Fortune Is a Woman - Elizabeth Adler [137]
It was a small item in the financial column of his own paper that caught his attention. It said that L. T. Francis was on its way to becoming one of San Francisco’s richest companies, still small but worth watching. It prophesied that with good forward-looking management the merchant company—which had just purchased the first of what promised to be a fleet of cargo vessels—was firmly set on course to becoming one of San Francisco’s most successful.
Harry wondered why he had never heard of it. He called Frank and asked him, but he said he had never heard of it either; it certainly wasn’t part of the establishment. Still curious, he called the journalist who had written the piece and asked where he’d gotten his information.
“L. T. Francis is really a Chinese company,” the man explained, “working out of offices and warehouses on the waterfront. It’s all a bit of a mystery—except their success is very much a financial fact. The rumor is that it’s some Chinese guy with a Western woman partner. They’re in property and shipping and she fronts for him on all the deals. Nobody knows if it’s really true, but if it is, it’s a clever idea to get around the prejudice.”
“A Western woman partner?” Harry echoed thoughtfully. “What exactly does that mean?”
The man grinned. “Your guess is as good as mine, but I have heard her called his ‘concubine.’”
Harry laughed. “Sounds like just the kind of story we need for the Herald. Tell you what, why don’t you dig around a little, find out about this concubine and the mysterious Chinaman. Try to get some pictures and we’ll drum up a nice juicy scandal for our readers.” He laughed again. “That’ll take care of the L. T. Francis Company. Mark my words, you can watch their profits drop to zero the minute a sex-scandal raises its ugly head.”
Harry thought no more about it until a couple of weeks later when the journalist came back to him with more information and pictures. He thought the reporter looked at him strangely, but he was more interested in the pictures he offered him.
He stared silently at the photographs. Minutes passed and the man shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but still Harry did not look up. Finally he spoke. “What other information do you have besides the pictures?”
“Not a great deal, sir. The boss is Chinese but he has American papers, probably got them after the quake, same as all the others. He’s known locally as ‘the Mandarin’ because of the long Chinese robes he wears. He is not involved in local Chinese affairs and politics and has no contact with the tongs. He works hard and is said to be extremely clever. The business is sound and growing.”
“And the woman?”
Harry’s glance was ice and the reporter shuffled the papers nervously. “She’s young, has a five-year-old son, lives in Aysgarth’s Boardinghouse on Union. As does the Mandarin. And by the way, he’s financially involved in that little boardinghouse, too, and I understand that soon there will be an Aysgarth’s Hotel.”
“Did you find out her name?”
The man cleared his throat. “Er, we understand she is a Mrs. Harrison, sir. And the child’s name is Oliver.”
Harry’s stare was implacable. “A Chinese child?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. I haven’t seen him.”
“And you don’t know who this woman is?”
“Well, no sir, just that she’s Mrs. Harrison.”
But looking into his eyes Harry knew that he knew exactly who Mrs. Harrison was, and that his entire workforce now knew his crazy, long-lost sister was the Chinaman’s concubine.
“You may go,” he said coldly. “Oh, and by the way”—the man turned from the door and looked expectantly at him—“pick up your paycheck on the way out. You’re fired.”
The journalist stared at him, astonished. Harry was leaning back in his chair, gazing at the photographs of Francie. “You bastard,” the man snarled. “You deserve all you get.”
Harry ignored him, wincing as the door slammed violently. He spread the photos across his desk and bent over them intently. There was no doubt about it. His sister was living in sin with a Chinaman and their bastard son, just a few blocks away. His hands