Fortune Is a Woman - Elizabeth Adler [134]
Harry enjoyed walking into his bank and seeing the clerks jump respectfully. He liked the way heads turned to follow him and the whispered admiring comments that “young Mr. Harrison was back.” He liked the way the pompous little gray-haired godlike bank manager in pinstripes and tails jumped up, flustered when he strode without knocking into his dark, mahogany-lined, thickly carpeted office. He liked the way the men at the ticker-tape machines on the second floor, monitoring the financial ups and downs of Wall Street and the European and foreign markets, leapt to their feet, crushing out their cigarettes, waiting nervously for his commands as he strolled through their ranks. On floor after floor, he liked the way everyone, from the lowliest office boys to the managers in charge of the Harrison enterprises quailed under his glance and hung on his every brief word.
And when he reached the topmost floor containing the directors’ offices, the boardroom, and his own personal suite, he liked his big office and his solid partners’ desk, his leather swivel chair and the walls of important-looking leather-bound books in glass-fronted cabinets, and the view from his tall fifteenth-floor windows. But as he sat in his leather chair and contemplated the view, what he liked most was the sense of power.
There was no guardian secretary in his outer office, no one had expected him, but the word flashed through the building like brushfire, reaching the three men in the directors’ offices before Harry had even reached the second floor.
Frank Vandenplas, his father’s most trusted administrator, was the first to knock on his door. He had just held a conference with his two codirectors and decided quickly on a strategy. He walked in, his hand outstretched, his red-cheeked, gray-whiskered face beaming.
“Harry, my boy,” he said, shaking his hand cordially, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.” He looked sympathetically at him. “And how sorry I was to hear of your divorce. Still,” he shrugged his hefty shoulders, “it’s a small mistake at your age and easily put behind you. And now you’ve come to join us at last?”
It was a question, not a statement, and he took a seat looking expectantly at Harry, waiting for an answer. He hoped it was going to be no, because the young pup would cause nothing but trouble, but if it was yes, then he would give him a run for his millions.
“Good to see you, Frank,” Harry replied, not meaning it. “And yes, I thought it about time I took up the reins and ran my own company, the way my father wanted.”
Frank beamed again. “You could not have given me better news, my boy. Now, where would you like to start?”
Harry frowned. “Since I’m going to be in charge, it’s better if you didn’t call me ‘my boy.’ Harry will do.” He wanted to tell the old buffoon to call him Mr. Harrison, but he was an old colleague of his father’s, and besides, for the moment he needed him. But by God he was going to have these old men jump when he said jump. He’d soon show them who was boss.
“I’d like to know exactly where each company stands financially,” Harry said. “I want to know the annual turnover and the profit and the growth patterns. I think that’s as good a starting point as any, don’t you, Frank?”
Frank nodded. “Correct, Harry,” he said smoothly. “I’ll have the accountants get their books together and meet you up here in half an hour. Meanwhile I’ll send my own secretary to look after you until you have a chance to appoint someone yourself. And my fellow directors will be in to say hello. They’re gonna be just as thrilled as I am to know we have a Harrison at the helm again.”
Harry scowled. Frank and the two other directors were his father’s contemporaries. They had been with the company for forty-five years and he knew exactly what they were like; old-fashioned,