by Andres Kabel
If Ross Petrov had a small office, Chang didn’t have one at all. He worked in a large partitioned area in the middle of the third-floor trading area. Low, maroon-colored partitions separated a couple of dozen young men and women in perpetual motion, gesticulating on phones, conferring in shouts, clustered in the small meeting rooms by the windows. Here, people ran rather than walked, and the blanket of voices, phones, and printers made Peter feel as welcome as in Draconi’s.
“Mr. Gentle, even my mother loved him.” Chang blew his nose. His English was accented but precise. “She came from China just two years ago, and still cannot speak much English, but she always made him a special dish when he came to our house.”
“Weiqing, please call me Peter. Did everyone at Scientific Money love Kantor like you?” Peter couldn’t keep his damaged hand in his pocket any longer. He found a paperclip on the desk and began to bend it backward and forward. Chang looked at the bandage without comment.
“Everyone. I mean, this is his child, this company, his and Rollo’s. Yet he never made anyone feel he was the boss. He was so humble.”
“Did Kantor get along well with Rollo?”
Chang leaned back, fingers interlaced over his stomach, and surveyed Peter across his desk. “Naturally. They are brothers.”
“Even brothers can argue.”
“Not Kantor and Rollo. Peter, have you ever been part of building a dream?” A soft smile settled on Chang’s face.
Peter sipped the flower-scented tea. Lovely, but it made him long for a macchiato at Draconi’s. “I can’t say I have.”
“Well, that’s what Kantor and Rollo were… are doing. And they could only do this, Peter, because they loved each other like, well, like brothers.”
“How did Benedict Dancer get on with Kantor?”
“Fine.”
“I’ve heard they quarreled over salary.”
“Discussed, maybe. Quarreled, never. Kantor encouraged open debate, but our culture here says that we do not take things personally. It sounds simple, Peter, but we do believe in this dream.”
Peter wriggled in his seat, took in the open face. Was Chang lying? He certainly looked honest.
“Was Marcia Brindle close to Kantor?”
“Not close like me, perhaps, but she liked him. Everybody did.”
Sure, one huge happy family, Peter thought. The paperclip broke. He dropped the pieces on the carpet.
“I’ve heard that you did the programming of the invisible passes.”
“Yes. When we first established Scientific Money, there were few people aboard, and I taught myself how to modify the security system’s software. With help from the security company, of course. But now all of that is outside my responsibility.”
“Why the special passes?”
“Rollo wanted them. You have met him, Peter? Then you’ll appreciate why.”
Peter nodded. He brushed hair off his forehead with the injured hand and winced at the pain. “Will you take over as custodian of Scientific Money’s investment theory?”
“Me?” Chang removed his glasses and rubbed red-rimmed eyes. “It’s a problem. Only Kantor and Stan Friedman ever understood the theory. I guess Rollo has to hire another genius. But that’s not so important short term. The theory has not needed to be revisited for five years, so we have faith in it.”
“Stan Friedman. How much of the theory was his, and how much of it Kantor’s?”
Chang’s face pinched in disgust. “Have you been talking to that crazy brother? Kantor sometimes called the guy his stalker. Just a joke, of course.”
“The theory?”
“It was a joint effort. But the basic idea was Kantor’s. He was so intelligent. If you had met him, you would know.”
Chang shook his head and poured some more tea. Whoops of glee came from a pair of traders bent over a screen.
“What’s your job as Research Manager entail?”
Chang’s eyes narrowed behind the black frames. “I’m responsible for all the research into the economy and investment markets. And individual stocks. Of course, we don’t have a big research department, so in fact I do a lot of it myself.”
Peter drummed his feet. Suddenly he knew what had been bothering him. “Why does Scientific Money need any research at all? Don’t the computers do everything? Economic analysis, market analysis, individual stock selection. Human research shouldn’t be necessary.”
“Very astute, Peter.” Chang leaned forward. “I keep track of indices, major companies, economic data, etc. I produce our customer bulletins. Since we are a quant company, the actual research required should not be great, but the firm’s stated philosophy is to run a real research center because our customers want that kind of information. Also, we have a couple of non-quant funds that have just been launched. But you are correct, that’s why the research function is so small.”
Everything Chang said made such good sense.
“Now I think your time is up.” Chang beamed. “Did you enjoy the tea?”
But if Chang was correct, Peter’s thinking was up the creek. No, I’m right, he thought, gritting his teeth.
“So who smashed Kantor’s head in?” he said.
The blue handkerchief appeared again. “I really cannot imagine. The police think it was a drug addict.”
Peter snorted.
***
Blue and white plastic tape hung across the door of Kantor Keppel’s office. Peter glanced down the empty corridor before slipping in under the tape. The office was enormous, the same size as Rollo’s, but whilst Rollo’s office was a showcase, Kantor’s felt more like a den. Peter walked past couches and a small settee that held a pillow, suggesting it doubled as a bed. A library full of books lined the wall opposite the window. In the middle of the room was a large, unadorned pine table, its surface scarred and scribbled upon. At the far end stood a mammoth desk, buried under papers, flanked by not one but three silent computers. He glanced out the window, across to the Westgate Bridge, the bay a blue-green band on the horizon.
Peter knew immediately that Mick had been correct. This was where Kantor spent most of his hours. His bedroom in The Island had been just a hotel room, a place to rest his head.
He wandered around the room. Already, less than a week after Kantor’s death, it smelled of dust and neglect. On the wide bookshelves, Kantor’s life was laid out in photographs and awards. A young, tousle-haired Kantor with Robert Merton, the Nobel Prize winner. A Recognition Award from MIT. A framed cover of an award-winning research paper. Kantor center stage in a group photo outside Melbourne University. Framed prospectuses from his days at Coombs Holcomb. The brothers Keppel grinning together at the laying of foundations for Scientific Money House.
Kantor’s desk was an unholy mess. Research reports competed with academic journals in piles around the outskirts, and in the middle, chewed pens lay on mounds of correspondence. Computer output sat knee high on the floor. What could be seen of the wooden desktop was scored by Kantor’s vandalism. The ancient leather chair sagged when Peter sat in it.
On shelves behind the desk, he found numerous Scientific Money photographs, in all of them Rollo commanding control, Kantor looking rumpled but impressive, his oval face calm with knowledge. But nowhere in the room were there photos with Imogen or Straw. Or Willy, for that matter.
Unsure of what to look for, he sifted through the papers on the desk. Drafts of press releases vied with internal circulars and technical reports. He flicked through a coffee-stained copy of ethicist Peter Singer’s How Are We To Live—why had Kantor been reading that? The level of correspondence with international economists and local analysts staggered Peter. How on earth did the man keep up with it all? The short answer was that he didn’t; Peter spotted mail from 1998 at the bottom of one pile.
Nothing helped Peter understand why a dedicated academic had been bashed to death, nor could he find anything more than superficial about the investment process.
He let his gaze drift across the desk like
a searchlight. Nothing of interest. He flicked through a pile of correspondence, and a printed email caught his attention. A simple request from Rollo, asking Kantor to attend an analyst’s lunch a few weeks earlier. He was about to put it down when he noticed the caption at the bottom. Rather than ending with “Rollo”, the email finished with a solitary “B.” What the hell?
Peter sat on the edge of the desk. The room began to spook him. Apart from the vague hum of machinery behind walls, all was funereally quiet. As quiet as that night. He shivered, picturing Kantor sweeping papers into his briefcase, rising wearily—the guy had worked till 10:30 PM!—walking to the door, down the corridor… Out of that imagery rose another, a monstrous wave of fear—his own face cradled in water, the reek of his urine, sibilant whispers in his ear. He shuddered, trying to snap back into reality, sending a twitch across his shoulders, and pain shot through his bruised neck muscles. Jesus!
“Big guy, do something,” he said, but the leviathan was guarding the fort downstairs.
Alarm welled up in his chest and he ran. Out the door and slap bang into the police tape, which strained when it pulled him up. Strained like a finger bent back to its limit.
***
“Where have you been?”
Peter jumped. Mika sprang out from her cubicle to intercept him. She looked impossibly slim in her canary yellow dress.
“I got lost,” he said.
“You met with Weiqing. All meetings are to be organised through me.”
“Whoops.” He glanced back down the corridor and hoped she hadn’t noticed Kantor’s open door.
She glowered, hands on hips.
Peter suddenly realized another snippet of data from Kantor’s office. Why nothing on the Investment Committee? In his home away from home. Unless secrecy was an issue…
He said, “I saw an email from Rollo to Kantor with B at the bottom. Does Rollo always end emails like that?”
“No. Only with Kantor. It was a joke between Mr. Keppel and his brother. He would sign as Boss, Kantor as Slave.”
Peter stared at Rollo’s silent office door. So Rollo could have sent the threatening email. The implications were too monstrous to consider.
Mika stared at his bandage. “What did you do to your fingers?”
“Accident. Caught them in a blender.”
CHAPTER 21
As soon as Peter emerged from Scientific Money House, he pumped himself up by scanning the sun-drenched city skyline across the river, spotting the buildings he’d once worked in, fixing his eyes on the vicinity of his apartment. Soon, he promised, soon I’ll be back there. Especially if I keep acquiring data as well as I have this morning.
Identifying city buildings was a passion of his. He knew virtually every office tower in Collins Street by sight. He’d even done some historical research, knew that two building booms had raised his city. The first and greatest was on the back of gold fever in the 1860s, giving rise to the period splendors lining Collins Street. The 1960s boom sprang up during the golden age of natural resources, sending skyscrapers up along Bourke and Collins Streets.
He was ravenous. Did that signify some of the pervasive fear had left him? He inspected Mick with gratitude. If the lug had moved in the previous two hours, it wasn’t apparent.
Mick nodded back. “You sure this traipsing around won’t be a waste of fucking time?”
“Trust me.”
“Who else would?”
They both smiled.
Peter’s mother had loaned him her clunky old mobile. Crossing the footbridge, Peter used it to ring Rollo. Mika answered and gave him Rollo’s mobile number.
“I wonder if I could obtain access to the restricted computer area, Mr. Keppel,” Peter said, cupping his hands over the mobile as a train rattled past.
“Sorry, Peter,” Rollo said. “Too commercially sensitive. But my team will tell you all about what goes on in there.”
Ha! None of them seemed to know zip.
“Why don’t you come and see me in the apartment tomorrow at 11:00? Tell me what your conclusions are.”
“Okay, Mr. Keppel.”
When he reached tree-lined Collins, Peter rang Bishop with an update, omitting to mention the beating. The lawyer was as curt as ever. Peter then rang his client, to receive another harangue about slowness.
“Some people are suggesting Kantor and Rollo were rivals,” he cut in.
Imogen’s voice was chilly. “Nonsense. You have never seen brothers so close. When we lived in America they would ring each other every day. Who is saying these things? Willy?”
What Peter needed now was independent, external data. His logical starting point had to be the Skulk Club. If its dozen members didn’t have the inside scoop on Scientific Money, nobody did. And Peter looked forward to showing them that he was back in action, unemployed no longer.
He led the way to Draconi’s, where Hector surprised him by drawing him aside.
“You’re mixing in strange company, m’boy.” Hector’s drooping mustache always gave Peter the impression of a beagle. “That big fellow looks like trouble.”
Peter chuckled. “Not at all, Hec. He’s an old friend. We’ve gone into business together. As private eyes, actually.”
Leaving an astonished Hector, Peter hurried through the restaurant. He was in luck. Carlo Fonti and Renni Maisel sat hunched over coffees at the bar. Peter hugged them both and introduced Mick. Carlo had been his workmate at Thompson White. Nearly bald at age thirty-five, Carlo was a quiet, brilliant actuary. Renni had gone to Melbourne University with Peter, and now worked for Merriwether Lang, one of the big legal firms. She was a boisterous American who sang Alanis Morissette songs when drunk.
“Nothing untoward about Scientific Money from my angle, Skull.” Renni’s face and hands were tanned, even in autumn, the by-product of endless cycling. “I should know, we did the legals for the original prospectus. They’re one of our biggest clients, and we reckon the sun shines out of their arses. Rollo and Kantor Keppel are… were a brilliant combo. Skull, this company’s one of the best things Melbourne has going for it.”
Peter swung a full circle on his stool. “What are the skeletons in their closet, Renni? No company’s perfect.”
“Nothing I know about.”
Throughout the discussion, Mick stood silent and unmoving. When he handed Peter a glass of water and some Panadols, Peter saw Carlo’s eyebrows lift. God help me, Peter thought, I’ve not only got a bodyguard, but a nurse as well. But he had to admit his hand had begun to throb.
Peter quizzed Carlo about Kantor’s theory. “What about this Stan Friedman?”
Carlo inclined his head, light glinting off his glasses, pondering. “That’s right, I remember him. Friedman and Keppel were always together, maybe five, six years ago. I’ve got a special paper delivered by both of them at a technical conference I went to. I’m sure it was before Scientific Money. Would that help?”
“You bet.” Peter began to drum his feet. “Is the theory sound? You must have a view, Carlo.”
“Thompson White’s official view is that Scientific Money is soundly based and that quantitative—non-human-intervention—investment is a viable alternative strategy for our clients. I haven’t delved into the theory myself, but I’ve got my doubts.”
Peter downed his macchiato and waved goodbye to Hector.
“Apologize to Ziggy for me,” he called to Carlo. Ziggy was their cooking teacher, another something Peter had taken up to keep sane during unemployment.
***
Outside, he rang Harvey Jopling and sighed with relief when Harvey himself answered. Now was not the time to talk to Mandy.
Harvey spoke in fast, clipped tones. “Scientific Money are winners, Peter. The public likes the concept, the wholesale market is sold on it. It’s got the track record to compete, even with BT. Their marketing is brilliant. Rollo Keppel’s a genius. I guess the one open question is whether the recipe will work now that the chef’s been murdered?”
“
Speaking of recipes, anything fishy about the principals? Rollo? Kantor? Or even Benedict Dancer?” Peter grinned. His interviewing skills might need brushing up, but his networking was immaculate.
“Not that I know of. Hold on.” Peter heard Harvey give muffled instructions. “I’m back. No, Rollo’s got a big rep in town, as you well know. Honest but ruthless. One thing, buddy. Don’t mess with him. Incredibly well connected, has mates all the way up to the Premier.”
“Thanks, Harvey. Ciao.”
Peter watched Mick inspecting the mid-morning crowd in Block Place. He rang Arnold Ng, waited for Arnold’s secretary to track him down.
“Skull.” Arnold worked as a project manager at IBM, his offices just near Scientific Money’s. Peter didn’t know him well. At Skulk Club meetings, after a few wines, Arnold’s face went red and he became weepy.
Peter described the security system at Scientific Money.
“Pretty standard,” Arnold said. “The firm’s one of the market leaders, and the system is a good top-line one. Probably state of the art when introduced, still pretty good. A bit unusual not to have security cameras.”
“Apparently the boss hates the thought of being watched. What about this facility to program invisible passes?”
“More usual for smaller firms, you know, where there’s an owner-operator who goes in and out all the time. But nothing untoward. They’re easy to program.”
Peter stayed deep in thought as he and Mick rode a tram to the other end of Collins, to 101, the elegant, towering office block set back behind shops. They walked between its granite Doric columns, through the opulent lobby, and took an elevator to Carlo’s office to pick up the conference paper from Carlo’s secretary. Back outside, Peter found a bench on the footpath near Spring Street while Mick continued his vigilance. The paper, entitled “A New Approach to Quantitative Investment,” appeared at first to be nothing more than a rehash of other papers by Kantor. But wait… he looked at the date: November 1993. That was before all the other papers, indicating that at the very least, Stan Friedman had helped with the original work. And at the front of the paper, Peter found a joint dedication:
