The Capitalist

by Peter Steiner

  “Forgive me,” said Louis. “I had to ask.”

  “I know.”

  St. John Larrimer had led the life of a typical businessman: long hours, dull meetings with clients, boring tasks, late restaurant dinners. It was true he was stealing. But in a way, organizing a theft of such complexity and magnitude was even more time-consuming than the actual investing work would have been. Nearly everything St. John did had to be falsified on paper, which meant being meticulous and fastidious in a way that ran counter to his nature. And as the deceptions multiplied and deepened and became intertwined, it took more and more effort and concentration to keep it all sorted out. In his own way, St. John was a hard worker. He had spent long hours in the dreary office of Robert Feather and Sons (there were no sons; there was only Robert) going over accounts, tax returns, SEC filings, in essence getting and keeping his story straight.

  Except for the apartment on Park Avenue and the villa on Terre-de-Haut, he rarely visited any of his properties. In fact, he had acquired most of them as places to put money. Real estate was safer than banks; St. John knew from experience just how easy it was to bilk banks.

  Nothing Lorraine had said about Larrimer had surprised Louis until the moment she mentioned the prints that hung in St. John’s office. “He took one of them with him when he left,” she said. “It was an etching, I think. By Rembrandt.” Louis’s eyebrows jumped up into the middle of his forehead.

  “Really?” said Louis. “Do you remember what it was?”

  “It was Jesus and the money changers.”

  “Was it an original?”

  “Oh, yes. He collected them.”

  “Really? Do you remember what else he had?”

  Lorraine did not remember. “They were always changing,” she said. “Except for the one by Rembrandt. That was his favorite. But he was always buying new ones. Paintings too. He got catalogs from all the auction houses, and he bought stuff all the time.”

  “How much stuff?”

  “He told me once he owned more than two hundred prints and paintings. He was on the board at the Metropolitan Museum, you know. He said they were going to have a show of his collection.”

  “Really. And where did he keep his collection?”

  “Some of it went to his apartment, but I don’t know where he kept the rest of it. Probably his houses. I don’t think anybody knows where they all are, except Mr. Larrimer.”

  “Does he have favorite artists?”

  “I don’t know who they all were,” said Lorraine. “I don’t know much about art. Picasso maybe.”

  “He bought Picasso?”

  “Oh, yes. Quite a few. And some other French painters. Famous ones. One starts with R, I think. Rard or Rond.”

  “Renoir?”

  “No, not him. Rar? Something with R? Or … Is this important?”

  “Bonnard?”

  “That’s it. He painted his wife washing herself?”

  “Yes. Who else did he like?”

  “Matisse. Mondrian, I think.” Lorraine could not remember most of the names.

  Finally she recounted how, over the past several weeks, she had gotten letters from several dozen clients in response to her letter. At least she supposed they were in response to her letter, but she couldn’t be sure. She had turned the unopened letters over to Bruno to forward to the SEC. And some people had actually showed up at her door.

  “How many people?” said Louis.

  “You’re the fourth.”

  “And who were they?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I sent them away.”

  “Like you sent me away?” said Louis.

  “If they had met Arthur, it might have turned out different. But no, I sent them away without opening the door.” Lorraine and Louis had by now spent several hours together. The teapot was cold. Arthur had gotten bored and had left.

  Louis leafed through his notes one last time. “Jeremy Gutentag.” He paused. “You said you thought he was Indian?”

  “I think so. From London, though.”

  “Do you know anything about his life there?” said Louis.

  Lorraine thought for a moment. “No. Not much.”

  “Anything? His family, his friends, his studies?”

  “Well, he was a very accomplished student. He was proud of that. He said his parents were both dead. His father had had a shop of some kind.”

  “Did he speak with an accent?”

  “Oh, he spoke beautifully. Like an educated Englishman. Which he was.”

  “But no Indian accent?”

  “Not that I could tell. But I’m not that good on accents.”

  “Do you remember anything else?”

  “No. Jeremy didn’t say much about his life.”

  “Did his name strike you as odd? Gutentag? It’s a German name.”

  “It did, actually. I mean, he was dark skinned, and I found it odd that he had a name like that.”

  “His father could have been white,” said Louis.

  “I don’t think so,” said Lorraine. “He said once it had been hard for his parents, being Indians in London.”

  “Did he say Indians? Did he say where his parents were from?”

  “I don’t remember. I just remember him saying they were immigrants from … I don’t think he said where.”

  “Not India?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”

  “Not Pakistan or Bangladesh or Sri Lanka?”

  “I just don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

  “I think that’s enough for now,” said Louis, closing the notebook. “You have been extremely helpful. I can’t thank you enough.” He gave Lorraine his number in Saint-Léon in case she thought of anything else.

  XX

  JEREMY GUTENTAG WAS ON THE RUN. Not so much from the law as from his own guilty conscience, chased by his own recently reawakened sense of right and wrong. His guilt rushed after him like a pack of baying hounds. The magnitude of his crime cast a dark shadow over him. He could think of only one place where he would be safe.

  He had been plucked from obscurity by the great St. John Larrimer and given a seat at Larrimer’s trading desk. After a brief apprenticeship there, he was put in charge of the other traders. Larrimer had seen something in the young economist. Jeremy had thought it must be his academic achievement and his native intelligence. While still at Oxford, he had published articles in several important journals. He had references from leading economists who described Jeremy as someone for whom success was “an inevitability.”

  For St. John, Jeremy’s smooth charm, tony accent, and most particularly the falsified bits of his history—not surprisingly St. John had an eye for such things—added up to a man primed for larceny. “Tell me about yourself,” St. John had said. It was their first meeting. Jeremy sat across the table from St. John. Lorraine had just brought them coffee and sweets.

  Jeremy was supremely confident, as though he were in his natural domain. He sat comfortably, his fingers interlocked on his lap, one slender pinstriped leg draped across the other. His dark eyes met St. John’s. “Well, Mr. Larrimer, you know from my résumé about my academic and professional history.…”

  “What else should I know?” said St. John.

  “You must know that I’m very eager to be part of an enterprise such as yours,” said Jeremy. “I confess, Goldman has offered me a terrific deal, but, frankly, being part of a large, conventional establishment doesn’t interest me.”

  “Conventional. Goldman Sachs is conventional?”

  “I think it is. And large. One could say too large to succeed in the sense that I think an investment bank can succeed. And in the way that they do investment banking, yes, I think they are conventional. And woefully predictable, once you have their business model pegged.”

  “And do you? Have their business model pegged?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I see.” St. John liked this boy. “And tell me about the rest of your life, who you are.”


  Jeremy shifted in his seat. He recited his biography: born in London of hardworking Indian immigrant shopkeepers, work after school in the family shop, then Oxford on a Kings’ Scholarship, then the London School of Economics. Parents deceased. “I think that’s about it,” he said.

  St. John seemed satisfied. He offered Jeremy a job. Over the next several months, he allowed Jeremy small glimpses of the questionable corners of his operation. Nothing that could incriminate him, but details that a like-minded financier might recognize as not entirely aboveboard. St. John did so with complete confidence. He knew his man, better than Jeremy knew himself.

  “But how could you be sure that I wouldn’t go to the SEC?” Jeremy asked one day. St. John had recently upped the ante and revealed an unmistakably illegal bit of business.

  “Well, by then you were already involved, so you couldn’t, could you?”

  “But earlier, when I first arrived, before I … knew much?”

  “Well, you always knew something was up, didn’t you?” said St. John.

  “I suspected. But—”

  “Well, in the same way, I knew you from the start,” said St. John, tasting the Burgundy he had ordered, a 1986 Andrées. He rolled it around on his tongue, then nodded his approval to the sommelier. They were at Per Se, celebrating Jeremy’s ascension to head of the trading room.

  “Knew what?” said Jeremy.

  “I knew how much you valued the game.”

  “The game,” said Jeremy. The word made him uneasy. He was unaccustomed to both his newfound authority and the fact that it was part of a criminal enterprise. Like St. John, Jeremy had long ago concluded that the economic system was something to be dominated and manipulated by those with the means to do so. It was a neutral, amoral system, like the weather or geology, except that it was rigged and could be manipulated. Anyone with the means to do so, should do so. This imperative was part of human existence. But how had St. John known?

  “I just knew,” said St. John, holding his wineglass high and waiting for Jeremy to raise his.

  XXI

  JEREMY HAD BEEN WATCHING the tickers, so he knew, almost before St. John did, that things were coming apart—bank shares were plummeting while the Fed was making alarming noises. Without so much as packing a bag, Jeremy took a taxi to JFK and left for London. He stayed in London only long enough to conduct some business, which consisted mainly of removing his savings to a secure location. Then he bought a suitcase, some clothes, and a first-class plane ticket for Lahore, Pakistan.

  Jeremy presented his passport and his ticket at the gate. The other passengers had already boarded the plane. The gate attendant produced a boarding pass and then fed Jeremy’s passport through the scanner. “Welcome, Mr. Kapoor,” she said. “Have a pleasant flight.” As Jeremy went down the gangway, they closed the gate behind him.

  Jeremy had been born and had grown up in Lahore as Charanjeet Kapoor, the privileged only child of Mohan and Golapi Kapoor. Mohan was the founder and owner of several businesses, among them the Fine Fabric Works, manufacturers of fine cloths of cotton, linen, and rayon, including what was widely considered to be the world’s very best muslin.

  Mohan and Golapi were generous and unstinting in their love for their son. They wanted more for their Charanjeet than even they could provide. They understood from the start that his future lay in the larger world, and that one sure path to that larger world led through the British public schools—which is how Charanjeet found himself at Trinity, a boarding school in the Gloucestershire village of Tronklin-on-Wye. After graduating from Trinity with high honors, it was on to Exeter College at Oxford University. Mohan and Golapi happily paid the fees, which were considerable, as long as Charanjeet did the work, which was also considerable.

  Taking the name Jeremy Gutentag—he liked the ring of it—had been Charanjeet’s idea. At first Mohan and Golapi had found the idea shocking and distasteful, but they soon saw the wisdom behind it. Charanjeet did not tell them about his invented biography with the deceased shopkeeper parents. That would have hurt them too much. Through the years, Charanjeet wrote long, newsy letters home, always signing “With love, Jeremy.” Sometimes he telephoned. “Hello, Mummy, it’s Jeremy.”

  This was his first trip home in ten years. He had left home a boy, but he emerged now from the crowded international arrivals terminal a handsome and accomplished young man. Mohan and Golapi laughed with delight when they saw him, for he was proof incarnate of the success of their collective project. Their driver took Jeremy’s attaché and rushed off to retrieve his suitcase. Jeremy’s announcement that he was returning home had been sudden and unexpected, but what did that matter? Mohan and Golapi were thrilled to have him there.

  “How long can you stay, Jeremy?” said Golapi, caressing his cheek.

  “Mummy, I am Charanjeet again,” he said, and kissed his delighted mother’s forehead. “I have left Jeremy in New York, and so must you.”

  XXII

  CAROLYNE BUSHWICK’S REALTY OFFICE WAS in a strip mall a short walk from the Bridgeport train station. Louis had decided to use a false name with Larrimer’s ex. “Hello, Ms. Bushwick, I’m Louis Coburn. I’m sorry to be late.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’ve got plenty to keep me busy. Please.” She gestured for him to sit down. She saw that he was looking at the sign over her desk. “The company came with the David Reis name—I bought it from Janet after David died. It seemed prudent to keep the name. It’s a familiar one in these parts.”

  “Of course. I understand,” said Louis. “I suppose it helps avoid unwanted attention.”

  “Attention?”

  “The Larrimer connection.”

  “I see.” Her face had gone cold. “You said on the phone that you are interested in a second home.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  She leafed through a folder. “I only have a few listings right now that meet your criteria. They’re all in Greenwich.”

  “Really? I’m surprised. I mean, the market hasn’t been that—”

  “We deal exclusively in upper-bracket properties; they are mostly immune to the downturn.” She passed a folder across the desk. “Here are four properties that might interest you.”

  Louis leafed through the listings. “May I have copies of these?” Carolyne got up and went into the next room. The office where Louis sat seemed entirely impersonal. A cheap desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet. There were no pictures—of her sons, for instance, no computer, no calendar, no personal diary anywhere. He could hear her fiddling with the copy machine. She didn’t know how to use it.

  “Can I help?” he said and got up and walked toward the copy room. As he passed the desk, he took a quick look in the top drawer. It was empty. The filing cabinet drawers had no labels. He knocked lightly on the side, and you could hear it was empty too.

  “I’ve got it,” she said, and the machine started whirring.

  “They’re lovely properties,” he said, stopping in the doorway. “They seem priced for a better market than we’re having.”

  She turned and smiled at him. “I’m sure the prices have some flexibility built in.”

  “I would hope so,” said Louis.

  “Shall we go look?” Carolyne drove Louis down to Greenwich, where they looked at the four houses. “Cavernous” was how Louis later described them to Renard.

  “They’re all four marvelous,” said Louis. “I’ll have to give them all serious thought.”

  They drove back to Bridgeport. “We have relationships with several banks, Mr. Coburn. We can help you get financing on good terms. It’s added value that we provide.”

  “Forgive me, Ms. Bushwick, but you keep referring to ‘we.’ Are there other partners in the David Reis Realty, or are you in business for yourself?”

  Carolyne gave Louis a long look. “Why do you want to know, Mr. Coburn?”

  “Well, I just like to know exactly who I’m dealing with, that’s all.”

  “You’re
dealing with me, Mr. Coburn.”

  “So that means you are in business for yourself?”

  “Mr. Coburn. I thought you said you were interested in buying a home. If that’s so, then let’s stick to business.”

  A few minutes later Louis watched from the coffee shop across the street as Carolyne came out of the office, got in her car, and drove away.

  “You buying a house?” said the young woman making his coffee.

  “Maybe,” said Louis.

  “From her?”

  “Maybe.”

  “In Bridgeport?”

  “Greenwich. Why?”

  “Well, you’re the first customer I ever saw come out of there. I don’t think they move a lot of houses.”

  “You see everyone that comes and goes?”

  She made a sweeping gesture. “We’re not real busy.”

  “You think it’s a front or something?”

  The young woman shrugged.

  The real estate sales and tax records at the town hall confirmed what the coffee maker had surmised. David Reis Realty had not sold a single house in the entire time that Carolyne Bushwick had been its proprietor.

  XXIII

  LORRAINE HAD HAD FOUR UNIDENTIFIED visitors, and Dimitri Adropov had been the very first. Dimitri was a major customer of the EisenerBank, having only recently entrusted that institution with many millions of Swiss francs, which they had then turned over to St. John Larrimer. Dimitri was one reason Lorelei Steinhauer was in hiding. In fact he could easily have tracked her down and taken his revenge. And Dimitri had to admit, killing her had been a momentary temptation. It was what his colleagues on the board at Gazneft, the huge Russian oil conglomerate, all wanted. “But,” Dimitri asked them one by one, “how does that get our money back?” He went around the big steel and glass table asking each of them. “You want your fucking money, don’t you?”

  Even in a fancy suit with a smooth shave and a two-hundred-dollar haircut, Dimitri looked like a killer. His shoulders were wide, and he was tall. He all but filled Lorraine’s front doorway. His narrow eyes were arranged in a permanent squint. When he smiled, the temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees. Lorraine half expected a little forked tongue to come flicking through the space between his front teeth. She had kept her right hand on the baseball bat, but a lot of good that would have done. It turned out, though, that Dimitri liked cats, so who knows what Arthur might have decided if Dimitri had made it inside.