The two weeks that followed were the strangest of Elias Thorne's life.
Walter Hayes had vanished.
He had taken the office at the end of the hall, the one with the thickest door. He had hired two quiet, spectacled men who looked just like him—one was a dismissed census-taker, the other a former railroad accountant. They didn't talk. They just carried stacks of newspapers and magazines into what they now called "The Library."
The door to The Library stayed shut. The only sounds from inside were the quiet snip-snip of scissors cutting paper, the rolling click of an adding machine, and the constant, soft rustle of turning pages.
Elias, sitting in his grand president's office, felt like he was running a monastery, not a bank.
"I don't like this, Arthur," Elias said, for what must have been the tenth time. It was the last day of February, the day the report was due. It was already 11:00 AM.
Arthur didn't look up from his own book, this one on industrial manufacturing processes. "You don't like what, Elias? The quiet? I find it productive."
"I don't like this," Elias said, gesturing at the closed door down the hall. "This... 'Research Division.' It's not how banking is done. Banking is done on the telephone. It's done at lunches. It's done with men you know. This is... this is sneaking. What if he finds nothing? What if we've wasted two weeks and all that money on newspapers?"
"An investment," Arthur said, turning a page, "is a trade of money for a future, higher-value asset. Information is the asset. It's the most valuable one on earth. Be patient."
"Patient," Elias grumbled. He stood and paced to his window. "They're a private company, Arthur. A family-run business. Their books are sealed. What can this... this librarian... possibly find? He'll come back with a few newspaper clippings and an apology. And our first move as a bank will be a failure."
"Walter is not a librarian," Arthur said quietly. "He's a hunter. And he is not hunting for opinions. He is hunting for footprints."
As if summoned by the words, Mrs. Gable's voice came over the intercom. "Mr. Thorne? Mr. Hayes is here to see you. He says... he has the report."
A jolt of nervous energy went through Elias. "Send him in, Mrs. Gable. To the conference room."
Elias and Arthur walked into the room. Arthur was calm. Elias was pulling at his collar.
Walter Hayes entered. He was not the same man Elias had interviewed two weeks ago. The rumpled, defeated look was gone. His eyes were sharp and clear behind his thick glasses. He was holding a single item: a dark blue, canvas-bound book, nearly three inches thick.
On the cover, in simple gold letters, it said:
PROJECT B.C. // CONFIDENTIALCONTINENTAL // RESEARCH DIV. // 001
Walter placed the book on the center of the polished table. It landed with a heavy, solid thud.
"Mr. Thorne. Mr. Vance," Walter said. His voice was no longer soft. It was the crisp, clear voice of an expert. "The report is finished. You asked for the facts. I have them."
Elias sat down. "Mr. Hayes... Walter... this is... impressive. Did you find what we needed?"
"I believe so," Walter said. He did not open the book. He knew it by heart. "The target is The Boeing Company of Seattle, Washington. You were correct, Mr. Vance. The common opinion on Wall Street is wrong. The company is not a 'small, failing plane-maker.' It is, in fact, a genius, revolutionary company that is approximately sixty days from total financial collapse."
Elias's blood ran cold. Arthur, for the first time, looked up from his notes and gave Walter his full, undivided attention.
"Go on, Walter," Arthur said. "Give us the summary."
"Yes, sir." Walter stood by the report like a professor.
"Part One: The Company. As you suspected, it is a 100% privately-held corporation. It is not listed on any stock exchange. The other banks ignore it for this reason. We cannot buy it on the market."
"Part Two: The Asset. The company's primary asset is not its factories, which are old. It is a set of patents for a revolutionary new aircraft, known internally as Model 299. The Army calls it the B-17. Mr. Vance, I am an accountant, not an engineer, but from the patent filings and the reports in Aeronautical Engineering, this machine is... it's a monster. It is a 'flying fortress.' Four engines. A range of 2,000 miles. It can fly higher and faster than any other bomber on earth. It is a war-winning weapon."
"And the chief engineer," Arthur asked, "Genius or drunk?"
A small, proud smile touched Walter's lips. "Wellwood Beall. He is a certified genius. And, according to the social pages of the Seattle Times, he is a devout Methodist. He never touches alcohol."
"Good," Arthur said. "Now, the important part. Tell us about the money."
"This," Walter said, "is where we find our opening. Part Three: The Crisis. As I said, the company is dying. They have, as of this week, exactly $84,000 in liquid cash."
Elias choked. "Eighty-four thousand? A company that builds fortresses?"
"That is correct, sir," Walter said. "They bet everything on this B-17. They built the prototype with their own money, hoping for a massive Army contract. But in 1935, the prototype crashed during a test flight. A simple pilot error. The Army... they got scared. They gave the main bomber contract to Douglas, for their smaller, safer B-18 plane. The Army bought only 13 'test' planes from Boeing."
"Boeing," Walter continued, "was forced to build those 13 planes at a huge loss. To do it, they took out a single, massive, short-term loan. This is the key fact, gentlemen."
He paused. The room was silent.
"They owe $2.8 million to the First National Bank of Seattle."
Elias's face went pale. "$2.8 million... against $84,000 in cash? They are bankrupt."
"They are 'insolvent,' sir. Not yet bankrupt," Walter said. "But they will be. I read the local Seattle banking gazettes. I found the loan registration. I have the due date. The loan is payable, in full, on April 30th, 1940."
Elias looked at his calendar. It was February 28th.
"They have sixty-two days," Elias whispered.
"That's right, sir," Walter said. "In sixty-two days, if they cannot pay, the First National Bank of Seattle will seize the company. They will take the factories, the patents, the B-17... everything. They will sell it all for parts to get their money back. The B-17 will die."
Arthur and Elias stared at each other. This was it. The perfect target. A priceless asset, held by a desperate owner, with a ticking clock.
"Walter," Arthur said, his voice filled with a cold respect. "How did you find this? The loan. The due date. This is not public information."
"No, sir. It is not," Walter said, a flush of pride on his face. "But it's findable. I told you, the men who do the work, they know the truth."
"I subscribed to the Seattle Port Authority Gazette. Their shipping manifests show Boeing hasn't received a shipment of aluminum or rubber in seven weeks. They can't afford parts."
"I subscribed to the Pacific Aero Workers' Union newsletter. Their 'Gossip' column reported that the company's payroll was two days late last month. The workers are terrified."
"And the loan... that was the hardest part. I had my new associate, Mr. Ames, the census-taker, call the Seattle bank. He did not say he was from Continental. He said he was a 'census verifier' checking public incorporation data for the county. They... they just told him. They confirmed the debtor, the amount, and the public lien. They had no reason to lie to a 'government worker.'"
Elias Thorne let out a long, slow breath. He looked at Arthur, and then back to Walter.
"Walter," Elias said, "this... this report... it is the single most valuable document I have ever seen. You have done... I... I am stunned."
"Thank you, sir," Walter said.
Arthur closed his eyes for a moment. His machine worked. The Research Division was a success. He now had the 'what.' He had the 'where.' He had the 'when.'
He opened his eyes.
"Walter," Arthur said. "You have done more than we asked. You are no longer the Head of Research. You are a Vice President of this bank."
Walter turned white. "Sir... Mr. Vance... I..."
"Do not argue," Arthur said. "Go back to your office. Take your men. You have a new assignment. I want to know about the people. The CEO, a man named Philip Johnson. The board members. Who are they? Who do they trust? Who do they hate? What are their weaknesses? I want to know them."
"Yes, sir!" Walter said. He picked up his book, gave a sharp nod, and left the room, his back straight with new purpose.
The door clicked shut.
Elias Thorne turned to Arthur. He was pale, but his eyes were shining. The fear he'd felt for weeks was gone, replaced by a terrible, thrilling excitement.
"My God, Arthur," he whispered. "You were right. The facts... they are all there. They are on their knees. They are desperate. But... what now?"
Elias frowned. "As Walter said, they're a private company. We cannot buy them. Their stock isn't for sale. So what's the move?"
Arthur Vance stood up and walked to the conference room window. He looked down at the city, a city that was about to be changed forever by the very weapon he was about to secure.
"You are right, Elias. We cannot buy their stock. They are a private, proud company. They would never sell to us."
He turned, a cold, sharp smile on his face.
"So," Arthur said, "we will not take anything from them. We will offer them something. We are an investment bank. We have five million dollars. They need $2.8 million. The answer is simple."
"It is time," Arthur said, "to build our next department. It is time to create the Capital Raising Division."