Fortune is a Woman (55 page)

"You want more money," Maryanne said flatly.

He nodded. "That—as well." He put down his glass and came to stand in front of her and she looked warily up at him. "You know I've always admired you, Maryanne," he said, reaching down and taking her hand. "You are a beautiful woman; you're wasted on a man like Buck, you need someone to teach you what life is all about, someone to melt the ice around your heart and unlock your secret juices—"

"Don't be a fool, Harry," she said shortly. Her face burned with disgust. She stood up and attempted to step past him, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly to him. Her eyes opened wide with horror as he pressed his lips on hers, running his hand down her spine, across her buttocks, caressing her, the other hand holding her closer with a viselike grip.

For the first time in her life things were out of her control and Maryanne was frightened. When he finally took his mouth from hers she screamed at him, "Let go of me, you bastard, I'll have you arrested, I'll have you thrown in jail for this."

"Of course you won't," he said easily. "Think of the scandal. I need hardly describe the headlines." He scooped her up into his arms and carried her, kicking, across to the sofa. "Don't you dare touch me, Harry Harrison," she warned as he lay her down and knelt beside her, "If you do I shall scream."

"Scream away," he said confidently, "there's no one to hear you. And besides, it adds to the excitement. Maybe that's what it takes to get to you, Maryanne? A bit of rough-and-tumble." He slapped her suddenly across the face and she gasped, staring terrified at him. He ran his hand the length of her body and she watched in horrified fascination, as though it were an insect crawling over her.

She shuddered as he began to unfasten the row of tiny satin-covered buttons at the neck of her dress. "Don't touch me," she warned him. "I'll give you as much money as you want—"

"Of course you will," he muttered, opening her dress and exposing her small, silk-covered breasts. And then his head sank to her bosom.

Maryanne knew he was mad, crazier even than his sister. She looked wildly around for a weapon; the heavy cut-crystal brandy decanter was on the sofa table just above her head. She stretched her arm upward, her fingers searching for a grip. Suddenly she had it and as Harry lifted his face from her breast she smashed the decanter down as hard as she could on the back of his head.

The decanter was tougher than Harry's head; it didn't break. Brandy flowed pungently into the cut and Harry groaned and staggered to his feet.

He put his hands to his head. Blood poured from the wound and he stared murderously at her. She stared back, too terrified to move. He reeled to the fireplace, clutching the mantel, still looking speechlessly at her, then his knees buckled and he fell heavily onto the stone hearth.

Maryanne looked at him, stunned. The big longcase clock in the corner ticked on and the logs on the fire crackled and spit, but Harry did not make a sound. She quickly pulled her dress over her naked breasts, wrinkling her nose at the smell of brandy, then she stood up and stepped cautiously toward him. He was lying on his side, the back of his head was a splintered mass of blood and bone and she made a little face, sickened. Taking courage, she felt his pulse. She breathed a sigh of relief, it was fast but Harry was still alive.

"Oh my God," she said, frantically buttoning her dress. "Oh my God, I'd better call an ambulance." Then she thought of Buck and the scandal and saw her whole life in ruins. She shook her head violently from side to side—she could not allow this to happen, she just could not! She glanced wildly around again as the clock struck nine. Nine o'clock already. She only had Harry's word for it that the servants were out, they might come back any minute. She wondered frantically what to do.

The logs settled into the grate amid a shower of sparks and one rolled to the very edge. It lay smoldering dangerously on the brink and Maryanne stared, hypnotized, as it fell. Somewhere from the maze of fear in her mind came a cool, clear thought. The whole room reeked of brandy, Harry had been drinking, he had fallen and hit his head.... All it needed was a delicate little push with the toe of her black suede shoe and the log was touching the expensive Aubusson rug, not two feet from where Harry lay. It smoldered for a moment and then there was a red glow and then a tiny yellow tongue of flame.

With a terrified cry she fled from the room, slamming the door behind her. She ran through the marble hall to the door, then remembering her cape she ran back again. She flung the cape over her shoulders with the dark fur on the outside in the hope she would not be so visible. Then she opened the door and stepped outside.

She looked up and down the street, but the night was dark and cold and it was deserted. She ran down the steps, flinging herself around the corner out of sight of that terrible house, hurrying as fast as she could in her high-heeled black suede pumps back to Aysgarth's. As she turned into Union Square she slowed down, smoothing back her hair and wishing she could powder her nose and put on her lipstick so she would appear more normal. And then she realized she had left her purse behind at Harry's.

She thought of the log on the rug and her purse lying on the big wing chair near the hearth and she told herself reassuringly it surely would have burned by now. Clutching her fur cape closer she strode into Aysgarth's and hurried across the lobby to the elevator, praying it would be waiting empty on the ground floor. She was in luck, it was, and she stepped inside, ignoring the bellboy who said a cheerful good evening as he pressed the button, leaning against the wall waiting for it to waft her to safety.

Maryanne hid her face in the cape collar as the elevator sped upward. She ran down the corridor to the Knaresborough Suite, only realizing when she got to the door that her keys were still in her purse. And her purse was at Harry's. Her heart sank, it meant she would have to go back down and explain to the desk clerk that she had been out and had lost them. The service elevator pinged to a stop at the end of the hall and a waiter appeared with a tray. She breathed a sigh of relief as she sped toward him, he would have keys and could open her door, she was saved after all.

She was in her suite within minutes and running a hot bath, as hot as she could bear, pouring in lavish amounts of her expensive French bath oil. She stripped off the ruined dress, wrinkling her nose again at the smell of brandy as she rolled it into a ball and threw it into the wastebasket. She tore off the ecru silk slip and ripped it to shreds and threw it in with the dress. Then she climbed into the tub and lay back with her eyes closed letting the sweet-scented water wash away the vile imprint of Harry's hands.

She was still there half an hour later when Buck came in.

"Is that you, darling?" she called in her usual calm voice.

"Yes." He stood in the doorway looking at her and she glanced gratefully at him. He looked so strong and handsome, just like his photographs in the newspapers. He was her husband and now nothing could harm them. She had made it all right again. Vaguely from a distance in the street below came the urgent sound of bells and sirens. "What time is it, darling?" she asked as he turned away. "Nine-fifteen."

"Must be a fire somewhere," she said with a lazy smile as she lay back again and closed her eyes. There had been plenty of time for the house to get well alight and if there was anything left of loathsome Harry, it would be unrecognizable by now.

CHAPTER 41

Francie was lying sleepless on her bed when she heard the fire engines coming up the hill. Her mind was still full of Buck, of how he had looked, the new tired lines on his face, his eyes pleading with her. And of how she had felt weak again with love for him, how much she longed to stay with him, to show him his beautiful little daughter, to have him back in their lives again. But she had called Annie and told her what happened and said she never wanted to talk about him again. Just so she couldn't change her mind.

The fire engines clanged noisily past then screamed to a halt and she sat up, startled. She ran to the window and stared down the block at Harry's house. Flames were leaping from the windows and she closed her eyes, thinking she must be dreaming, but when she opened them it was true. The house, that great monument to the Harrison name, was burning. Again.

For the second time that night she was swept back to the past; this time more than thirty years ago after the earthquake, when she had watched her father's house burn along with the rest of California Street. Letting the curtain drop back over the window, she wondered what Harry would say now?

With a stab at her heart she remembered the night Ollie had died in the fire. She had always known Harry had something to do with it and this was a small revenge. Only she didn't want revenge, she just didn't want to think about Harry ever again.

She pressed her face to the pillow, trying to shut out the sounds of frantic activity outside, but it was impossible and she got up wearily and went downstairs to the kitchen to make herself some tea.

Ah Fong was in the hall with the front door wide open, staring wonderingly at the blaze.

"Mr. Harrison's house, Miss Francie," he said, gesturing excitedly at the scene. She went and stood beside him. The street was jammed with fire trucks and dozens of firemen were pouring streams of water at the flames in the windows while men on ladders tackled the roof.

"Did they get everyone out?" she asked anxiously, thinking of the servants.

An Fong shrugged. "They say no one was there."

Francie made her tea and took it back upstairs, but she didn't drink it. She lay on her bed, thinking of the night of the earthquake and the great fire. And Josh. And of one of the secrets the Mandarin had told her at Lilin's temple. And she knew now she had to tell Annie. When dawn came she got up and pulled back her curtains and looked out at the wreckage. The Harrison house was a blackened shell. She stared at it waiting for some reaction but she felt nothing, neither pleasure nor triumph. It simply did not matter to her anymore.

Annie called her first thing. "They say Harry's house was burned. Is it true?" she demanded.

"It's true. It looks exactly the way it did after the earthquake."

"It's taken thirty years for fate to take its revenge," Annie said bitterly, "and nobody deserved to lose everything more than Harry."

"Are you busy today?" Francie asked suddenly.

Annie thought of the million and one things she had to do and said calmly, "I don't have to be."

"I need to see you."

There was a silence and then Annie said, "I'll be there in an hour."

***

Francie was waiting for her in the hall. "Don't bother taking off your coat," she said. "We are going somewhere."

"To meet Buck?" Annie asked, stepping into Francie's little black Ford.

"I told you I don't want to talk about him," Francie said abruptly. "It's just not meant to be, Annie. The man's life is on a different course from mine." Annie nodded sadly as she added wearily, "I'm on my own, Annie, and that's the way it's always been. Last night, seeing the house burn brought back memories of Josh.

"You remember the night of the Mandarin's funeral?" she said as they drove down the hill. "When I said you didn't know all the truth? Well, now I shall tell you. I couldn't before, Annie, because it was his secret, but I want you to remember that what he did, he did for love. I'm taking you to see something and then I shall tell you what happened."

They drove south of the city to the little clifftop graveyard and she showed Annie the carefully tended plot with Josh's name on it, while she told her the Mandarin's story of how he had taken him from Sammy and tried to help him, but it had been too late. And why he had not let them see Josh before he died.

Annie's face was sad but she shed no tears. "I'm glad," she said simply. "I couldn't have borne to see him like that. He was right, we had done our mourning and it was time for life again."

They sat side by side, warmed by a faltering sun, gazing out to sea remembering Josh, and as they left she said, "It's a grand place, Francie. Josh would have loved it."

***

The Extra was being called by every newsboy on the streets when they drove back through San Francisco late that afternoon.
"What
did they say?" Annie gasped, rolling down her window the better to hear. Francie shook her head, it was rush hour, the streets were crowded, and she was concentrating on her driving.

"Harry Harrison Dead in Blaze," the newsboy yelled, running alongside the traffic and thrusting a copy of the
Chronicle
at them as Annie handed over a coin.

Francie swerved to a halt at the curb. Her stunned eyes met Annie's and she said, "Can it be true?"

"It's true all right." Annie shook open the newspaper and they bent their heads over it together, reading how Harry Harrison had died in the blaze that had gutted his house the previous night.

Francie shook her head. "I can't believe it," she said, wonderingly. "The same way Ollie died. Surely it's God's vengeance."

"If Harry really was responsible for Ollie's death, then it's vengeance of some sort," Annie agreed. She glanced anxiously at Francie, who looked pale and strangely calm. "Are you all right, love?"

Francie sighed deeply. She patted Annie's hand and said, "All these years since Ollie died I've wanted to kill Harry, and now he's dead. It's all been wiped out in a single night, Annie. It's like a gift, but it's not one that brings happiness."

***

She dropped Annie off at the hotel and then drove back home, turning her head to look at the house that had become Harry's tomb, just the way it had for his father. The ruins were cordoned off and half a dozen police officers stood guard, watched by a curious crowd of onlookers as well as a coterie of newspaper reporters and photographers. Their faces turned to look as she drove by and Francie nervously decided to use the servants' entrance around the back.

She called hello to Ah Fong and the Chinese cook on her way through the kitchen and they told her the reporters had been hanging around all day, waiting for her. She went to her small sitting room, walked to the window and stood looking at the activity across the road. She wasn't glad Harry was dead; she wasn't anything. Just tired.