eggs. I wandered over to take a closer look. It really was a stately vehicle, lacking the panache of a Rolls—which was the reason many people prefer it. But it surprised me Clemens would select this particular marque. It had absolutely no kinship to a gold Rolex studded with diamonds.
I drove home still peeved by the ambiguity of my encounter with Clemens. I reviewed it slowly and carefully: what was said and what we all did—gestures, expressions, body language. I was seeking a false note: a slipup, no matter how minor, that might indicate the man was a sleazy conniver despite how convincing his words and manner had been.
I continued to reexamine our meeting during the family cocktail hour and a dinner of coq au vin, which is one of my several hundred favorite dishes. But so engrossed was I in finding a blunder in Clemens’s presentation, a loose button on his custom-made duds so to speak, I was able to manage only two helpings of the winy chicken and lacked my usual volubility. In fact, I was so silent and withdrawn that mother inquired anxiously if I was coming down with something.
“Only a slight case of frustration,” I told her.
“A lot of that going around these days,” father remarked. Sometimes his attempts at humor approach the ponderous. But what can you expect of a man who believes Calvin Coolidge had a rapier-sharp wit?
I went upstairs after dinner and shucked my clothing to don a new silk robe. It was printed with images of the golden goddesses of moviedom. A portrait of Carole Lombard lay over my heart—where she belonged.
I opened my journal and began to scratch an account of my conversation with Frederick Clemens. It was less than half completed when I suddenly stopped and reread what I had just scribbled. I did not shout “Ah-ha!” or “Eureka!” or even “Gotcha!” But I did feel I had uncovered something mighty peculiar, apparently trifling but significant enough to rejuvenate my doubts of Clemens’s genuineness.
Consider this sequence of events:
1. When Binky Watrous first phoned Clemens Investments, he was answered by Felix, who then switched the call to Frederick Clemens.
2. When I entered I was told by Felix that Clemens was on the phone. A few moments later he glanced at the dingus on his desk, saw the red light was gone, and told me his boss was now off the phone.
Ergo: There was direct telephonic communication between the desks of Felix and Frederick.
3. Seated in Clemens’s office, I made reference to the Magic of 72 to test the investment adviser’s expertise, as suggested by Simon Pettibone.
4. Clemens almost immediately snapped his fingers, said he was expecting a FedEx package, and left the room ostensibly to ask Felix if it had arrived.
5. Clemens returned a few minutes later and gave a rapid answer to my inquiry concerning the Magic of 72.
Question: Why hadn’t Clemens merely picked up one of his three telephones, buzzed Felix, and asked if the package had arrived?
My answer: Clemens was totally bewildered by my reference to the Magic of 72, and rather than betray his ignorance had left the room on a pretext to consult with Felix, who obviously supplied the correct response to my query.
Now you may think my interpretation of what occurred is flapdoodle and there are several completely innocent explanations of Frederick’s behavior. You may also feel that even if my reasoning was accurate, it didn’t necessarily prove the financial guru was a phony.
If you do believe that, you can’t play on my team. Credulity will get you nowhere if you expect to make a career of Discreet Inquiries.
And if my construct of the incident was correct—and I was convinced it was—it implied more than Clemens’s villainy; it also suggested Felix was not just a secretary. If he knew more of the obscure vocabulary of investing than his alleged employer—and apparently he did—it was quite possible he was actually an equal partner in or perhaps even the honcho of Clemens
I drove home still peeved by the ambiguity of my encounter with Clemens. I reviewed it slowly and carefully: what was said and what we all did—gestures, expressions, body language. I was seeking a false note: a slipup, no matter how minor, that might indicate the man was a sleazy conniver despite how convincing his words and manner had been.
I continued to reexamine our meeting during the family cocktail hour and a dinner of coq au vin, which is one of my several hundred favorite dishes. But so engrossed was I in finding a blunder in Clemens’s presentation, a loose button on his custom-made duds so to speak, I was able to manage only two helpings of the winy chicken and lacked my usual volubility. In fact, I was so silent and withdrawn that mother inquired anxiously if I was coming down with something.
“Only a slight case of frustration,” I told her.
“A lot of that going around these days,” father remarked. Sometimes his attempts at humor approach the ponderous. But what can you expect of a man who believes Calvin Coolidge had a rapier-sharp wit?
I went upstairs after dinner and shucked my clothing to don a new silk robe. It was printed with images of the golden goddesses of moviedom. A portrait of Carole Lombard lay over my heart—where she belonged.
I opened my journal and began to scratch an account of my conversation with Frederick Clemens. It was less than half completed when I suddenly stopped and reread what I had just scribbled. I did not shout “Ah-ha!” or “Eureka!” or even “Gotcha!” But I did feel I had uncovered something mighty peculiar, apparently trifling but significant enough to rejuvenate my doubts of Clemens’s genuineness.
Consider this sequence of events:
1. When Binky Watrous first phoned Clemens Investments, he was answered by Felix, who then switched the call to Frederick Clemens.
2. When I entered I was told by Felix that Clemens was on the phone. A few moments later he glanced at the dingus on his desk, saw the red light was gone, and told me his boss was now off the phone.
Ergo: There was direct telephonic communication between the desks of Felix and Frederick.
3. Seated in Clemens’s office, I made reference to the Magic of 72 to test the investment adviser’s expertise, as suggested by Simon Pettibone.
4. Clemens almost immediately snapped his fingers, said he was expecting a FedEx package, and left the room ostensibly to ask Felix if it had arrived.
5. Clemens returned a few minutes later and gave a rapid answer to my inquiry concerning the Magic of 72.
Question: Why hadn’t Clemens merely picked up one of his three telephones, buzzed Felix, and asked if the package had arrived?
My answer: Clemens was totally bewildered by my reference to the Magic of 72, and rather than betray his ignorance had left the room on a pretext to consult with Felix, who obviously supplied the correct response to my query.
Now you may think my interpretation of what occurred is flapdoodle and there are several completely innocent explanations of Frederick’s behavior. You may also feel that even if my reasoning was accurate, it didn’t necessarily prove the financial guru was a phony.
If you do believe that, you can’t play on my team. Credulity will get you nowhere if you expect to make a career of Discreet Inquiries.
And if my construct of the incident was correct—and I was convinced it was—it implied more than Clemens’s villainy; it also suggested Felix was not just a secretary. If he knew more of the obscure vocabulary of investing than his alleged employer—and apparently he did—it was quite possible he was actually an equal partner in or perhaps even the honcho of Clemens
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