At four in the morning, the sky was in its deepest ink-black before dawn.
Inside John Pierpont Morgan's mansion study, the gaslight cast a pale glow, illuminating the young banker's face, which showed no trace of fatigue.
Thorne listened quietly to Morgan's bold words, with some confusion.
"Sir, I have a question."
Morgan didn't turn around; his gaze remained fixed on the darkness outside the window.
"Speak."
"Sir... you personally went to The New York World to see its editor, Martin Slavin. This... this seems like an unnecessary risk. Argyle is no fool; he will thoroughly investigate those rumors targeting Miss O'Brien.
If he follows that lead and finds Slavin, and then pries your name out of Slavin's mouth... wouldn't that be leaving a fatal flaw for ourselves?"
"You could have sent me, or sent any irrelevant person to anonymously deliver the money and information. Why did you appear in person?"
This was the only thing Thorne, as a professional enforcer, couldn't understand.
In his opinion, the plan could have been flawless, leaving no trace pointing to Gramercy Park.
But Morgan's personal appearance was like deliberately leaving a conspicuous fingerprint on a perfect oil painting.
Hearing this question, Morgan finally turned around slowly. His face showed no displeasure at being questioned by his subordinate; instead, he revealed a smile that only a chess player could understand.
"You only see the first layer of the chessboard, Thorne."
He slowly walked to his desk and poured himself a small glass of brandy.
"You think I'm taking a risk?"
"Yes, sir."
Morgan shook his head, "No, I'm setting another trap."
He looked at Thorne's still-confused face and decided to give some pointers to his most capable tool.
"Do you think the death of Crane alone can completely pin down Argyle?"
"A fanatical Irishman assassinated Crane out of anger."
"What will Argyle do? He will deny it, he will be angry, and he will use all his power to prove his innocence. And those old foxes at Union Pacific, like Chairman Ames, although they will be angry and will fight with Argyle,
they are more afraid of the weapons and evidence in Argyle's hands. Even the federal government would not agree, and they would still choose to negotiate in the end. They would pay a higher price for peace, because war is bad for their stock price."
"That outcome," a hint of disdain flashed in Morgan's eyes, "is not what I want. I don't want compromise; I want war. A full-scale, fight-to-the-death war."
"That's where Slavin and those tabloids come in." He raised his glass.
"Those rumors about Catherine O'Brien are not meant to enrage the public, but to enrage Argyle himself."
"What do you think will be the reaction of a Argyle, already thoroughly enraged by these dirty rumors, when the news of Crane's assassination arrives? Will he calmly consider whether it's a coincidence or a trap?"
"No."
Morgan answered himself, "He will only think that this is the second step in a combination of attacks by his enemies. He will conclude that Crane, or the people behind him, after orchestrating the murder of Tommy O'Donnell, then orchestrated this more vicious personal attack against his woman."
"A Argyle whose head is clouded by personal anger will not reconcile. He will retaliate. He will use all his power to destroy Union Pacific Railroad Company, the mastermind he identifies."
"And Union Pacific," Morgan smiled.
"When they discover that one of their most important directors has been assassinated, and Argyle acts so aggressively and disdainful of explanation, what will they think? Their only option is to declare war. For the company's reputation, and for the confidence of all investors."
"I understand, sir." Thorne suddenly realized.
"You used rumors to completely block Argyle's path to reconciliation. You are using his anger to ensure this war will definitely break out."
"Precisely so." Morgan sipped his brandy.
"As for your concern that he will find me?"
He let out a low, cold sneer.
"Let him investigate. I want him to investigate. He will find Martin Slavin. Slavin will tell him that an anonymous informant provided an unverifiable lead and a large sum of cash. Will Argyle believe that?"
"No. He will think Slavin is lying. He will use his methods to pry open Slavin's mouth. And Slavin... he won't say anything. Because he knows that if he betrays me, he will have nothing. But if he remains silent, he will have my friendship. After all, Argyle wouldn't dare do anything truly harmful to him; it's just some tabloid gossip."
"So, Argyle won't find anything?"
"No."
A deeper calculation flashed in Morgan's eyes.
"He will find some... things I want him to find."
Morgan mentioned Crane's secretary.
"I have already had Benson leave some 'evidence' in Crane's office about his private contacts with several tabloids, trying to spread information detrimental to the reputation of the Argyle family."
"When Argyle's men investigate Slavin and also search Crane's office, they will find this 'evidence'."
"By then, all the clues will perfectly converge. Argyle will completely believe that Crane is the mastermind who orchestrated the Nebraska murder and then instigated the media smear campaign."
"And he, Felix Argyle, is merely 'cleaning up' an enemy who tried to destroy him. He might even feel that the 'assassination' he is about to be blamed for is a... ridiculous irony."
Thorne looked at his Boss, feeling a chill run down his spine. What a terrifying monster he was serving.
A devil who used human hearts, anger, and even his own whereabouts as chess pieces to plot...
"Go, Thorne." Morgan waved his hand, "Ensure O'Malley appears where he should, on time. The first act of this chess game in New York... is about to begin."
...Meanwhile, at the Fifth Avenue mansion. The sky was just beginning to lighten.
Felix was already in his study.
On the table in front of him, all of today's newspapers were spread out. The Herald and The Tribune, which published the "Nebraska Tragedy," were neatly stacked to one side. And in the very center, in the most prominent position, were those crudely printed, vulgar local tabloids attacking Catherine O'Brien.
His expression was as calm as the sea before a storm.
In the shadows of the study, Flynn stood like a ghost blending into the background.
"Boss. Miller and Rambo are handling the Nebraska matter. Frost and the lawyers are preparing for the legal and public opinion battle."
Felix didn't turn around; his gaze remained fixed on those offensive headlines.
"Those are business. That is war."
He picked up the tabloid with two fingers, as if touching something disgusting.
"This isn't business; it's an insult."
"I want to know who did it."
"I don't care who he is. Whether it's the railroad company or some rat hiding in a gutter."
"By any means necessary, Flynn."
Felix turned around, undisguised killing intent in his eyes.
"Dig this person out for me."
"I want his name."
It was early morning in New York.
East of Fifth Avenue, in an unassuming office on the second floor of a tobacco shop, Flynn stood by the window.
This room was one of his command centers; on the walls, numerous notes with names and locations were connected by thin red lines, forming a complex and deadly web of relationships.
"The Boss is angry."
Flynn spoke to his silent subordinate in the shadows of the room.
"The Boss doesn't care much about the lies regarding the massacre, because that's business. But the mudslinging against Miss O'Brien, that's an insult."
"I checked."
The subordinate in the shadows, a man codenamed 'Ghost', was Flynn's most capable intelligence analyst.
"All sources point to Martin Slavin, editor-in-chief of the New York World. This man is very ambitious and has always wanted to break a big story. But he shouldn't have the guts, nor the reason, to provoke the Boss on his own."
"He has someone behind him."
Flynn stroked his chin, stating a fact.
"I sent people to the printing press to inquire," Ghost continued.
"Slavin has been spending lavishly recently, settling all outstanding bills for paper and ink. He also hired several new writers, specifically to write those... gossip stories."
"Money," Flynn seized the clue.
"Find the person who gave him the money. People like Slavin won't fight for ideals; they'll only kneel for money. Check his bank accounts, check all suspicious sources of funds he's had contact with. I need to know which vault that money came from."
"Understood."
"And those tabloids," Flynn added, "They're like flies drawn to filth. Find the source that first published this news. Which reporter wrote it? Which tavern did he hear the rumor in? Dig out that tavern and that talkative rumor for me."
"The Boss wants a name."
Flynn turned around, his eyes, unusually bright in the darkness, fell upon Ghost.
"I must put this name on the Boss's desk as soon as possible."
Ghost nodded, asked no further questions, and silently exited the room like a shadow.
Flynn turned back to the window.
He knew this was more than just finding a slanderer. The Nebraska bloodshed and this public attack against Catherine O'Brien erupted almost simultaneously.
This was no coincidence.
Someone was playing a grand game.
And his task was to see through the player's intentions before he made his move, and then... break his fingers... Meanwhile, on Wall Street, in John Crane's office.
The Union Pacific Railroad contractor, after an entire night of torment, finally made a decision.
He looked at the several vulgar tabloids maliciously slandering Catherine O'Brien, his hands trembling violently with fear.
"They... they think I did this."
He groaned to his chief secretary, Benson, in a dreamlike whisper.
"Argyle must think now that I orchestrated all of this. That news of the massacre, and... and these."
He pointed to the reports about Catherine, his face devoid of color. He realized he had no retreat.
The board had told him to seek forgiveness from Argyle, but now this situation had arisen.
And that damned bastard Morgan. His previous suggestion to confess to the government now seemed like the final push to throw him into a pit of fire.
If he went, it would be tantamount to admitting his involvement in all of this.
At that point, Argyle's revenge and the Union Pacific board's ruthless severance would come simultaneously.
He couldn't go to the government, nor could he trust Morgan anymore.
The only person he could turn to was Felix Argyle himself.
"Benson, get the car ready."
Crane suddenly stood up, his bloodshot eyes flashing with a final, desperate madness.
"Sir, where are you going?"
"To Argyle Bank," Crane's voice was hoarse, "I must see Mr. Argyle in person."
"But... sir, at this time?"
Benson was secretly delighted; he had intended to persuade Crane to go, and it was even better that Crane wanted to go himself, but on the surface, he still feigned great alarm.
"Will... will he see you? This is too dangerous."
"Not going is a dead end."
Crane grabbed his overcoat and cane, very agitated.
"I must tell him face to face. None of this was my doing. The conflict in Nebraska was Durant's foolish initiative. And this mudslinging in the newspapers has nothing to do with me."
He paused, a ruthless glint in his eyes.
"I also want to tell him that the one who truly wants him to go to war with Union Pacific, who wants to drag him into this... is someone else. It's John Pierpont Morgan, sitting in his bank office."
Crane was going to betray Morgan.
This was the only bargaining chip he could think of to earn Argyle's forgiveness.
He adjusted his crooked tie, trying to regain a semblance of dignity, "Benson, immediately send an urgent letter to Argyle Bank. Tell them I have a matter of utmost importance and must see Mr. Argyle in person. I am leaving now; please ask him to wait for me."
...In Five Points, in the attic filled with the stench of death and despair.
Seamus O'Malley had also made all his preparations.
His wife, Mary, had already been taken away with their two children before dawn by a taciturn woman sent by Bowen.
Seamus didn't ask where they went. He simply tucked the envelope filled with a thousand dollars in cash into Mary's arms, then left his last kiss on the foreheads of his two children.
Now, he was alone in the attic.
He sat on the cold straw mat, wiping the heavy revolver in his hand over and over again by the morning light filtering through the window.
It was a brand new Colt Navy, six bullets neatly loaded into the cylinder.
In his eyes, sunken from lung disease, there was no longer the struggle and fear of last night, only a numb calm.
He knew he was dying soon.
He was coughing up more and more blood.
Rather than dying painfully like a stray dog in some forgotten corner, he might as well... use this last breath to secure a bright future for his wife and children.
Ten thousand dollars, a farm in Switzerland. His children would grow up in clean air, would go to school and become respectable people.
This thought burned like a flame in his fading life.
As for what he was about to do... He glanced at the crumpled tabloid on the table, with its headline maliciously slandering Miss O'Brien.
"This is justice."
He told himself in his heart, just as Mr. Bowen had said. It was to punish a villain.
A villain who tried to tarnish the pride of their Irish people with lies.
Then he pulled out the will that Bowen had him "personally" write from his pocket.
He couldn't understand the complex phrases on it, but he signed his name at the end as instructed by Bowen.
Seamus O'Malley.
He carefully folded this "will" and placed it in his breast pocket. Then, he picked up the itinerary with John Crane's photo printed on it.
"Target: John Crane. Travel route: Around eleven in the morning, from his Wall Street office, via Broadway Avenue to the Argyle Bank building."
Seamus glanced at the wall clock, which had long stopped.
Time... was almost up.
He slowly stood up, each breath bringing sharp pain. He tucked the cold revolver into the back of his waistband, covering it with his large, worn overcoat.
Seamus took one last look at the attic where he had lived for ten years.
Then he pushed open the door and walked out.
Walking towards the street that led to Broadway Avenue.
Walking towards the fate that had been meticulously arranged.