I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 34

Chapter 34: Are You Really Young Master Charles?

On this day, Charles followed Djoka to visit the motorcycle factory.

This visit was prompted by Djoka's reminder.

“Our expenses are enormous, Charles!” Djoka raised the account book and waved it at Charles. “The motorcycle factory has used up 350,000 francs. The initial payment for purchasing the tractor production line from Britain cost 200,000 francs, and we’re not even sure if that will be enough. The field hospital costs around 18,000 francs per day on average, and that’s without paying the volunteers. Restarting the motorcycle operation will also require capital. At this rate, we’ll be bankrupt in no time!”

Charles sighed inwardly. Money truly seemed to vanish like water.

Although 990,000 francs was a staggering sum, to establish himself as a "benevolent capitalist" and win people’s hearts, money had to flow like a river.

These expenditures seemed small—only 18,000 francs a day—but they were ongoing, while his assets were not increasing. It was becoming a case of spending capital without replenishing it.

“Don’t worry, Father!” Charles said. “I heard the motorcycle factory has a backlog of unsold inventory. We could start by selling some of it!”

“There is inventory,” Djoka replied with a doubtful look at Charles. “But the problem is... who would buy motorcycles right now?”

Charles didn’t explain further and decided to visit the factory first.

...

The motorcycle factory was located next to Francis’s tractor factory. It was smaller in scale than the tractor factory, employing over 800 workers before the war broke out—a medium-sized enterprise.

However, its land area was vast, covering 32 acres, twice the size of the tractor factory. This was because, at the time, selling motorcycles required offering training as well. This necessitated enough space for multiple buyers to learn simultaneously and for various terrains to be available.

Djoka parked the car near the warehouse.

As they got out, Djoka said, “I think Paul is a suitable candidate to manage the motorcycle factory. He’s excellent at socializing, and his injury is minor. Both your mother and I think he’s a good young man. His networking skills could bring in sales for the motorcycle factory…”

Paul was a wounded soldier who had earned a good reputation by helping many patients alongside volunteers in the field hospital.

“No, Father!” Charles said, walking along the path between the buildings toward the warehouse. “You must keep an eye on Paul and never let him near my factories. Once he recovers, send him away!”

“Why?” Djoka asked, quickly catching up with a puzzled expression.

As he walked, Charles replied, “Did you notice his injury?”

“Yes,” Djoka said, walking beside Charles. “He injured his hand and lost two fingers, but it doesn’t affect his work. Surely you’re not—”

“His right index and middle fingers,” Charles emphasized. “Do you think it’s just a coincidence? Those two fingers—one for pulling the trigger and the other for stabilizing the rifle—just happen to be missing, making him unfit for combat.”

Djoka was stunned. “You mean…”

“Losing a few fingers is better than losing one’s life, Father,” Charles said. “Paul is one of them. He lacked the courage to face the enemy and cleverly made others think he was a good person. He deliberately approached you to leave a positive impression!”

Djoka was taken aback. He had never considered this before. Now, recalling Paul’s past actions, it indeed seemed as Charles described.

But…

“How did you figure it out?”

Djoka’s question hung in the air when a faint sound came from the adjacent warehouse where discarded parts were stored.

Djoka signaled Charles to stay put and crept toward the warehouse, then forcefully pushed the door open.

The people inside were startled, halting their actions to look over.

Seeing only Djoka and a child, they relaxed again.

Inside were two young men and a bald middle-aged man.

The bald man held a hammer in his hand. He gestured toward the two young men with a nod and asked, “You here to grab something too?”

Djoka quickly understood—they were stealing parts. These disgraceful thieves!

He was about to step forward and drive them away when Charles stopped him.

“Yes!” Charles said with keen interest as he stepped forward. “We came to see if there’s anything valuable. What are you doing?”

The bald man glanced at Charles and answered coldly, “There’s nothing valuable here except a pile of scrap metal. Everything in here is discarded parts.”

As he spoke, he turned his attention back to the object in his hands, carefully tapping it before tightening a screw.

“But you—”

“Uncle Guillaume is different!” one of the young men interjected. “He can turn scrap into treasure. In his hands, discarded parts become better than new ones, like this shock absorber!”

The other young man glared impatiently at Charles. “Go find whatever you need and stop bothering us!”

Charles didn’t move. He observed them, guessing at their identities.

The bald man, addressed as Guillaume, was likely a skilled worker from the motorcycle factory. With his expertise, he could restore parts or piece together discarded ones into functional components.

The two young men were probably motorcycle buyers or enthusiasts seeking something from Guillaume.

Charles was intrigued. “Uncle Guillaume, with skills like yours, why aren’t you working in the factory?”

With such talents, surely the factory owner would value and promote Guillaume, Charles thought.

Guillaume snorted and replied while installing a spring on the shock absorber, “Propose ideas for modifications or improvements to those capitalists? They’ll just say, ‘This won’t work,’ or ‘That’s a silly method,’ then turn around and file for industrial rights with my ideas! And I’ll get nothing in return.”

He turned to Charles with a sneer.

“If it were you, would you still do such foolish things?”

Charles let out an “oh,” now understanding. The greed and shortsightedness of capitalists had driven Guillaume, despite his skills and ideas, to withhold his contributions, knowing they would be stolen.

Charles asked, “What if there were a capitalist who gave you full support and ensured all your inventions belonged to you?”

Guillaume burst into laughter. “A capitalist like that might only exist in their stories about Young Master Charles. I heard he bought this factory. Maybe I’ll give it a try then!”

Charles spread his hands and said, “You don’t need to try, Uncle Guillaume. I’m hiring you to take charge of the motorcycle factory, and I’ll respect and protect all your industrial rights!”

Guillaume stared at Charles in shock, taking a moment to process. “You mean—you’re… Young Master Charles?”

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