Fortune Is a Woman - Elizabeth Adler [149]
“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