The day after Murphy left, Allen, as usual, pushed a cart full of canned goods out the door.
His expression showed no difference; he even spent a few cents on a steaming hot apple pie when he passed the bakery on the corner.
This nonchalant demeanor caused those observing him in secret to relax their guard.
The Viper Gang believed that this 'canned goods kid' had been thoroughly scared witless and would obediently prepare 'dividends' for their boss.
Allen's first stop was Mr. Gable's grocery store.
"Williams, you're finally here!" As soon as Mr. Gable saw Allen, he immediately pulled him into a corner of the shop and lowered his voice.
"I heard that scoundrel Murphy came to see you yesterday. Are you alright? They didn't do anything to you, did they?"
"Good morning, Mr. Gable."
Allen first greeted him politely, then slowly replied, "We had a... well, a very frank business discussion. Now, the Viper Gang is also my business partner."
"Partner?"
Mr. Gable's eyes nearly popped out. "You agreed to their terms? My goodness, kid, they'll suck you dry!"
"It's a necessary investment, sir."
Allen's tone was as calm as if he were discussing an ordinary transaction.
"To ensure our supply can be stably produced and provided, paying a small price is worth it. Don't worry, our agreement won't change at all. In fact, to quickly gather the 'gift' for my new 'partners,' I'll have to work even harder than before."
Mr. Gable looked at Allen, speechless for a long time.
He didn't know if this young man in front of him was truly naive or just feigning composure.
But at least he understood the most crucial point: the supply of canned goods would not be cut off.
"Alright, since you've already decided." Mr. Gable sighed and patted Allen's shoulder.
"In any case, you must be extra careful. Those guys are jackals who eat people without spitting out the bones."
"I will." Allen nodded. "Also, Mr. Gable, I'd like to ask you something. You've been operating here for so many years; you must know more about the people and happenings around here than I do."
"What do you want to know?"
"Do you know the children on the streets? The newsboys, the shoeblacks. I'm looking for the smartest and most well-informed one."
Mr. Gable thought for a moment and replied, "Then you'll have to find 'Nimble' Timmy. That kid is like a mouse scurrying all over the city; there's nothing he doesn't know. But he's very cunning, and it's not easy to get information out of him."
"Thank you, sir. Do you know where he can usually be found?"
"Near the steps of the city hall, that's his territory."
After unloading the goods and leaving the grocery store, Allen didn't go directly to find Timmy. Instead, he first went to the slaughterhouse and the market, purchasing a large amount of ingredients as usual.
He had to play this act perfectly, making everyone believe that he was desperately producing to satisfy Murphy's extortion.
It wasn't until dusk that Allen arrived at the square in front of the city hall. He immediately spotted 'Nimble' Timmy, whom Mr. Gable had spoken of.
He was a boy who looked smaller and thinner than his actual age, holding a shoe polish box and weakly soliciting business.
Allen walked over and placed one foot on the footrest of the shoe box.
"Hey, sir, want a shoe shine? Guaranteed to make your shoes so bright you can see your face in them!"
Timmy immediately perked up when he saw a customer and skillfully picked up his brush.
"Shine them."
Allen said, taking a twenty-five-cent coin from his pocket and placing it on the nearby step.
Timmy's eyes instantly lit up.
A shoe shine usually only cost five cents. This customer was so generous; he was definitely a big fish.
He immediately bent his head and began shining the shoes with all his might.
"Kid, your name is Timmy, right?" Allen asked casually.
Timmy's hand movements paused, and he looked up, a hint of wariness in his eyes.
"How did you know?"
"Mr. Gable told me. He said you're the smartest kid on this street."
A well-timed compliment significantly eased Timmy's wariness.
He grinned, revealing a set of somewhat uneven teeth. "Mr. Gable has good taste."
"Timmy, I want to do some business with you. Business that pays more than shining shoes."
"What kind of business?"
Timmy stopped what he was doing and asked curiously.
"I buy information." Allen's gaze deepened.
"Information about the Viper Gang. Their boss, Murphy, where he usually goes, what he likes to do. And their men, their strongholds, especially... where they hide all the good stuff they've stolen."
Timmy's face changed.
Although he was a child, having grown up on the streets, he knew better than anyone how terrifying the Viper Gang was.
Getting involved with them was no laughing matter.
"Sir, I... I'm just a shoeblack. I don't know anything."
He instinctively wanted to back away.
Allen didn't speak, he just pulled another one-dollar coin from his pocket and placed it next to the twenty-five-cent coin.
In 1860, a dollar was enough for a street child to eat a full meal for a week.
Timmy's gaze was fixed on the two coins sparkling in the setting sun, his heart torn.
"I promise, no one will ever know you told me."
Allen's voice had a strange magic, full of persuasiveness.
"And this is just a deposit. As long as your information is useful, I'll give you more. For example, five dollars."
Five dollars!
Timmy swallowed his non-existent saliva.
Fear seemed powerless in the face of such immense temptation.
"Alright, sir!"
He gritted his teeth and quickly said in a lowered voice.
"That scoundrel Murphy loves to stay at the 'Cripple Dog' tavern. He drinks and plays cards there almost every night. Their lair is on the floor above the tavern."
"What about the warehouse?" Allen pressed.
"The warehouse is over by the docks, an abandoned brick house next to Pier Number Four!"
Timmy, as if giving up, spilled everything like beans from a bamboo tube.
"The liquor they 'took' from the docks, and the goods they 'collected' from shops, are all piled up there! I heard there are quite a few guns inside too! Usually, only two people guard it at night because they think no one dares to touch their things!"
"Very good."
Allen pushed the two coins towards Timmy. "These are yours. How do I know if what you're saying is true?"
"It's true, sir!" Timmy said anxiously.
"Tonight, a ship from France is unloading, and it has good brandy on board. The Viper Gang will definitely go to 'collect taxes' and then transport the liquor to that warehouse. If you don't believe me, you can go see for yourself!"
"Excellent, Timmy." Allen stood up, his shoes now gleaming.
"Remember, keep an eye on them for me. If anything happens, come find me at my residence. I think you should know where I live."
"I... I don't know."
"You will know." Allen smiled mysteriously and turned to merge into the twilight.
He believed that for a well-informed child like Timmy, it would be easy to find out the residence of a canner who had recently risen to prominence.
Timmy stared blankly at Allen's retreating figure, then suddenly snatched the two coins, quickly stuffed them into his pocket, and disappeared into the shadows of the alley.
That night, Allen changed into a more inconspicuous dark outfit and quietly arrived near Pier Number Four.
He lurked like a ghost in the shadows of a pile of crates, waiting patiently.
At midnight, a carriage stealthily drove out from the dock and stopped in front of a two-story red brick building not far away.
It was precisely the warehouse Timmy had mentioned.
Allen saw several Viper Gang members unload several wooden crates with French markings from the carriage, grumbling as they carried them into the warehouse.
There were indeed only two guards at the warehouse entrance, leaning against the wall, seemingly sharing a bottle of freshly acquired brandy, appearing very lax.
After confirming the accuracy of all the information, Allen did not linger and quietly left.
Returning to the basement, he locked the door, a cruel smile on his face.
He walked to the corner, where the items he had purchased during the day were piled up.
Besides beef and vegetables, there were also several seemingly ordinary packages—saltpeter and sulfur powder bought from the pharmacy, and a large amount of iron filings obtained from the blacksmith.
He mixed these ingredients together in a precise ratio, then added sugar and charcoal powder.
What he was making was not ordinary black powder.
Instead, it was an improved incendiary agent, more powerful and with a higher burning temperature.
He carefully divided these mixtures into several bags sewn from thick canvas, then attached a simple fuse made of oil-soaked cotton thread to each bag.
By the time he finished the last incendiary package, the first crow of a rooster had already sounded outside the window.
Two days of the five-day deadline had already passed.
He looked at these seemingly inconspicuous canvas bags, which contained terrifying energy, and there was no trace of pity in his eyes.
"Mr. Murphy, you want my profits?" Allen wiped the powder from his hands and murmured to himself.
"That's certainly possible, but I'm accustomed to paying with fire."