Derek smiled to himself in the back of the car.
He had been too hard on his father; perhaps sons always were. Few men
had known more about political skirmishing: the old man’s cleverness had
given him real power, whereas Nathaniel’s father had been too wise ever
to wield real influence in affairs of state.
Nathaniel had inherited that wisdom and made a career of it. The
stockbroking firm which had been owned by six generations of firstborn
sons named Nathaniel Fett had been changed, by the seventh, into a
merchant bank. People had always gone to Nathaniel for advice, even at
school. Now he advised on mergers, share issues, and takeovers.
The car pulled up. Hamilton said: “Wait for me, please.
The offices of Nathaniel Fett were not impressive–the firm had no need
to prove itself rich.
There was a small nameplate outside a street-door near the Bank of
England. The entrance was flanked by a sandwich shop on one side and a
tobacconist’s on the other. A casual observer might have taken it for a
small, and none-too-prosperous, insurance or shipping company; but he
would not have known how far the premises to either side were occupied
by the one firm.
The inside was comfortable, rather than opulent, with air conditioning,
concealed lighting, and carpets which had aged well and stopped short of
the walls. The same casual observer might have thought that the
paintings hanging on the walls were expensive. He would have been right
and wrong: they were expensive, but they were not hanging on the walls.
They were set into the brickwork behind armored glass–only the false
frames actually hung on top of the wallpaper.
Hamilton was shown straight in to Fett’s ground-floor office. Nathaniel
was sitting in a club chair reading The Financial Times. He stood up to
shake hands.
Hamilton said: “I’ve never seen you sitting at that desk. Is it just for
decoration?”
“Sit down, Derek. Tea, coffee, sherry?”
“A glass of milk, please.”
“If you would, Valerie.” Fett nodded to his secretary. and she went out.
“The desk–no, I never use it. Everything I write is dictated; nothing I
read is too heavy to hold in my hands; why should I sit at a desk like a
clerk in Dickens?”
“So it is for decoration.”
“It’s been here longer than I. Too big to get out through the door and
too valuable to chop up. I think they built the place around it.”
Hamilton smiled. Valerie brought in his milk and went out again. He
sipped and studied his friend. Fett and his office matched: both were
small but not dwarfish, dark but not gloomy, relaxed without being
frivolous. The man had heavy-rimmed glasses and brilliantined hair. He
wore a club tie, a mark of social acceptability: it was the only Jewish
thing about him, Hamilton thought wryly.
He put his glass down and said: “Were you reading about me?”
“Just skimming. A predictable reaction. Ten years ago, results like that
from a company like Hamilton would have made waves from audio shares to
zinc prices. Today, it’s just another conglomerate in trouble. There’s a
word for it: recession.” Hamilton sighed. “Why do we do it, Nathaniel?”
“I beg your pardon?” Fett was startled.
He shrugged. “Why do we overwork, lose sleep, risk fortunes?”
“And get ulcers.” Fett smiled, but a subtle change had come over his
demeanor. His eyes narrowed behind the pebble-len sed spectacles, and he
smoothed the bristly hair at the back of his head in a gesture Hamilton
recognized to be defensive. Fett was retiring into his role as a careful
adviser, a friendly counsel with an objective viewpoint.
But his reply was measuredly casual. “To make money.
What else?”
Hamilton shook his head. His friend always had to be beckoned twice
before stepping into deeper water. “Sixth-form economics,” he said
derisively. “I would have made more profit if I’d sold my inheritance
and put it into the Post Office. Most people who own large businesses
could live very comfortably for the rest of their lives by doing that.
Why do we conserve our fortunes, and try to enlarge them? Is it greed,
or power, or adventure? Are we all compulsive gamblers?” Fett said: “I