The winter sun, pale and cautious, slanted through the thick glass of the 27th floor of the Woolworth Building, spilling light into the offices of Vanguard Investment Company.
The air smelled of old money—a mix of fine cedar, polished leather, and the faint bite of aged whiskey. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the spires of New York's financial district rose from the morning mist, silent sentinels watching the ant-like crowds below.
Old Henry sat ensconced in a heavy leather armchair, a steaming cup of black coffee in hand.
Shane stood near the window, posture straight, clad in a custom-tailored dark gray suit, the crisp white of his shirt cuffs just visible beneath the sleeves. His fingertips tapped the glass unconsciously as his eyes traced the movement of the rushing traders below, a flowing river of dark coats surging toward the gates of the New York Stock Exchange.
Three controlled, deliberate taps came from the office door.
"Come in," Shane said without turning.
The door opened, and a young man entered. Philip Fisher, twenty years old, appeared younger than his age. His navy-blue suit hung lightly on his narrow shoulders, and though his tie was meticulously knotted, it could not mask the inexperience of youth. Yet his eyes gleamed with sharp intelligence, capable of seeing through the most carefully constructed financial façades.
He clutched a factory report with slightly curled edges, knuckles whitening from his grip.
"Mr. Hill, Mr. Cassidy," Fisher said, voice steady and unexpectedly deep. A slight nod accompanied his greeting, conveying quiet confidence.
Shane—finally turned, studying the young man before extending his hand. "Mr. Fisher. Welcome to Vanguard."
Fisher's handshake was firm, neither weak nor forceful. "Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Cassidy."
He pulled a stack of documents from his briefcase. "I've brought the latest RCA production data, including results from our on-site survey at their New Jersey factory."
Henry sipped his coffee, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. "It seems we've found a data fanatic," he said lightly.
Fisher's expression remained calm, placid as still water. "Data doesn't lie, Mr. Hill. People do."
The office door flung open again, a dull thud as Gerald Loeb entered. His presence seemed to double the room's energy. Well-tailored in dark gray, shoes polished, signature grin in place, he announced, "Looks like I'm not late! Hope I didn't miss anything exciting."
Shane frowned slightly, but quickly regained composure. "Mr. Loeb, just in time. Mr. Fisher has brought his report."
Loeb's eyes glinted as he scanned the documents. "And who is this?"
"Philip Fisher, our new analyst," Shane said. "Mr. Fisher, meet Gerald Loeb, our media relations specialist."
Loeb extended his hand theatrically. "Ah! Finally, someone serious. I hope you'll bring substance, not endless talk like Graham and his 'margin of safety.'" His constant smile made it hard to read sincerity from jest.
Henry sipped coffee, gaze shifting between the two young men. "Is Benjamin Graham joining us today?"
Shane checked the mahogany wall clock. "He's tied up at Columbia University, preparing a paper on securities analysis. He'll be late."
"Pity," Henry murmured. "I would have enjoyed seeing him and Fisher debate value investing versus on-site research."
Fisher's eyes flickered behind his glasses, as if mentally rehearsing the discussion. "I believe value investing and on-site research are not mutually exclusive. The most accurate valuations often come from the most thorough fundamental research."
Loeb leafed through Fisher's report, suddenly raising an eyebrow. "My heavens! You tallied the toilet paper usage in the factory restrooms?"
"An indirect measure of supply chain efficiency," Fisher replied evenly. "It reflects employee turnover and management stability. Predictable management produces predictable supply needs."
Loeb whistled softly, admiration—or mockery—unclear. "A Sherlock Holmes of Wall Street, I see."
Shane strode to the large mahogany desk, fingers lightly tapping the surface. "Regardless of method, our goal is the same: the market always makes mistakes, and our job is to find them."
Henry rose, refilling his cup. "Wall Street is a giant casino," he said, voice raspy with age. "Most people are guessing the next card. We see the dealer's hand."
Fisher spread more documents across the desk. "Based on RCA's operations, the market has severely undervalued their patent portfolio. Their innovations in radio tech will generate a continuous revenue stream over the next three years."
Loeb leaned closer. "Interesting. But here's a twist: the FCC is considering reallocating broadcast frequencies. If I could see that proposal early…"
Shane raised a hand, cutting him off. "One step at a time, Loeb. Let Fisher finish. Data comes first; insight comes second."
He leaned forward slightly, placing his hands on the desk. "Also, we must focus on bad debt rates of city banks in the Midwest and agricultural states in the South. Risk exposure there demands special attention."
Outside, the NYSE clock struck twelve. Traders poured from the building, flooding restaurants and cafes during their short lunch break.
In Vanguard's office, four people stood around the mahogany desk. Fisher's data dominated the surface, alongside Loeb's Wall Street Journal, Shane's coffee cup, and Henry's whiskey glass.
Shane's gaze swept the room, then rested on the view outside. New York in 1927 thrived in its final revelry before the looming crash. Shane knew this feast was temporary.
"Where do we begin?" he asked finally, calm but decisive.
"From the facts," Fisher replied immediately, finger pointing to the data.
"From the story," Loeb added with a grin.
"From recognizing ourselves," Henry said, sipping coffee, wisdom in his eyes.
Shane nodded slowly. The afternoon sun lit the office fully, casting the mahogany desk in a rich red glow. October's success was only the beginning; the real test lay ahead.
"Then," Shane said, voice firm and steady, "let's get to work."