But not at this moment, she said to herself, thinking of that 8 per cent bank rate. It was outrageous interest to pay. She had all that cash in the Gregson account and was owed a vast amount from the stores. She could easily take the fifty thousand pounds she needed without endangering the warehouse business. Removing the chequebook for the Gregson Warehouse from the drawer of her desk, she wrote out a cheque, put it in an envelope, addressed it to Frederick Ainsley, and returned the chequebook to the drawer. She looked at her watch, picked up the telephone, and dialled the warehouse.
Her manager, Vince Hartley, answered, as she had known he would. ‘Good morning, Vince. I’ve been going over the ledger and I notice that a number of our customers are behind in payment,’ she said.
‘Morning, Mrs Harte. Yes, I know. I was going to talk to you about them—’
‘I want you to start pulling that money in, Vince. First thing on Monday morning,’ Emma interrupted. ‘And don’t write the usual dunning letters. Telephone and follow up with telegrams. I want immediate results. If they can’t pay in full, insist on part payments. And you might point out to the stores whose accounts are outstanding for sixty days or longer that I intend to start charging interest. At once. Bank rates of 8 per cent.’
Vince Hartley sucked in his breath. ‘Mrs Harte, that’s a bit stiff, isn’t it? I don’t think they’ll like it. They might not buy from us again—’
‘I don’t give a damn whether they like it or not. And I certainly couldn’t care less if they don’t buy from us.’
‘But we’re bursting at the seams with stocks. We’ll have it on our hands if we’re not careful.’
‘No, we won’t,’ Emma said firmly. ‘There’s a war on now. Merchandise is going to be in short supply and hard to come by. I can use up those stocks in the store if necessary. In fact, I’ll probably need them. Many of the manufacturers we buy from will be turning their factories over to the production of government supplies. Uniforms and such, and so I’m not at all concerned about the stocks in the warehouse. In a sense, they’re a godsend.’
‘Yes, I see your point,’ Hartley conceded, wishing he had thought of that himself. But Emma Harte was always three jumps ahead of everyone else. Now he said, ‘There’s another problem I wanted to mention. Two of our commercial travellers, the ones covering Scotland, have given notice. They’re joining up today. That leaves us short-staffed. Shall I take on some new men to replace them?’
‘No, don’t bother. The two working Manchester and London will be sufficient. As I said, I may well need that merchandise for the store and I don’t want the warehouse to be completely depleted. Get on to those overdue accounts on Monday and let me know the results at the end of the day. I expect you to be tough about this, Vince. I don’t have time to deal with it myself, but I will if necessary.’
‘Please, Mrs Harte, don’t worry. You can rely on me,’ Hartley said nervously, knowing she meant every word.
‘Until Monday, Vince. Goodbye.’ Emma sat back in the chair, wondering if she should let the two remaining travellers go and cease all selling to other retailers, to reserve the stocks for herself in case of shortages. A knock on the door interrupted her musings. Emma looked up as Gladys Barnes, her young secretary, poked her head around the door.
‘Mr Ainsley has arrived, Mrs Harte.’
‘Show him in, Gladys, please.’
‘Yes, Mrs Harte.’
Emma stood up, smoothed her skirt, and automatically patted her hair, walking across the floor to welcome her solicitor, whom she had been expecting. She was therefore taken aback, and also irritated, when Ainsley’s son, Arthur, appeared on the threshold.
Arthur Ainsley, tall, slender, and with the blond good looks of a juvenile lead, was conscious of his physical attributes and the effect they had on most women. Elegantly dressed in a somewhat dandified manner, he played the part of the dashing young buck to the hilt and now he sauntered in with debonair aplomb.
He’s forgotten his tennis racquet, Emma thought disparagingly, but she proffered him a charming smile. ‘Good morning, Mr Ainsley.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Harte. You look as splendid as always.’ Ainsley flashed his perfect teeth and took her outstretched hand, his clasp lingering too long for Emma’s comfort.
‘Why, thank you, Mr Ainsley. Please, do sit down.’ She glided to her desk and sat behind it, still smiling, sheathing her annoyance. In her opinion, Arthur Ainsley was a fop and she regarded him as his father’s errand boy, even though he was a junior partner with the law firm. ‘Is your father joining us?’ she asked in an even tone.
‘No, I’m afraid he can’t. He came down with a frightful cold last night. Hence my presence instead of his,’ Arthur replied, suavely apologetic.
‘I am sorry,’ Emma murmured.
‘However,’ Arthur went on quickly, ‘he did ask me to tell you that you may telephone him at home, if you consider it necessary after our meeting. That is, if you feel I am not able to help you with your – er – er – problem.’
‘I don’t have a problem, Mr Ainsley,’ Emma said coolly. ‘I merely wished to bring to conclusion a certain matter I have been discussing with your father. I think you will be able to handle it quite adequately, since all the major work has been done already.’
Arthur Ainsley ignored her patronizing tone, although he winced. He had been trying to ingratiate himself with Emma Harte for the past year without success, and this infuriated him. Nevertheless, he responded with studied charm. ‘I sincerely hope I can, Mrs Harte. I always aim to please, you know.’
‘Indeed,’ Emma said dismissively. ‘When I spoke to your father yesterday morning I did not explain why I wished to see him today, so obviously he was unable to brief you. Let me fill you in. Several weeks ago I started negotiations with Mr William Layton, of Layton’s woollen mill in Armley. Mr Layton has wanted to sell for some time. He’s getting too old to run the mill efficiently and his business has fallen off drastically. Mostly due to the poor quality of the cloth he has been producing and indifferent selling. In fact, it’s my opinion he’s only a few steps away from bankruptcy. Mr Layton agreed to sell the mill to me for fifty thousand pounds. I considered this a fairly reasonable figure, although the mill is small, there’s virtually no good will to speak of, and his customers are few. He’s also stuck with an enormous quantity of shoddy cloth which I will have to practically give away, simply to get rid of it—’
‘It doesn’t sound like a good proposition to me,’ Arthur cut in, hoping to impress her.
Emma frowned and held up her hand. ‘Please, Mr Ainsley, let me finish!’ Her voice was chilly. ‘The machinery is good and the building is sound, if in need of a few renovations. Also, Layton’s is carrying huge stocks of raw wool, of major importance to me. Anyway, to come to the point, Mr Layton agreed to my terms, which were fifteen thousand on signing of the purchase agreements, ten thousand after three months, and the final payment of twenty-five thousand pounds at the end of six months. That is approximately the length of time I require to turn the mill around. We were about to go to contract when Mr Layton backed down. His excuse was that he no longer wanted to sell. I found this hard to swallow, but naturally I had to respect his decision.’
‘You probably could have held him to that agreement, you know, even though it was verbal,’ Arthur interjected. ‘I’m sure my father told you that, didn’t he?’
‘He did indeed,’ Emma said. ‘However, I decided at the time not to do so. Mr Layton is an old man and I didn’t want to back him into a corner. After all, it was his prerogative to change his mind. I told your father I would look around for another suitable mill, since I was anxious to acquire one. Then a few days ago I discovered, through a reliable source of my own, that Mr Layton had received another