Fortune is a Woman (32 page)

He stared blankly at the crowd and they stared back at him, wondering what was going on. He pulled himself together, shrugging his shoulders. He must be mistaken, it was all in his mind, just because he had told himself earlier this would be the ideal setting for Francie's return from the dead. He was being stupid, the girl he had seen was probably someone who barely even looked like her, just the same blond hair and blue eyes...
those deep, sapphire-blue eyes.
He shivered as he ran back up the steps. Francie was dead and he hoped her bones and ashes had been scattered to the wind so that no trace of her even remained. Tonight was
his
party,
his
triumph, and he was going to enjoy every minute.

Francie shrank behind the columned porticoes of the Fairmont Hotel, waiting for Harry's hand to fall on her shoulder. She could almost hear his triumphant voice saying, "There you are at last, Francesca." She could feel the coarse fabric and the cold leather straps of the straight-jacket cutting into her and see the blank, barred window that would lock her away from life again, just the way they had all through her childhood. Her heart was thudding, shivers ran up and down her spine, and she could hardly catch her breath.

"Are you all right, miss?" a concerned voice asked.

She looked up, terrified, and almost fainted with relief. It wasn't Harry after all, it was the top-hatted Fairmont doorman.

"I just felt faint for a moment," she replied shakily. "Thank you, but I'm sure I'll be all right now."

The doorman eyed her curiously. She didn't look any too well to him, she was pale and her blue eyes looked panicked. He wouldn't normally have allowed a woman to stand here in the Fairmont's entry, but she was beautiful and well-dressed and she was most certainly a lady.

"Would you like me to call you a cab, ma'am?" he asked, and Francie nodded gratefully, tipping him lavishly as he helped her into it.

She shrank back into its shadowy interior as they drove by the Harrison mansion. The massive bronze doors that looked fit for a cathedral were closed now, but the crowds still lingered, peering at the lighted windows and listening to the faint strains of the orchestra.

Francie shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself, overcome by a terrible chill. Harry had seen her, he had recognized her, and now she knew he would never rest until he found her.

Back home, at Aysgarth's Boardinghouse, she ran quickly upstairs to Ollie's room. Her four-year-old son was sleeping peacefully, one arm outflung and the other clasped around a worn toy tiger. The night-light shone on his cap of blond hair and his long eyelashes cast curving shadows across his cheeks. She stood for a long time looking at him, her hands clasped to her heart. She told herself she was not a helpless girl any longer, that she was twenty-three years old and a grown woman, she had friends who loved her and this child who was hers to support and cherish. She told herself that Harry could not accuse her of insanity and lock her behind bars. She was her own woman, she had money and friends and there was absolutely nothing he could do to her. But as she turned away there was still that nagging doubt in her mind, and as she closed the door on her sweetly sleeping son she was still afraid.

***

"It's like old times, Harry," Mrs. Brice Leland told him, as he swirled her around in the first waltz. "How proud your dear father would have been of you. Such a triumph to rebuild this wonderful house. And no doubt when you have completed your studies at Princeton, you will be taking his place on the board of the bank?"

"I have already taken my father's place, Mrs. Leland," he replied, smiling, "as head of
all
his companies. I felt it was my duty to do so right away."

She nodded sagely as the music stopped and he escorted her back to her chair. "A wise head on young shoulders," she told him, smiling approvingly.

Harry danced with all the society matrons, charming them easily. Then he danced with each of the girls in turn. Some were beautiful, some pretty, and others merely attractive. None were ugly. He couldn't abide plain women. But anyway, the girls were too young for him, he liked red-haired older women with knowing eyes and ripe bodies, women who knew what he wanted and how to give it to him. These girls flirted and smiled, but their eyes were clear and innocent, they smelled of scent not sex, and they were after a husband not a lover.

Harry enjoyed his party. He liked the lavish food and vintage champagne, the overwhelming flower displays, the thousands of candles flickering in the giant chandeliers, the gypsy violins and the waltzes, the jewels and the aristocratic names. It would set the standard for all his future entertaining. But when the last guest left, he knew where he was heading.

He had invited half a dozen of his young friends from back East for the party. They were waiting for him in the library, drinking whiskey and laughing as they discussed the evening and the girls. Harry strode into the room and clapped his hands for silence. "I have a surprise for you," he said. "Follow me, gentlemen."

The boys were his age, good-looking young aristocrats with money to burn, and they followed him eagerly into the waiting automobiles, ready for adventure.

Harry took the wheel of the big de Courmont. He drove fast down California Street and turned into Chinatown. Champagne and whiskey flowed in his veins as he zigzagged through a maze of smaller streets, laughing uproariously as the stupid Celestials leapt from under his wheels. He drove down a small, dimly lit alley and stopped outside a red-lacquered door with a small iron grille set in the middle of it. A lantern swung overhead, lighting up the boys' eager young faces. A flap behind the grille suddenly opened and a pair of narrow Oriental eyes surveyed them. Then the door was flung wide and they stepped into another world.

They clustered together, staring apprehensively around. A few Orientals sprawled on low red divans in the dimly lit room, smoking bubble pipes, and the smell of their tobacco mingled with the sharp scent of incense and the sweetness of opium. Harry glanced at his friends, his eyes glittering with anticipation. "I told you it would be a surprise," he said, as the Oriental clapped his hands to summon the girls from the back. "This is my birthday present to
you,
my friends. I've heard a lot about Chinese women and now we'll find out if it's true!"

They laughed uproariously at his nerve, crowding eagerly forward to look at the line of girls. They were all young, pretty, and exotic in tight satin cheongsams slit to the waist. Their smooth hair was long and black and silky, their almond eyes sly and inviting, and their lips painted a seductive scarlet. They placed their hands together, bowing their heads prettily as they were introduced. Harry knew which one he wanted; she was taller than the others, her behind jutted provocatively, and there was a tantalizing gleam in her eyes as they met his. He grabbed her arm. "This one's mine," he said as she led him triumphantly away, leaving his friends to make their own choices.

Her cubicle was tiny with just a brocade-covered divan, a low table with a flask of rice wine, and a carved wooden chair. The red-glass lantern shed a fiery glow and the rice wine sent a matching fire through Harry as it mixed with the champagne and Scotch already flowing in his veins.

The girl took his jacket and hung it carefully over the chair. She unfastened his bowtie and removed his shoes. Harry took another slug of rice wine and she lifted her head and looked up at him knowingly. Then she stood up and slowly unfastened her cheongsam. It slid to her feet with a silken swish and she stood naked before him. She was young and graceful and knowledgeable in sex; she knew how to please a man and Harry knew what he wanted. He wanted her to tantalize him, to tease him, to stretch his nerves and his resistance like a taut, singing wire. He wanted to experience everything and resist the final moment as long as possible, and this willing little Chinese girl knew every game in the book.

And when he was finally finished and lay exhausted on the divan she brought a bowl of warm, scented water and washed his body. Then she brought in a pipe and a little spirit lamp. Harry watched lazily as she scraped up a tiny bead of opium, heated it over the lamp and put it in the bowl of the pipe. Then she offered it to him, saying, "This is the very finest and most costly Chinese opium, master. The poppies were cut at sunrise when the juices flow at their best, and its flavor and power will bring you much pleasure."

She lay on her side next to him and showed him how to smoke it, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in her lungs. "Try," she whispered, smiling persuasively, "just try it, master."

They shared a pipe of opium and then another, and more rice wine and finally Harry lay back on the divan while she pleasured him again, and he knew he never wanted this night to end.

And the next day, back in his wonderful mansion, if he remembered seeing Francie at all, he thought he must have dreamed it.

Harry's friends slept late and he took his breakfast alone in the big dining hall. No trace of the previous night's party remained except for a bouquet of crimson roses in the center of the table. And no trace of last night's debauchery showed on Harry's face; he looked as fresh and clear-eyed as a baby as he downed fried eggs with deviled kidneys and toast, while he glanced swiftly through the morning editions of the newspapers.

He smiled as he saw photographs of his own handsome face and his wonderful house and beautiful guests splashed across the social pages of every newspaper. THE HARRISONS ARE BACK, the headlines trumpeted over a picture of him standing at the top of his red-carpeted steps with the shiny limousines lined up outside. It went on to tell the story of his father and his tragic death. "But now Harry Harrison is all set to repeat his father's stunning performance, both socially and in business," it continued. "When young Harry graduates from Princeton, in a year's time, he will take his father's place as head of the multimillion-dollar Harrison business empire. You are looking at a picture of a young man at the pinnacle of life. He has everything life has to offer, youth, looks, money, and assured success. What more can any man want?"

Harry smiled with satisfaction as he sipped his coffee. And then he saw the photograph in the
San Francisco Examiner.
The picture was blurred and slightly out of focus,
but there in the crowd was Francie.
Her hat was pulled down over her eyes, but still he could swear it was her.

Pushing back his chair he strode from the dining room to his study. He picked up the phone and called the
Examiner's
office and told them to get a copy of the photograph to him right away. Then he sat back in his deep-buttoned leather chair, his hands clasped on the desk in front of him, thinking of what to do.

He remembered the night he had returned from the opera with his father, and the red-faced detective who had been waiting for him with the news about Francie and her lover. He'd taken away his father's gun to stop him from killing her. Now he knew how his father had felt, because if the woman in the picture was Francie, then he wanted her dead.

He got up and paced the study restlessly. Everybody assumed she was dead anyway—she was a missing person, no one would ever even look for her. But how to do it? He thought of the Chinese bordello. It was run by one of the tongs and he knew they had a reputation as hired killers. They would be able to get him the man he needed.

There was a knock on the door and Fredricks appeared carrying an envelope on a silver salver. "From the
Examiner,
sir," he said as Harry grabbed it eagerly.

He peered at the face only half-visible beneath her hat. He knew Francie's face like his own. That was her mouth, that was her hair, he'd swear to it.
And those sapphire eyes that had met his for a fleeting instant had been Francie's.

Picking up the telephone, he called the chief of police, told him who he was, and asked for the name of a reputable detective agency.

"It's just a small job," he lied, a smile in his voice, "a little matter of security at the bank."

Within minutes he had the name and number he needed, and half an hour later a tall, gray-haired Irishman was employed to find the woman in the photograph. "Right away," Harry told him impatiently. "You've got forty-eight hours."

CHAPTER 24

Aysgarth's Boardinghouse was tall and narrow and fronted onto the south side of Union Square. The bottom half of the building was red brick and the top white clapboard. There were apple-green shutters at the long windows, a glossy green front door with a gleaming brass lion's head knocker and a sign in the lace-curtained window to the left of the well-scrubbed stone steps that read no vacancies.

There were four good reasons for the no vacancies sign: First, the house was immaculately clean in the nicest way; it smelled of lavender and beeswax, not lye soap and disinfectant. Second, it was blissfully comfortable and homey, with bright rugs on the polished elm floorboards. There were deep club chairs in the parlor that a man could sink down into to read his newspaper, and firm beds with good plain white linen and no frills. Third, there was decent plumbing and plenty of hot water and always a good fire in the grate on a cold evening. And fourth, and most important, Annie Aysgarth's cooking was famous.

"Just like your mother made—but better," was what they said about her lamb hotpots with succulent chunks of meat in an herby aromatic gravy with a layer of brown, oven-crisped potatoes over the top. Her simple roast chicken with tiny golden matchstick potatoes and fresh green peas braised with lettuce and pearl onions were what your grandmother should have cooked, and her Sunday roast beef came with real Yorkshire pudding made with the lightest, simplest batter. "Two eggs instead of one," she always said, "plain flour, milk, and just a pinch of salt, the fat heated smoking hot and the batter poured in quickly and cooked in a hot oven until it puffed high and light as an eiderdown." It was served immediately as a course on its own with silky, onion-flavored gravy. And Annie's bread-and-butter pudding was to die for, the plain home-baked bread was buttered and soaked in a beaten mixture of milk and eggs flavored with vanilla, layered with sugar and brandy-plumped golden raisins and broken pecans, then scattered with golden vanilla sugar and baked in a bain-marie for forty-five minutes until it was as lightweight as a souffle and creamy as a custard.