Maurice had propped his chin in his hands, listening. Ordinarily, his grandfather was a taciturn man, but that was because of Danny’s death and Nell’s disappearance.
Out of the blue, Arthur said, “Did you know Vernon hired a private investigator to look for Nell?”
“No.” Maurice frowned.
Arthur nodded. “Vern’s kept him at it for a year and a half. As far as I know, he’s still at it. The man talked to people at every horse farm in Cambridgeshire, I think. Didn’t get a hell of a lot of cooperation, but he tried. At Anderson’s he had to palm himself off as an insurance investigator so he could get a look at the stables.”
Maurice was thoughtful for a while, then said, “I’m going to London to see Vernon.” He stood up.
“You mean now?”
“Yes, I think I will.”
“It’s been nearly two years, Maurice-don’t forget.”
“How could I forget, Granddad?”
It took only an hour from Cambridge to Paddington and another three quarters of an hour on the Circle Line to the City. He could have driven one of the farm’s cars. His granddad never gave him a hard time about that and, consequently, Maurice didn’t feel he had to prove he was capable of driving in London. He wasn’t. A lot of people felt incapable of driving in London.
Vernon Rice worked in the City. Vernon probably wouldn’t call it work, not what he did. “I sit around making things up. Daydreaming, you could call it.”
“What sorts of things?”
“New companies. I look around and see what isn’t and then bring it into being.”
“Sounds like God.”
They both laughed. This made Maurice feel exceptionally good-that he could make Vernon laugh so hard-because he thought Vernon was really cool, and he liked the idea he could provoke such laughter.
He liked the office. It had a clean, uncluttered look, a lot of chrome, a lot of glass, Eames chairs and tables, an unburdened place.
Maurice liked the receptionist, too. Or secretary, he wasn’t sure which. She was good-looking and sleek like the office. He had little experience of designer clothes, but he bet the dark-gray suit didn’t come from Debenhams. She had smooth dark hair, an ivory complexion and didn’t bother with costume jewelry; the only piece she wore was her watch, a thin curve that seemed to float on her wrist. He did not mind sitting here and looking at her and at this anteroom until Vernon was off the telephone. He sighed. It looked like a glamorous life he led. Maurice would have envied him like hell if there had been horses in it. But as there weren’t, Maurice didn’t think Vernon all that fortunate. Glamorous, maybe, but, in this one way, unfortunate. Maurice couldn’t imagine life without Samarkand and Criminal Type and Beautiful Dreamer. He supposed that was what some people meant by something’s being in your blood.
“He’s off the phone,” said Samantha, smiling.
But before she could get up to show Maurice in, Vernon had opened the door to his office. “Maurice! For God’s sake, what are you doing in this horseless city? Come on in.”
Maurice blushed a little. He usually did in the first few moments of meeting Vernon. It was probably because he felt somewhat clumsy and awkward.
“When was the last time you were ever in London? You don’t like the place-go on, sit down.” Vernon indicated one of the chrome and leather chairs. “Can you stay for dinner? My favorite restaurant’s in South Ken. Ever been to Aubergine?”
Maurice smiled and shook his head. It was like Vernon to treat him as a crony, not as some kid of sixteen. As if he, Maurice, were a fellow traveler in the seeking out of three-star restaurants. “The only one I’ve been to is the Angus Steakhouse. Don’t go.”
“Glad you dropped me the tip. Speaking of tips, I can put you into a great fund that’s paying eighteen and a half percent and is going public anytime now.” Vernon checked his watch in case that time might be passing before his eyes and out the door. “Better still, and more up your alley, you can buy five or ten percent of a syndicate for a great horse-”
Maurice held up his hands, palms out as if backing away. “You’re kidding, aren’t you, Vern? You know I don’t have any money.”
Vernon gave him a disbelieving look. “Money? Who said money? You buy short and wait-”
He was interrupted by Bobby, who came in, said hello to Maurice, dropped a paper onto Vernon’s desk, said good-bye and walked out.
Vernon said, “Bobby’s only twenty-two, he’s been here since he was eighteen and he’s already made himself a small fortune. If you ever need a break from the horses…”
“Can you imagine me doing this?” Then he was worried he might be insulting Vernon and his offer. “What I mean is-”
“Can you imagine him”-Vernon nodded toward the door through which Bobby had lately gone-“who ran into me when he was on a skateboard? He started talking about hedge funds and mergers. He talked about stock in a new company I hadn’t even got reports on. I hired him.”
Maurice was surprised at his own reaction to this talk about Bobby. He was jealous. He must see Vernon as an older brother, which he was-a stepbrother. But that didn’t count as much as Vernon hadn’t come on the scene until he was thirty-two or -three. Maybe Vernon had always thought of Maurice as a younger brother. Still, it was odd that Vernon, a relative stranger, coming in from the outside, and in so few years, could lay claim to family feeling. Maurice realized now how rich his life had been before his father’s death, before Nell’s disappearance.
“Why is it I get the impression you’re not thinking about syndicating your horses?”
“Oh, sorry. I was just thinking about Dad. And-” Maurice looked at his shoes; they seemed to be falling apart.
“Nell,” said Vernon.
Maurice looked up quickly. “How’d you know?”
“What else is there to think about?”
If Maurice hadn’t known about Leon Stone, he would have been surprised by this statement and by Vernon’s intensity. “You’re really serious about finding her. Granddad told me about the private detective you had looking for her.”
Vernon nodded. He seemed to have lost his earlier buoyancy; he looked older by several years.
“You really care about Nell.”
Again, Vernon nodded. “I do.” He smiled. “Come on, let’s have dinner. You can stay the night at my place. I’ll tell the girls to go.”
“Not all of them, I hope.” Maurice was back to feeling comfortable now. And he wondered why Vernon had never married.
Did he always tell the girls to go?
“She’s not dead,” said Vernon, after a considering silence, in answer to Maurice’s question.
“Why are you so sure?”
Over a plate of his favorite duck in Aubergine, Vernon studied him, or seemed to; he could as well be studying the banquette behind Maurice or the air around him. “Because it doesn’t feel like it. Does it to you?”
Maurice did not know how to answer this. He seemed at the moment to be out of touch with his feelings, as if they had retreated at Vernon’s question. “Well… I can’t believe it. I can’t believe she’s gone forever, if that’s what you mean.”
“Not exactly.” Vernon speared a bite of roast potato.
“Hard to explain.”
Maurice smiled. “It just sounds kind of mystical, I mean, coming from you.”
“Me, the chaser of the almighty pound, dollar, yen and deutsche mark?”
Maurice colored slightly. “No, no. Well… only in a way. You seem so grounded, so, ah, practical.”
“Money’s a by-product, Maury. Not that I’m indifferent to it, God, no. Without money I couldn’t eat here every week. But it’s not what keeps me going back to the table. What attracts me to the market is its craziness, its unpredictability. The whole thing’s a game where you can win big or lose your shirt. All of these market analysts-if they were sure of their own predictions, why in hell would they be telling people? They’d be out there, buying and selling themselves. No, if I wasn’t in this business, I’d be a compulsive gambler.”