The Flagship, Into Thin Air
At that same hour, Tennessee was in the audience he had requested with Somerset More, legal counsel to the House of Grosvenor.
"I never imagined the young master would come to call."
"The honor of meeting you is more than I can say."
A former justice, and once attorney general of the realm. A man who had stood at the very summit of the law. Even Tennessee could not lay a request before someone like that as if it were nothing.
"I've come to ask for legal advice."
"It must be a matter of some weight."
"Yes. I needed your wisdom, Counselor. I could not do without it."
Somerset had barely inclined his head when Tennessee went on.
"We are preparing to acquire the headquarters of Harris Department Store."
"Oh?"
Interest crossed his face, and then the interest changed. He served the Grosvenors as counsel, yes. But he still carried a justice's honor, and he had never once accepted an improper request. Not from the Grosvenors. Not even if the Queen herself had come to ask.
Tennessee seemed to read that firmness. He went on, slowly.
"There is nothing illegal in it. On the contrary, I want a clean acquisition, carried through ordinary procedure."
"Then why do you need me?"
"Because I cannot bear to stand and watch my money disappear into the Harris purse."
"A remarkably honest reason."
"You've given me your precious time, Counselor. Of course I had no choice but to be honest."
Somerset tapped the table and was quiet for a moment, thinking.
"So. You will acquire it, but you want legal measures taken so Harris does not fatten itself along the way. That is what you mean?"
"Yes. Is it possible, Counselor?"
That night Jo Sudeok sat in front of the television for the news. The lead story was, of course, the reopening of Oxford Street. What Park Jihoon had accomplished by now was almost too much to count. Being reported on was hardly anything new; a man might have asked himself why he bothered to watch every last bit of it. And yet—
Praise for the representative still sends a thrill through me every single time!
Jo Sudeok's eyes shone as if the triumph were his own. Perhaps because it was a public broadcaster, the report cared less for how much money had come in, or how many visitors had been drawn, than for how much public good the venture held. A portion of the profits, it stressed, would go to raising young designers, and because of that the street itself might grow younger. Then, at the very end, Park Jihoon's face slammed onto the screen.
Kya— ah!
"I'm drunk on how cool the representative is. Drunk!"
It seemed to be over. He was reaching to shut the set off without a scrap of regret when the broadcast went on.
What? What was this supposed to be?
The report cut to footage. On every overseas business trip she had thrown away a hundred thousand pounds at the low end, and several million at the high, on gambling. They seemed to be playing a recording. The picture went black, and subtitles rose.
"It isn't anything remarkable. Look at the sums. When I can't sleep on a business trip, I stop by a casino for a moment. That's all. You know a VIP room has its own rate. Thirty minutes of play comes to about that much, and you know it..."
She had trusted the reporter too far. The words that spilled out of Leona had not been polished at all.
"It must look large to other people. But think about the scale of my assets. For me, it's exactly the same as staking ten pounds and playing a few hands."
Ah. This was a one-way drop into the pit.
Quick on the uptake, Jo Sudeok caught the scent at once. A single word, they said, could clear a fortune in debt. The reverse was just as true: misspeak once, and a debt that had never existed came into being.
What? Set against the scale of her assets, money like that is only ten pounds?
Aigoo. There was no saving this now. Jo Sudeok shook his head hard.
The next morning, at Leona Harris's mansion, reporters lay thick beyond the windows. Refuse an interview, and they looked ready to camp there for a week, a month, however long it took.
Damn them.
When the articles about her abuses at the department store had broken, the matter had at least touched the business. She had been able to grind her way through by insisting that a misunderstanding had arisen while she was only trying her best. But gambling—what excuse was there for that?
She said nothing. The morning papers carried something else as well. Whenever she went abroad on business she had not only used the casinos; young dealers had come and gone from her room at all hours.
And what was I supposed to do about not being able to sleep!
Answering them one by one, at this point, would get her nowhere. They would pour out gossip every day regardless. Thorough silence was the only course left. She picked up the receiver. A moment later the low voice of the head of protocol came through.
"How is the mood at the company?"
......
"Why aren't you saying anything?"
"Sales have fallen badly. Even the two weekend days together don't match an average Monday."
"And the countermeasures?"
She had asked for countermeasures. What she received was a story with no way out.
"The shops in the luxury hall are in an uproar. They say they'll take collective action. Sales have plunged because of owner risk, they claim, and they want the damages made good..."
"When they were prospering thanks to me, they kept their mouths shut tight! What—the mood turns a little sour, and now they want me to spit the money back out?"
"It is an undeniable fact that consumers have turned away. When they open their wallets on Oxford Street, they feel they are contributing to contemporary art. When they spend at Harris Department Store, they say it feels like putting up the stake at a gambling table..."
"What did you just say to me!"
"Those aren't my words. I was only telling you how consumers feel..."
"Have you lost your mind? You?"
......
"What? Do you think I'm finished, just like this?"
"Chairman, I wonder whether this is the moment to say such a thing, but—"
"What now!"
"Word has come from the Grosvenor house."
"What?"
"Mr. Somerset has already set out. You are instructed to wait exactly where you are, and not to move."
Thirty minutes later, Leona Harris and Somerset More faced each other across a reception table. This was the Somerset More who had declared that the next time they met, the place would be hell. Perhaps that was why he slid a single document across without a word.
"What... is this?"
His silence said she would know if she looked. Had he set down in writing every indecency he did not even wish to hold in his mouth?
"Are you trying to threaten me?"
He answered that, too, with silence.
"Hah."
Leona lifted the papers as if they weighed on her. She had been certain some filthy corner of her private life would come spilling out. Instead—
Harris Department Store — London Flagship
Consideration: a sum on the order of hundreds of millions of pounds
She looked at the price first. If some absurd figure had been written there, the offer itself would have been the threat. But hundreds of millions—
Did I misread it?
She doubted her own eyes. It was not truly enough. Still, with sales in a nosedive, was this not within the bounds of common sense? He must have seen the conflict kindle in her face. Somerset More, silent until then, slowly opened his mouth.
"You would be selling the symbol of Harris in the wake of every scandal. A certain sympathy would arise in the public as well."
"Y-you're giving me a chance?"
"I am only conducting business on behalf of the Grosvenors."
"Truly, if it were this much... could the matter be brought to a close?"
"That will depend on you."
"But it would help, wouldn't it? The Grosvenor family, the public—their hearts would ease a little."
He gave her no particular answer. He only held out a fountain pen.
"Sign, and it will be processed within the day."
Sell while they were still offering a real price, and pick up a sympathy vote besides. A hundred times the better bargain. Yes—think it over however she liked, there was nothing better than this. Her hand trembled as she set her name into the proposal.
"If you could put in a good word with His Grace..."
The words had not even finished falling when Somerset produced a second document.
"Wh-what is this?"
Again there was no explanation one way or the other, and again she had no choice but to read. Unlike the acquisition proposal, these pages were heavy. The first thing to catch her eye was a list of luxury houses. Luy Vuitton, Guccio, Malenciaga... It looked as though every brand with a shop in the luxury hall had been written down. Beneath the names, the sales losses suffered through Leona Harris's embezzlement and breach of trust had been estimated. Nor was that all. The abuses Carl Bernstein had committed. The things done in order to launch her son's brand, and the damages that had followed. Detail upon detail, so fine she could hardly believe anyone had remembered it all, ran on without end.
Claimants: Luy Vuitton, Guccio, Malenciaga, and every brand tenanted in the luxury hall.
Estimated sales losses arising from the embezzlement and breach of trust of Leona Harris.
Abuses committed by Carl Bernstein.
Conduct undertaken to launch her son's brand, and the losses arising therefrom.
Relief sought: compensation of damages, in the full amount of the flagship's sale price.
"Wh-what is all of this?"
"They have commissioned me with a collective lawsuit."
"Th-that's a lie..."
"So what do you expect me to do?"
"Isn't it written there?"
"Compensate... the damages?"
He nodded. With shaking eyes she turned to the last page. That same order of hundreds of millions she had seen a moment ago.
"No—this is the sale price of the flagship!"
He said nothing.
"Don't tell me you want me to spit every penny of that money back out?"
"Is there a law that says you may not?"
"I-if it's like this, the flagship flies off into thin air! What do you expect me to—"
Perfectly willing to throw away other people's money, and yet her own building seemed very precious. She must have caught the contempt in Somerset's eyes. Her gaze trembled as she asked.
"Why on earth are you doing this to me?"
"Rather, I should like to ask you."
"...?"
Give up a single flagship, and still a great many chains remained across Europe. Why, then, was she wearing a face like that?
"Are you lecturing me?"
He did not answer.
"I am Leona Harris!"
Somerset looked as though he did not even wish to mix words with her. He only looked down at the papers.
The Grosvenor Estate. When the tutor's report was finished, the Duke quietly knit his brow. He had watched in the expectation that Tennessee would dance with the blade, and the boy was content with a single department store? In boxing terms the opponent was groggy. And here he was, fists suddenly lowered, walking back to his corner.
"Soft to the core."
"I am sorry. The fault is mine."
What else was there to do? If a son was frail, one changed the rules and made it a tag match.
"How shall the price be measured..."
"It is a business in which image is everything. And the owner smashed it."
"Would paying only one percent of the appraised value suit you?"
The Duke's face said that even that was too much. At moments like this he was truly cruel. And yet—
Only then will nothing be left behind to trouble us.
Crush them so completely they could not even dream of revenge. That was best. Considering Leona Harris's character, it had to be so all the more.
"I will have it handled cleanly, through the experts."
The Duke did not answer. Silence was assent.
"Ah—Your Grace, as for Clifford Brookhouse..."
The look he received asked what point there could be in acquiring even a law firm of that sort.
"Then that side will be disposed of."
Two instructions. That was all it took for the fate of the Harris family to be decided.