whose housekeeping views coincide so closely with mine, but I cursed him under my breath as my boots slid in the lobby slush. The elevator wasn’t working today either, so I stomped up four flights of stairs to my office.
After turning on the lights and picking up the mail from the floor, I phoned Agnes Paciorek at her broker’s office. On hold while she sold a million shares of AT&T, I looked through bills and pleas for charity. Nothing that wouldn’t wait until next month. At last her brisk deep voice came on the line.
“Agnes. It’s V. I. Warshawski.”
We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, then I explained who Roger Ferrant was and said I’d given him her number.
“I know. He called yesterday afternoon. We’re meeting for lunch at the Mercantile Club. Are you downtown? Want to join us?”
“Sure. Great. You find anything unusual?”
“Depends on your definition. Brokers don’t think buying and selling stock is unusual but you might. I’ve got to run. See you at one.”
The Mercantile Club sits on top of the old Bletchley Iron Building down in the financial district. It’s a businessmen’s club, which reluctantly opened its doors to women when Mrs. Gray became president of the University of Chicago, since most of the trustees’ meetings were held there. Having admitted one woman they found others sneaking through in her wake. The food is excellent and the service impeccable, although some of the old waiters refuse to work tables with women guests.
Ferrant was already sitting by the fire in the reading room where the maître d’ sent me to wait for Agnes. He looked elegant in navy-blue tailoring and stood up with a warm smile when he saw me come into the room.
“Agnes invited me to gate-crash; I hope you don’t object.”
“By no means. You look very smart today. How are your forgeries coming?”
I told him about my useless interview with Hatfield. “And the Dominicans don’t know anything, either. At least not about forgery. I need to start at the other end—who could have created them to begin with?”
Agnes came up behind me. “Created what?” She turned to Ferrant and introduced herself, a short, compact dynamo in a brown-plaid suit whose perfect stitching probably required an eight-hundred-dollar investment. Half a day’s work for Agnes.
She shepherded us into the dining room where the maître d’ greeted her by name and seated us by a window. We looked down at the South Branch of the Chicago River and ordered drinks. I seldom drink whiskey in the middle of the day and asked for oloroso sherry. Ferrant ordered a beer, while Agnes had Perrier with lime—the exchanges didn’t close for almost two hours and she believes sober brokers trade better.
Once we were settled she repeated her initial question. I told her about the forgery. “As far as I know, the Fort Dearborn Trust discovered it because the serial numbers hadn’t been issued yet. The FBI is being stuffy and close-mouthed, but I know the forgery was pretty high quality—good enough to pass a superficial test by the auditors, anyway. I’d like to talk to someone who knows something about forging—try to find out who’d have the skill to create that good a product.”
Agnes cocked a thick eyebrow. “Are you asking me? I just sell ‘em; I don’t print ‘em. Roger’s problem is the type of thing I’m equipped to handle. Maybe.” She turned to Ferrant. “Why don’t you tell me what you know at this point?”
He shrugged thin shoulders. “I told you on the phone about the call from our specialist in New York, Andy Barrett. Maybe you can start by telling me what a specialist is. He doesn’t work for Ajax, I take it.”
“No. Specialists are members of the New York Stock Exchange—but they’re not brokers for the public. Usually they’re members of a firm who get a franchise from the Exchange to be specialists—people who manage buy-and-sell orders so business keeps flowing. Barrett makes markets in
After turning on the lights and picking up the mail from the floor, I phoned Agnes Paciorek at her broker’s office. On hold while she sold a million shares of AT&T, I looked through bills and pleas for charity. Nothing that wouldn’t wait until next month. At last her brisk deep voice came on the line.
“Agnes. It’s V. I. Warshawski.”
We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, then I explained who Roger Ferrant was and said I’d given him her number.
“I know. He called yesterday afternoon. We’re meeting for lunch at the Mercantile Club. Are you downtown? Want to join us?”
“Sure. Great. You find anything unusual?”
“Depends on your definition. Brokers don’t think buying and selling stock is unusual but you might. I’ve got to run. See you at one.”
The Mercantile Club sits on top of the old Bletchley Iron Building down in the financial district. It’s a businessmen’s club, which reluctantly opened its doors to women when Mrs. Gray became president of the University of Chicago, since most of the trustees’ meetings were held there. Having admitted one woman they found others sneaking through in her wake. The food is excellent and the service impeccable, although some of the old waiters refuse to work tables with women guests.
Ferrant was already sitting by the fire in the reading room where the maître d’ sent me to wait for Agnes. He looked elegant in navy-blue tailoring and stood up with a warm smile when he saw me come into the room.
“Agnes invited me to gate-crash; I hope you don’t object.”
“By no means. You look very smart today. How are your forgeries coming?”
I told him about my useless interview with Hatfield. “And the Dominicans don’t know anything, either. At least not about forgery. I need to start at the other end—who could have created them to begin with?”
Agnes came up behind me. “Created what?” She turned to Ferrant and introduced herself, a short, compact dynamo in a brown-plaid suit whose perfect stitching probably required an eight-hundred-dollar investment. Half a day’s work for Agnes.
She shepherded us into the dining room where the maître d’ greeted her by name and seated us by a window. We looked down at the South Branch of the Chicago River and ordered drinks. I seldom drink whiskey in the middle of the day and asked for oloroso sherry. Ferrant ordered a beer, while Agnes had Perrier with lime—the exchanges didn’t close for almost two hours and she believes sober brokers trade better.
Once we were settled she repeated her initial question. I told her about the forgery. “As far as I know, the Fort Dearborn Trust discovered it because the serial numbers hadn’t been issued yet. The FBI is being stuffy and close-mouthed, but I know the forgery was pretty high quality—good enough to pass a superficial test by the auditors, anyway. I’d like to talk to someone who knows something about forging—try to find out who’d have the skill to create that good a product.”
Agnes cocked a thick eyebrow. “Are you asking me? I just sell ‘em; I don’t print ‘em. Roger’s problem is the type of thing I’m equipped to handle. Maybe.” She turned to Ferrant. “Why don’t you tell me what you know at this point?”
He shrugged thin shoulders. “I told you on the phone about the call from our specialist in New York, Andy Barrett. Maybe you can start by telling me what a specialist is. He doesn’t work for Ajax, I take it.”
“No. Specialists are members of the New York Stock Exchange—but they’re not brokers for the public. Usually they’re members of a firm who get a franchise from the Exchange to be specialists—people who manage buy-and-sell orders so business keeps flowing. Barrett makes markets in
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