?”
“Not to my knowledge. I had several minor complaints made by clients who lost money. This was when I was employed as a stockbroker. The few cases that went to arbitration were decided in my favor. Some people go ballistic when they lose money, you know. My reply to the poor losers is that I never held a gun to their head and demanded they invest. It was their choice.”
This last was uttered in a serious, almost a solemn voice as Clemens leaned toward me. He had the ability to communicate sincerity. Looking into those steady blue eyes, it was almost impossible for me to doubt the man’s probity.
I could denigrate his appeal by saying he was a skilled actor giving an effective performance. But I could not detect the slightest hint of dramaturgy in his speech or manner. He seemed open, without pretense, a nonfiction man who was what he appeared to be. It required a conscious and deliberate effort on my part to refrain from surrendering completely.
“Well, Fred,” I said, “I am impressed by your responses and I appreciate your speaking so frankly. Suppose we do this: I shall invest with you half the funds becoming available when my two jumbo CD’s mature. If the initial investment proves successful, I will be willing to let you manage the remaining half and perhaps other moneys from the sale of securities I now own and from my trust fund. In other words I propose dipping my toes in the water to test the temperature before plunging in.”
“A wise decision,” he said. “I like the way you think, Archy. Then I presume you will contact me when you have the first hundred thousand in hand?”
“Correct.”
“Excellent. Meanwhile I’ll do some digging and see if I can come up with three or four opportunities offering the yield you hope to receive or more. The final choice will be yours of course.”
“Do you want me to fill out an application, Fred? Or sign an agreement with your company?”
“Not at the moment. We can complete the paperwork when your funds are available and you have selected the investment you prefer.”
There didn’t seem to be anything more to say. We both rose and shook hands. Clemens opened the door and escorted me down the hallway to the reception area. Felix was seated at his desk, hands folded atop the glass, and I noticed the stub of the missing finger. But I saw no papers, magazines, or books and wondered if he spent his working hours sitting stonily with folded hands. Not bloody likely.
I stepped through the opened door of Clemens Investments and rang for the elevator. I glanced back and saw both men were looking at me, smiling and nodding. The elevator arrived. I lifted a hand in farewell and departed.
Why did I have an irritating fancy that after I left, the two men exchanged a conspiratorial wink?
CHAPTER 13
I EXITED FROM THE building in a rankled mood. I had confidently expected Frederick Clemens to reveal himself as a flimflammer peddling penny stocks and fake Fabergé eggs to gullible clients. But I was chagrined to find myself favorably impressed by the man. And the thought he might actually be honest and respectable made me cranky. If he was indeed a legitimate investment adviser it meant my Discreet Inquiry was a silly waste of time and effort and both my father and I were oversuspicious churls condemning a man on insufficient evidence.
I was about to board the Miata when I noted a maroon Bentley parked nearby. It had to be the car that had wafted Binky Watrous to his meal of brains and eggs. I wandered over to take a closer look. It really was a stately vehicle, lacking the panache of a Rolls—which was the reason many people prefer it. But it surprised me Clemens would select this particular marque. It had absolutely no kinship to a gold Rolex studded with diamonds.
I drove home still peeved by the ambiguity of my encounter with Clemens. I reviewed it slowly and carefully: what was said and what we all did—gestures, expressions, body language. I was seeking a false note: a slipup, no matter how minor, that might indicate the man was a sleazy conniver despite how convincing his words and manner had been.
I continued to reexamine our meeting during the family cocktail hour and a dinner of coq au vin, which is one of my several hundred favorite dishes. But so engrossed was I in finding a blunder in Clemens’s presentation, a loose button on his custom-made duds so to speak, I was able to manage only two helpings of the winy chicken and lacked my usual volubility. In fact, I was so silent and withdrawn that mother inquired anxiously if I was coming down with something.
“Only a slight case of frustration,” I told her.
“A lot of that going around these days,” father remarked. Sometimes his attempts at humor approach the ponderous. But what can you expect of a man who believes Calvin Coolidge had a rapier-sharp wit?
I went upstairs after dinner and shucked my clothing to don a new silk robe. It was printed with images of the golden goddesses of moviedom. A portrait of Carole Lombard lay over my heart—where she belonged.
I opened my journal and began to scratch an account of my conversation with Frederick Clemens. It was less than half completed when I suddenly stopped and reread what I had just scribbled. I did not shout “Ah-ha!” or “Eureka!” or even “Gotcha!” But I did feel I had uncovered something mighty peculiar, apparently trifling but significant enough to rejuvenate my doubts of Clemens’s genuineness.
Consider this sequence of events:
1. When Binky Watrous first phoned Clemens Investments, he was answered by Felix, who then switched the call to Frederick Clemens.
2. When I entered I was told by Felix that Clemens was on the phone. A few moments later he glanced at the dingus on his desk, saw the red light was gone, and told me his boss was now off the phone.
Ergo: There was direct telephonic communication between the desks of Felix and Frederick.
3. Seated in Clemens’s office, I made reference to the Magic of 72 to test the investment adviser’s expertise, as suggested by Simon Pettibone.
4. Clemens almost immediately snapped his fingers, said he was expecting a FedEx package, and left the room ostensibly to ask Felix if it had arrived.
5. Clemens returned a few minutes later and gave a rapid answer to my inquiry concerning the Magic of 72.
Question: Why hadn’t Clemens merely picked up one of his three telephones, buzzed Felix, and asked if the package had arrived?
My answer: Clemens was totally bewildered by my reference to the Magic of 72, and rather than betray his ignorance had left the room on a pretext to consult with Felix, who obviously supplied the correct response to my query.
Now you may think my interpretation of what occurred is flapdoodle and there are several completely innocent explanations of Frederick’s behavior. You may also feel that even if my reasoning was accurate, it didn’t necessarily prove the financial guru was a phony.
If you do believe that, you can’t play on my team. Credulity will get you nowhere if you expect to make a career of Discreet Inquiries.
And if my construct of the incident was correct—and I was convinced it was—it implied more than Clemens’s villainy; it also suggested Felix was not just a secretary. If he knew more of the obscure vocabulary of investing than his alleged employer—and apparently he did�
��it was quite possible he was actually an equal partner in or perhaps even the honcho of Clemens Investments. It was an intriguing conjecture.
I was still musing on the role Felix might be playing in this affair when my phone rang. I picked it up hoping Connie Garcia was calling. I needed a spell of Palm Beach tittle-tattle to provide diversion from ruminating on how financial dupery so often succeeds because of the greed of the duped.
’Twasn’t Connie, ’twas Natalie Westmore. “What a pleasant surprise!” I caroled, and feared I might be speaking with forked tongue.
“Am I disturbing you?” she inquired stiffly.
“Not at all. How are you, Nettie?”
But she scorned politesse. She abruptly said, “Walter is coming home tomorrow morning.”
“Is he? I’m sure you’ll be happy to see him.”
“Yes. I want you to meet him, Archy.”
“Of course.”
“You said we might have like a picnic in my studio. I want to do it at twelve-thirty tomorrow. I’ll have my brother there and you can meet him then.”
“Nettie, won’t he be busy? After all, he’s been gone a year and will want to spend some time with his wife and mother. Shouldn’t we wait a few days?”
“No,” she said flatly. “I want it to be tomorrow. Please don’t fight me on this.”
“Fight you?” I said, mildly outraged. “I’m merely making what I feel is a perfectly reasonable suggestion: Let your brother unpack and recover from jet lag before you ask him to meet a stranger.”
“He’ll do it for me,” she said doggedly. “Now will you do it or won’t you?”
It wasn’t, I decided, worth a tussle; she had obviously made up her mind; I added obstinacy to her resume. “Naturally, I’ll do it, Nettie. Twelve-thirty tomorrow in your studio. Let me bring the lunch. How does pizza sound? With a cold six-pack of beer.”
“All right for Walter and you. I’ll bring my own food. I didn’t tell you—I’m a vegan.”
And she hung up. I sat there a moment staring stupidly at the dead phone, wondering why it was so necessary I meet her brother on the morrow. And she was a rabid vegetarian? It explained why she hadn’t joined her mother and me at our luncheon and made her even more quirky than I had surmised. I recalled Connie’s epithet: kooky. It was beginning to seem appropriate.
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