The taxi ride was short. It dropped Arthur on a street that felt like the center of the world's money. The buildings were tall and made of stone, like canyons. Men in dark suits and hats hurried along the sidewalks, their faces serious. This was Wall Street.
The address on the envelope led him to a large, imposing building. The lobby was all marble and polished brass. It was quiet, except for the echoing clicks of his new leather shoes on the floor. A directory listed "Thorne & Associates, Attorneys at Law" on the 10th floor.
He rode the elevator up. The operator, an older man in a uniform, looked at him strangely but said nothing.
The law office was as quiet as a church. The doors were heavy, dark wood with frosted glass. Arthur pushed one open.
Inside, the air was warm and smelled of old paper, leather, and faint pipe tobacco. A large, severe-looking secretary sat behind a massive wooden desk. She was typing on a heavy, black typewriter. The clack-clack-clack of the keys was the only sound.
She stopped typing and looked at him over the top of her small, round glasses. "May I help you?" Her voice was not friendly. She saw a boy in a suit, and she was not impressed.
"I am here to see Mr. Elias Thorne," Arthur said. His voice was steady and low. "My name is Arthur Vance. I believe he is expecting me."
The secretary's eyebrows went up. This was Arthur Vance? She had typed the letter. She knew about the five million dollars. She, like Elias, was probably expecting someone different.
"One moment, Mr. Vance." Her tone changed instantly. It was now polite, even respectful. She picked up a telephone, pressed a button, and spoke softly. "Mr. Thorne, Mr. Vance is here to see you."
She paused, listened, and then hung up. "Mr. Thorne will see you now. It's the last door on the right."
Arthur nodded. "Thank you."
He walked down the carpeted hallway. His heart was not pounding. The 38-year-old analyst inside him had been in hundreds of high-stakes meetings. This was just one more. He was here to present a plan and secure a partner.
He found the door and knocked twice.
"Come in."
The voice was deep and steady. Arthur opened the door and stepped inside.
The office was large, lined from floor to ceiling with leather-bound law books. A huge window looked out over the spires of downtown New York. A man was standing by the window, looking out. He turned when Arthur entered.
This was Elias Thorne.
He was exactly what a 1940s lawyer should look like. He was in his late fifties, tall, with a full head of gray hair. He wore an expensive, three-piece suit. His face was kind, but his eyes were smart and sharp. They were the eyes of a man who missed nothing.
"Mr. Vance," Elias said. He walked around his large desk, his hand outstretched. "I am Elias Thorne. It is a pleasure to finally meet you."
Arthur shook his hand. His grip was firm and steady. "Mr. Thorne. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."
Elias gestured to a leather armchair in front of his desk. "Please, sit down. Can I get you anything? A coffee? A soda?"
"No, thank you. I'm fine," Arthur said, taking the seat.
Elias sat down in his own large chair. He leaned back, lacing his fingers together. He studied Arthur for a moment, his expression one of polite sympathy.
"First," Elias began, his voice gentle, "please accept my deepest condolences for your loss. Marcus was... a unique man. I knew him many years ago, before he left for Europe. He was a good friend."
Arthur met his gaze. He did not look sad. He did not look excited. He looked like he was at a business meeting.
"Thank you, Mr. Thorne," Arthur said. "I did not know him well. I must be honest, the news of his death was a surprise. The letter was even more so."
Elias nodded, but his eyes narrowed just a little. He was a man who read people for a living, and Arthur was not behaving like a normal 18-year-old who had just lost a relative and gained a fortune. There was no grief, no shock, no wild excitement.
Elias had been worried about this meeting. He had imagined a boy who would be reckless, foolish, or overwhelmed. He had prepared a speech about responsibility.
Now, looking at the young man in the new, simple suit, he felt a different kind of concern. The boy was too calm.
"Well," Elias said, opening a file on his desk. "Everything in the letter is true. Your great-uncle's affairs in the U.S. were in my care. He was a very successful, and as you know, reclusive investor. The five million dollars is currently held in a secure account. It is, by all measures, a vast fortune."
He paused, expecting a smile, or a gasp. He got nothing. Arthur just nodded, as if they were discussing the weather.
"What you do with this fortune," Elias continued, "is the most important decision of your young life. You are 18. You are a legal adult. But you are very young. I was thinking... perhaps we could set up a small, generous allowance for you. Enough to live comfortably. The rest, we would invest in safe, long-term U.S. government bonds. They are the safest thing in the world."
He smiled, a fatherly, kind smile. "And we must, of course, discuss university. A man of your new position must have an education. Harvard, or perhaps Yale. I have friends at both. You would be set for life."
This was the moment. The "safe" plan. The plan to lock his money away in slow, boring investments while the world was about to change.
Arthur sat forward in his chair. He did not smile.
"Mr. Thorne," he said, his voice quiet but clear. "I appreciate your advice. And I appreciate your concern. But I will not be going to university."
Elias's smile faded. "I... I'm sorry?"
"University is a waste of time. At least, for me, right now," Arthur said. "The world is on the edge of the most significant event in human history. I do not plan to sit in a classroom while it happens."
Elias frowned. "Mr. Vance, if you are talking about the war... that is exactly why we must be cautious. The market is terrified. This is a time for safety, not for... adventure."
"This is not a time for safety," Arthur said. He leaned forward. "This is a time for preparation. That war is not a crisis. It is an industrial event. It will change everything. The men who understand that, the men who fund the factories that will build the planes, the tanks, and the ships... they will build the new world."
Elias Thorne was now staring. The words did not sound like they were coming from an 18-year-old. The analysis was sharp, cold, and confident.
"Mr. Vance... Arthur... what are you suggesting?"
"I am suggesting," Arthur said, "that I do not want to put my money in government bonds. I want to put it to work. I am not going to be a rich boy living on an allowance. I am going to build a company."
Elias leaned back, stunned. "A company? What kind of company?"
"A powerful one," Arthur said. "I want to use the five million dollars as the seed capital for a new financial institution. A private investment bank."
The room was silent. Elias just stared at him. He had expected foolishness, but this was madness.
"An... investment bank?" Elias said, slowly. "My boy, do you have any idea what you are saying? An investment bank? In this market? With war coming? The great banks—Morgan, Lehman, Goldman—they have been around for generations. You cannot just... start one."
"They started somewhere," Arthur said simply. "And they are old. They are slow. They are thinking about protecting what they have. I am thinking about building what comes next. They see fear. I see... a gap in the market."
"You see a gap in the market?" Elias was trying to understand. "You are 18 years old. What do you know of investment banking?"
"I know what is coming," Arthur said.
"And what is that?"
"Total war," Arthur said. "And after that, total victory. And after that, an American boom that will last for thirty years. I am going to finance that boom. The Continental Investment Bank. That's what I want to build."
Elias Thorne stood up and walked to the window. He looked down at the street. His mind was spinning.
This was not a child.
This was... he did not know what this was.
The boy was calm. He was methodical. He spoke with an authority that was chilling. His analysis of the war was not emotional or political... it was financial. He spoke about it like an industrial spreadsheet.
Elias was a smart man. He was an honest man. He had been a lawyer for thirty years. He knew how to read people.
He turned back to Arthur. He had come into this meeting to be a father. He now understood he was sitting across from a... a...
"Mr. Vance," Elias said, his voice no longer kind and fatherly, but sharp and professional. "You are... very serious."
"I am," Arthur said.
"Your idea is... ambitious. Extremely ambitious."
"It is," Arthur said.
Elias sat back down. He looked at the file. He looked at Arthur. He felt like the world had just tilted sideways. He was supposed to be in charge of this meeting. He was not.
"You are an impressive young man," Elias said slowly. "You are either a genius, or you are completely mad. I am not sure which."
"I am a genius, Mr. Thorne," Arthur said. He said it with no pride. It was a simple statement of fact. "And I need your help. I cannot do this alone. I need a man with a good reputation. An honest man. I need a man people will trust. I need you to be the face of this bank. I need you to be its president."
Elias felt a shock go through him. President?
"You are asking me," Elias said, "to quit my law practice... to risk my reputation... to help an 18-year-old build a new investment bank in the middle of a global crisis?"
"Yes," Arthur said. "I am."
Elias Thorne looked at the boy. The sheer, calm confidence was staggering. He should have laughed. He should have thrown him out of the office.
But he did not.
Because, for a crazy, terrible moment... he almost believed him.