Fortune is a Woman (42 page)

Ollie glanced at Philip's serious face as they swung down the hill to catch a tram on Market Street. Philip Chen was his idol. He was small and serious with a pale skin and thick black hair. His slanted eyes were an unusual light hazel brown with an enigmatic expression. He called Ollie "Little Brother," he was silent and mysterious and Ollie never knew what he was thinking, but he guessed it was something important because Philip never seemed to clutter his mind with baseball scores or cigarette cards or the horses out at the ranch. Philip always seemed to be thinking of loftier, more exciting things, like the value of the Hong Kong currency against the dollar and the gross tonnage of the latest addition to the Lai Tsin fleet. And that was one of the reasons Ollie wanted to accompany Philip to the office, because he wanted to learn all about the business. He wanted to travel to Hong Kong with the Mandarin and Philip, he wanted to watch their cargoes being loaded and to sail the South China Sea and visit all the exciting ports of the world.

The other reason was because Philip was his only friend. Money talked and so Ollie attended San Francisco's smartest boys' school, but he wasn't really part of it. Oh, the other guys were okay, he played football with them and they chatted with him all right, but he was never invited to their homes. Sure, it hurt a little, but he knew his family was different and though he was proud of them, sometimes it was tough. And it was always lonely. He tried philosophically to shrug it off, telling himself that next year his mother was sending him back East to prep school, but still it hurt. And when Philip Chen had finally come to live with them, for the first time in his young life he had a friend.

A thin mist was rolling in from the ocean as they approached the docks and Ollie sniffed it eagerly, like a sailor scenting the wind. "You know what, Philip," he said as they pushed open the shabby wooden door, "one day I'm gonna command my own ship. It'll be the flagship of our fleet and we'll call it the Mandarin."

Philip nodded. "If that is what you wish, Little Brother. I myself will remain in Hong Kong and fill your ships with cargo."

"When I was just a kid," Ollie added, "I wanted to be a pirate, but the Mandarin said it was not an honorable profession." He grinned. "I guess it wasn't, but it sure sounded fun."

The warehouse had grown from the first small shed Lai Tsin had bought years ago to a sprawling complex of offices and storage, but it was still just a group of unpretentious tin-roofed wooden buildings on the waterfront, and no one would have suspected it was the headquarters of a multimillion-dollar company, competing successfully for the trade routes of the world.

As usual, Lai Tsin was in his office. He wore the long, plain, dark-blue silk robe he always wore and the simply furnished room was a model of neatness. His plain teak-wood desk held his old wooden abacus and a Chinese inkpad and brushes, as well as a Western-style inkstand and pens. In front of him was a neatly squared-off pile of papers and a large red ledger. He looked up as the boys knocked, bidding them to enter.

Philip bowed and Ollie followed suit. He could never remember the Mandarin ever embracing him, even when he was little. Things were always Chinese style with formal rituals and bows, but the Mandarin's eyes lit up when he saw him and he knew he was pleased. "Welcome, Ollie," he said in Chinese. "I hope the pleasure I am gaining from your presence does not mean that you are neglecting your homework?"

Ollie grinned. Shaking his blond hair out of his eyes, he replied, in the same language, "No, sir. I promised Mom I'd do it later."

The Mandarin nodded. "Then since you are here I will set you a little task." He handed him the abacus, instructing him to check the columns on the last page of the ledger. Ollie smiled willingly. The columns were written in Chinese and he knew the Mandarin wanted to test his command of the written language. He had been learning Chinese since he was five years old and was almost as proficient at speaking Mandarin and Cantonese as he was English, but he still had trouble with the written characters. He took the ledger and followed Philip to his own tiny annex next door to begin his task.

Half an hour later a ship hooted somewhere in the fogbound bay and he glanced at the window, startled as he glimpsed a face peering in. Dropping his pencil he jumped up and ran to look, but no one was there.

"What is it?" Philip asked, following his gaze.

"Oh, nothing," Ollie said uneasily, sinking back into his chair. "I just thought I saw someone at the window, but I guess I was wrong."

Philip went back to his work without comment and Ollie completed his task and then took the ledger back to the Mandarin. He ran an expert eye rapidly down the column of figures and then pointed out his one small mistake. "Your Chinese improves, Ollie," he told him with a smile. "But your mother is waiting and you must keep your promise."

Ollie walked from the offices into the tall, raftered warehouse, wandering the narrow aisles breathing in the aromas of the fresh coffee beans piled in hessian sacks and the tea whose fragrance permeated even the wooden chests used to store it. He smelled the fresh peppercorns and the cinnamon, the ginger and cloves, dreaming of the far-off foreign countries they came from and where one day he would sail in his ship as commander of the Lai Tsin fleet. The warehouse was his favorite place, because if he closed his eyes he could almost believe he was sailing the Indian Ocean or the Andaman Sea, in the lee of some exotic island where the tamarind and lotus bloomed and adventure waited.

Outside on the street it was cold and the damp, clinging mist quickly swirled away his dreams of sunny southern islands. He quickened his pace, hurrying to keep warm. He knew the way to the tram station like the back of his hand and the fog did not trouble him though it muffled his footsteps eerily and he suddenly fancied he heard them echoing behind him. Remembering the face at the window he looked apprehensively over his shoulder, but the street was quiet and there was only the wall of gray mist. Unnerved, he broke into a run, breathing a sigh of relief as the brightly lit tram clattered into view, and he swung himself safely on board, heading for home.

CHAPTER 31

The faces around the boardroom table of Harrison Enterprises Incorporated were serious as Harry took his seat. He glanced scornfully at them and their waiting accounts and financial reports, drumming his fingers restlessly on the highly polished mahogany and ordering his secretary to fetch him some coffee immediately.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, giving them the temporary benefit of his full attention. "Let's get this over with."

"There's a great deal to discuss, Mr. Harrison," the chief accountant said reprovingly. "We must take the opportunity, while we have you in San Francisco, to go through the accounts of each of the companies and decide what must be done. As you know, sir, some of them, including the
Herald,
are doing badly."

"How badly?" Harry demanded, leaning back in his big leather swivel-chair and sipping his coffee.

"The
Herald
has been losing steadily since its inception, Mr. Harrison. Its losses currently amount to thirty million dollars."

Harry glanced at him, startled. "Thirty million? How can that be?"

"You were away for five years, sir. And you left orders that it should continue with full staff and top production no matter what happened. Also," he reminded him, "on your instructions, all your shares in the Union Pacific Railroad were sold and the money applied to your divorce settlement from the baroness."

Harry sighed. "Goddamn gold-digging bitch," he said succinctly.

Pouring more coffee he listened with half an ear to the saga of disasters afflicting the Harrison enterprises: the new oil fields into which he had poured gallons of money had remained obstinately dry; the steelworks production had been decimated by strikes; the sugar plantations in Hawaii were burned by laborers sick of living on the pittance Harrisons paid and angry that their demands for better pay went unheard. The list went on and on until he raised an angry hand and demanded to know why nothing had been done to put a stop to the oil drilling and the strikes and the rest.

"We did keep you informed of these matters, sir," the chief accountant chided, "but you were away for so long, and after Mr. Frank and Mr. Wallis went, well sir, there was just no proper management. If you'll forgive my saying so, Mr. Harrison, a company with so many diverse areas of operation needs a firm hand at the helm. Otherwise..." He shrugged graphically, holding out the sheaf of reports with their long columns of red ink.

Harry was silent. He glanced away from the papers showing his companies' losses and said, "What about the bank?"

"I'm glad to be able to tell you the bank is sound, sir," the accountant said with a rare smile. "The public have retained their belief in the stability of Harrison Mercantile."

Harry nodded, relieved. "Okay," he said, folding his arms, "so what's the current state of play?"

"Overall, sir," the accountant said, peering at him over the top of his gold-wired half-glasses, "Harrison Enterprises are down one hundred and eighty million in four years. That leaves a net worth of one hundred and twenty million."

"Well, goddamit, man, that's not so bad, is it? I thought you meant the Harrisons were going under!" Harry breathed a sigh of relief as he stood up to go.

"As I told you, Mr. Harrison," the accountant said agitatedly, "several of the companies are in deep trouble. Even though the overall picture still shows a profit, the net worth of your companies is less than half what it was when your father died."

"Is it, by God?" Harry paused uncertainly near the door and then he walked back to the table. "And what about my personal worth?"

"On the whole sir, your investments have proved sound. Though, of course, with the marriages and the yacht and the houses and cars and your general high expenditure, well, I'm afraid that it is down considerably too." His gaze wavered under Harry's beady eyes.

"How much?"

His sharp voice made the man jump and he answered quickly. "Sixty million, sir. Less than half what it was."

Surprised, Harry stared at him, wondering if it could really be true. Could he have gone through so much in so few years? Well, he supposed, as the man said, with the houses and the yacht and the marriages and the settlements, he must have. Finally worried, he thought about his ailing companies and decided he had better take charge again.

"All right, gentlemen," he said, sitting down again in his leather chair and shuffling the sheaves of financial reports lying on the table in front of him. "Here's what we do. First we close down the
Herald
—as of tomorrow."

"May I suggest Friday instead, sir?" the accountant asked eagerly. "The money is already committed this week and it would not look good for Harrison's
financial
image if we closed down right away. Rumors, you know," he added vaguely, but Harry got his point.

"Okay then, Friday." He picked up the next report. "We'll sell the sugar plantation," he decided briskly. "Those goddamn Chinese laborers are more bother than they're worth."

"It's not a good time to sell, sir," the accountant objected. "If we came to some reasonable agreement with the workforce—"

"Sell," Harry repeated coldly. He went through report after report, ordering which were to be sold and then he told them that with the proceeds, Harrisons would be entering into the commodities market, dealing in futures of metals, coffee, cocoa, and rubber. "There's no future in manufacturing," he told them briskly. "I intend to set up an office on Wall Street and move the base of our operations there."

The sea of stunned faces around the table stared after him as he left, but Harry had a ninety-five percent holding in Harrison Enterprises and there was nothing they could do. His word was law.

On the Friday that the final edition of the
Harrison Herald
was published a copy was delivered personally to Harry at his home. He opened it as he took his breakfast, devouring eggs and bacon and sausages with his usual hearty appetite, until he saw the lead article on the front page. His face paled and his appetite shriveled as he read it.

THE LAI TSIN CORPORATION'S TRIUMPHANT PURCHASE OF THE LATEST AND FASTEST CARGO VESSEL IN THE WORLD the headline announced over a photograph of Francesca and her son on her latest ship. It went on to describe the company's successes and then in bold type at the end it said
"The partners in the Lai Tsin Corporation are the Chinese Ke Lai Tsin, known far and wide as 'the Mandarin,' and Miss Francesca Harrison, sister of the owner of the
Harrison Herald,
Harry Harrison, and daughter of the late Harmon Harrison. It is understood that Miss Harrison and the Mandarin enjoy life together in their delightful new mansion atop Nob Hill, not one block from her brother's, though it is known that she and her brother have not spoken for many years. Mr. Harrison has not commented on his sister's success in business, but the rumors of his own financial decline are rife amongst his companies, as evidenced by the imminent closure of this newspaper."

Harry flung the tabloid to the ground with an oath. He stalked to the telephone and dialed his office at the
Herald.
"Fire that bastard, whoever he is," he shouted into the phone.

There was a chuckle on the other end and then the voice said, "Aren't you forgetting, Mr. Harrison, you've already fired all of us."

Harry stormed from the phone, raging and cursing. This was the final straw. He'd find a way to get Francesca—and her goddamn Chinese lover. He'd see them both in hell.

***

Sammy read the article leaning up against the noisy bar of a Barbary Coast saloon. He was wearing a shabby woolen jacket and pants and a worn collarless blue shirt he had acquired from the Church Army charity in Liverpool, England, the previous year, on just one of the many stopovers in his long, backbreaking, tedious journey to San Francisco. He had not been able to afford the extra sixpenny piece to purchase an ancient cast-off overcoat, and that winter, while he waited for a ship that would take him on as a stoker or a deckhand—anything that would get him one more step closer to California and Francie, he had thought he would die of cold. But he had refused to give in. He couldn't. Not yet.