"Mr. Scott, starting today the Welt Metalworks will be called the Scott Metalworks."
"Pleasant doing business with you."
In a good mood, Lorne took the contract from the Lawyer, skimmed it for legal traps, and signed the name "James Scott" without hesitation.
Four thousand pounds! A raw-material plant larger than his own Gun Factory for only four thousand pounds—less than thirty percent of the normal market price; it was practically free.
Queen Mystic transferred the money at lightning speed. Lorne mailed the translated Roselle diary pages to her via courier, and within two days the hundred-thousand-pound windfall from the formula sale was safely in his account—efficiency that stunned him.
He couldn't help sighing inwardly: Queen Mystic really is a filthy-rich woman.
If this were the old days, I might have offered to be her kept man in exchange for Roselle-diary decoding tips—
—Lorne joked to himself.
With that money he'd solved the raw-material shortage, and, while the financial crisis drove countless owners into bankruptcy and asset prices to rock bottom, he launched a buying spree.
Besides the Welt plant, he snapped up a precision workshop that produced gun components, a small forge with decent Steel-working ability, and even the nearly defunct timber mill next door, planning to refit it into a stock-and-fore-end shop.
He even paid a hefty price for a majority stake in the Larryway Steel Company. Its owner, Phil Larryway, had gotten too greedy in the stock market, failed to pull out in time, and desperately needed cash; the whole company, equipment and plant included, cost Lorne less than fifty thousand pounds.
Thanks to the "hero of east borough" halo, gun sales had perked up. The gimmick of owning the hero's weapon sent well-heeled youngsters flocking to the Ripper lever-action shotgun, and the captain's sea-smuggling routes were still open, so strictly speaking he didn't need to buy so many factories.
But Ted's pitch had been irresistible: a supply chain—from raw materials through parts, assembly, and final sale—fully under his control could generate profits and barriers far beyond a mere assembly plant.
With the financial crisis, these assets were selling at bone-fracture prices; such a chance might never come again, and Lorne couldn't resist.
Alas, a hundred thousand pounds still wasn't enough. Even at fire-sale prices he couldn't build a complete chain. Some owners, grateful for the hero of east borough's reputation, shaved a bit off, hoping he'd treat workers and plants well, but the funding gap remained huge.
To finish the integration quickly he needed bigger capital—but outside investors meant diluted power and outside interference—Lorne sighed in frustration.
"The businesses already bought are enough for basic synergy, cutting costs and boosting efficiency. I'll take the rest one step at a time." He sighed and turned to the Lawyer arranging the documents.
"Thanks for your hard work, Cooper."
"Your recent performance has been highly professional," he said sincerely.
This Lawyer, Jurgen Cooper—recommended by Ted—had shuttled between plants with him, handled every contract, and more than once spotted loopholes that saved Lorne serious losses.
He was, of course, not the poor fellow who had bailed Lorne out and been driven off by the Punishers.
"Thank you for the compliment, sir." Lawyer Jurgen adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles and answered politely.
Though the workload had been heavy, the pay was generous and the employer respectful, so the effort felt worthwhile.
"By the way, Mr. Cooper," Lorne said, suddenly remembering, "what do you know about Backlund high-Society soirées—things like etiquette to watch for?" He asked about the charity reception coming up.
A top-tier Lawyer like Jurgen who dealt with the upper crust must have attended plenty of such events.
"I've been active out of town; I only recently returned to Backlund, so I'm unfamiliar with the local social rules," Lorne explained at the Lawyer's puzzled look.
After all, someone who could casually spend thousands or tens of thousands on business should know such etiquette.
"I don't attend many, but I know the basics and can give you a reference," Jurgen said modestly.
"This one—no consultation fee?" Lorne joked, still in good spirits.
Jurgen blinked, then joked back, "Of course not. Though if you insist, I won't refuse."
They both laughed, the atmosphere relaxed and warm.
A few minutes later, after listening, Lorne frowned slightly.
Evening dress, noble etiquette—and dancing?
What a pain! These nobles—when it's time to talk business, they still insist on all this empty ceremony. Decadent! Wouldn't it be faster to just sit down, eat, and negotiate over the meal?
'Sigh…' He rubbed his temples in resignation. 'Looks like I need to cram a quick crash-course, and fast.'
Truth Society's office.
"In a few days we'll be holding a gathering, Sherlock. Care to join?" Charles studied Klein in front of him and asked with a smile.
A gathering? You dragged me here just for this? I still have commissions to finish. Klein grumbled inwardly, though outwardly he gave a slight shake of the head in polite refusal.
"Not interested?" Charles looked surprised. "You know, Sherlock, you've become quite a name inside the Society. The title 'Mr. Rastig' has been ringing loud in certain circles lately—lots of people want to meet you, including several numbered superiors."
That's exactly why I don't want to go—way too conspicuous! Klein ranted silently.
He knew Charles meant well; attending would help build contacts and future promotion inside the organization. But Mr. Fool still preferred to keep a low profile and avoid the spotlight.
After a few seconds he said, "I imagine every constable in Backlund is even keener to 'meet' me right now."
"Hmm—true." Charles chuckled and teased, "With a bounty of thirty thousand pounds, staying low is probably wise."
"Keep your eyes open these days; the officials have launched a full-scale investigation—Military Intelligence Nine is out in force."
"Ah—could something still go wrong?" Klein felt uneasy; the buffs on him were stacking a bit high.
"Relax," Charles sounded confident. "As long as you keep your mouth shut and leave no direct evidence, nothing major will happen."
"Besides, our Society's operated here for years with so many Beyonders under us, and we're still standing, aren't we?" He produced this "proof" to reassure his guest.
After Klein left, Charles wiped the smile off his face and turned serious.
Though confident in the Society's resources, being targeted by the authorities would still be troublesome.
After all, this financial bomb had been too powerful and involved far too many people.
If he mishandled it, his future promotions would be finished; if he managed it well, his career would skyrocket.
"The investigation has only begun, but as it deepens and the situation escalates—maybe I should find someone to draw their fire." Charles murmured to himself.
Using a scapegoat to attract attention was standard Society practice. Even if it didn't solve the root problem, shifting the spotlight and easing pressure was good enough.
Trouble was, this was a financial incident, not a Beyonder one. Their usual fall-guys—the Aurora Order, Demoness Sect, Rose School of Thought—were unusable this time.
In fact, sometimes all you needed was a smear campaign; even a bit of smoke-screen helped.
"Baron Syndras." That name surfaced first in Charles's mind.
Baron Syndras, the Conservatives' reputed money-bag, was nonetheless one of the kingdom's most famous bankers, investors, and industrialists, while maintaining murky ties with the New Party.
During the crisis he had keenly smelled opportunity, moved aggressively, and snatched plenty of fat from the Society's plate, raking in huge profits. With his "double-dealing" and "profit-first" reputation, he was perfect to be painted as the crisis's mastermind.
"No—" After some thought Charles shook his head.
Precisely because of that slick character, the man had plenty of business with the Society; in his early days the Society had even invested in him through cut-outs. He might well be an unknown stake of a senior Society member or a secret partner.
"Then who else—"
The fire-drawing target had to meet several requirements:
First, he must be a big shot in finance.
Second, he must have minimal dealings with the Society—preferably be a competitor.
Third, he must have suffered no loss in this financial crisis.
Fourth, not only unscathed, he must have made a killing, providing plausible "evidence."
Fifth, since Conservative nobles had been badly burned and were furious, he must not be their staunch ally—best to keep his distance from them.
Sixth, he should be a hereditary noble from a long-rich family, making it unlikely for the Society to have planted a mole among them.
Seventh, if he also had close ties to the Night Church, that would be perfect; the Society and the Night Church had never gotten along, so using him as a target would both divert pressure and irritate the Church—killing two birds with one stone.
"Hmm—" Charles drummed his fingers on the desk, mind racing. After a moment, a candidate who met nearly every condition surfaced.
"Count Hall."