I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 115

Chapter 115: The Perfect Script

As Francis escorted Vartan out, Djoka and Charles happened to arrive in their car. Despite the drizzle outside, the two hastily parked the car, jumped out, and rushed forward without any concern for the rain.

“Mr. Vartan!” Djoka’s tone was almost pleading. “Let’s discuss this again—we can offer you a better price...”

Charles remained silent. Observing the smug expression on Francis’s face, he seemed to understand that the contract had already been signed. He sighed softly and halted his steps.

Vartan ignored them entirely, stepping into his carriage and instructing the coachman, “To Paris.” With a call to the horses, the carriage splashed through the rainwater, leaving behind a trail of mud that even splattered onto Djoka’s trousers.

Francis laughed gleefully. “Hey, Djoka, Charles, it’s been a while!”

Turning his gaze to Charles, he feigned concern and asked, “Charles, are you off today? I suppose some circumstances delayed you! You should have come earlier; your eloquence might have persuaded Mr. Vartan. But alas…”

He shrugged with exaggerated regret and added in a consoling tone, “No worries, there’ll always be a next time. After all, it’s just 1,800 tractors!”

Then he burst into a chuckle.

Djoka and Charles stared at Francis in stunned silence, at a loss for words.

Suddenly, Francis’s expression turned cold. His voice took on an icy edge as he declared, “I’ve been in this business for decades, young men. I’m not so easily defeated. Mind your own affairs!”

With that, he dismissed them and, accompanied by his butler holding an umbrella, strode back to the villa.

Djoka wiped the rain off his face, looking slightly disheveled. He pulled Charles toward the car.

“Let’s go!” Djoka said. “There’s nothing more we can do.”

Both men were dejected. Even the car seemed to reflect their mood, puttering weakly as it swayed down the road and disappeared into the distance.

Standing in the doorway, Francis turned back to watch the scene with a cold smirk. He had played his cards beautifully. Although Charles had the upper hand in many aspects, Francis’s luck had prevailed, allowing him to sell off the entire stock of unsold tractors that had been gathering dust in the warehouse.

“Master!” Simon inquired, “Since we’ve sold all the inventory, should we call back the workers and resume production?”

“No!” Francis responded without hesitation. “Customers like this are rare. The ‘Holt 60’ can’t compete with the ‘Holt 75.’ Therefore, we must cease tractor production entirely and focus all our efforts on tanks!”

“Yes, Master!” Simon acknowledged.

...

Driving down the road, Djoka glanced back at the villa, which had receded into a hazy silhouette through the rain’s dense curtain.

The two men exchanged a look and, as if on cue, relaxed, breaking into knowing smiles.

“Francis fell for it!” Djoka nodded at Charles, marveling, “In all these years, no one has ever managed to deceive him—except you!”

Vartan wasn’t an Algerian noble at all but a stage actor Djoka had hired in Paris. The “servants” were actors too, and the carriage and other props were rented for a daily fee of 100 francs.

“This is different, Father,” Charles replied calmly. “Tricking Francis into giving up money is almost impossible. But now, we’ve simply made him pay willingly.”

“No!” Djoka shook his head with a chuckle. “You’ve handled the details brilliantly—Algerian coffee, the farm owner, and France’s recruitment of soldiers from Algeria. Good heavens, the script you wrote is flawless! You perfectly exploited Francis’s habits and mindset.”

“We can’t relax just yet,” Charles cautioned. “So far, only the deposit has been paid. If Francis senses something amiss, he might breach the contract. Even if he pays the penalty, he could still turn a profit.”

Djoka nodded. Capitalists typically sold to the military at two or three times the original price. Francis could have made a net profit of 4 to 5 million francs. But now, he had sold the tractors at a loss of 900 francs each, for a total of just 1.62 million. And yet, he remained blissfully unaware.

Remembering Francis’s earlier smugness, Djoka cast aside any lingering guilt.

“We’ve done the right thing!” Djoka declared resolutely. “For ourselves and for France!”

Charles murmured his agreement; there was no doubt about it.

For themselves: They’d profit from the deal.

For France: The military would acquire critical strategic resources at a fraction of the cost, directly affecting the battlefield’s outcome and casualties.

What Charles didn’t realize was that Djoka’s notion of “for ourselves” wasn’t about profit—it was about teaching Francis a lesson.

Djoka took charge of the operation, continuing to hire the stage actors and execute the entire performance. At one point, he even feigned a desire to cancel the order, spurring Francis to expedite the delivery.

Francis didn’t suspect a thing. After all, the payments he received were genuine. Fearing he might lose the lucrative deal, he worked through the night to dispatch the tractors in batches to Paris.

Within a single day, 1,800 tractors were delivered to a plot of land Djoka had rented. Covered tightly with canvas tarps, they were now ready to be sold to the military.

Djoka turned to Charles and said, “Now we’ve spent all our money. We’re down to less than 10,000 francs—barely enough to pay the pilots’ salaries next month. If your calculations are off, we’ll face bankruptcy!”

Charles merely smiled and said nothing. As someone with foreknowledge of events, how could his calculations be wrong?

Moreover, Charles’s business philosophy ensured no one could take advantage of him—not even Gallieni.

...

The next day, the command headquarters was busier than usual, clearly a result of the stalemate developing during the “Race to the Sea.” A 300-kilometer defensive line stretching from Switzerland to the English Channel was taking shape, a burden for any nation.

Charles paid no attention to these matters. He approached the busy Gallieni and stood at attention to report, “Regrettably, General, I failed to complete the task you assigned to me.”

“Task?” Gallieni furrowed his brows. He didn’t recall giving Charles any specific assignment.

Charles solemnly explained, “I couldn’t convince Charles. He insists that the loan interest must be 10% and paid monthly. Otherwise, he’ll withdraw funding from the flying club and sell off all the pilots!”

Gallieni was momentarily stunned, caught off guard by Charles’s move.

Around them, staff members slowed their work, glancing curiously in their direction. Soft chuckles began to ripple through the room.

Privately, most agreed Charles’s demands were reasonable.

Even Lieutenant Colonel Fernand discreetly gave Charles a thumbs-up.

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