The five-day deadline, like a Sword of Damocles hanging over his head, passed quickly.
Allen didn't waste a single second. During the day, he locked himself in the basement, frantically producing canned goods.
The aroma of stew was stronger than ever, which slightly reassured Mrs. Hudson and made the neighbors believe that the young man was working desperately to gather enough protection money.
His diligence became his best disguise.
But at night, when all of New York City was asleep, the aroma in the basement was replaced by a more pungent chemical smell.
Under the oil lamp, Allen, like a medieval alchemist, carefully adjusted his "creations."
He repeatedly tested the burning time of the fuses with small iron cans, precise to the second.
He needed a perfect delay that would ensure his safe retreat while giving the enemy no chance to react.
On the evening of the third day, a small figure appeared like a ghost at the back window of the basement.
It was Timmy.
"Mr. Williams?" he whispered.
Allen opened a crack in the back window. "Come in, quick."
Timmy skillfully climbed in, his face showing excitement and a hint of unease.
"Sir, I have new information!"
"Sit down and tell me, have some water first."
Allen handed him a glass of cold water and a piece of bread. He was never stingy with those who worked for him.
Timmy gobbled down the food, then wiped his mouth and began to report.
"I've been staying near 'Cripple Dog' these past two days. I found out the two guys guarding the warehouse are named Jack and O'Malley. That O'Malley is a pervert; he's gotten involved with a prostitute on the docks. Every night, around one o'clock, he'll sneak out for half an hour. At that time, Jack will be the only one left in the warehouse!"
This news was music to Allen's ears.
"What about Jack? Will he stay awake?"
"Him?" Timmy curled his lip in disdain.
"Even lazier than O'Malley! As soon as O'Malley leaves, he'll pull out a bottle of brandy from his pocket, take a few swigs, and then doze off in a chair by the door. I saw it with my own eyes; he sleeps like a dead pig!"
Excellent, that's a half-hour window!
Allen's heart beat strongly, but his face remained expressionless.
"Very good, Timmy. This information is very important, it's worth this price."
He took out ten dollars and handed it to Timmy.
Timmy's eyes widened like brass bells. He tremblingly took the banknote, feeling as if he were dreaming.
He had never had so much money in his life.
"Sir, this... this is too much..."
"This is what you deserve. I think you've guessed what I'm planning, Timmy. Can I trust you?"
Allen didn't think that with the boy's shrewdness, he wouldn't guess what he was up to.
"Of course... Sir, actually, I don't like the Viper Gang. They always like to oppress us common folk, but I don't dare to resist. You can trust me, sir."
Timmy said, looking at Allen with sincere eyes, revealing his disgust for the Viper Gang.
Allen looked into his eyes for a moment before choosing to trust him for now.
"So now, I need you to do something for me. Something very simple but very crucial."
"Tell me!"
"On the night of the operation, I need you to create a small disturbance at the other end of the street where the warehouse is located."
"A disturbance?"
"Exactly. For example, get a few kids together to play a particularly noisy game, or pretend to argue with someone. The bigger the commotion, the better, but don't actually fight. The goal is only one: to attract all possible attention on the street to your side during those crucial few minutes. Can you do it?"
Timmy immediately understood; this was a feint.
"No problem, sir! Arguing is my specialty!"
"Very good."
Allen nodded, then asked a seemingly unrelated question.
"Timmy, do you know any Italians? The ones called 'Mafia.'"
"Of course, I know them. They're in the next block, mortal enemies with the Viper Gang! Just a while ago, several people died over a turf war for 'Fire Apple'!"
"Do they have any special symbols? Like clothing, or things they like to use?"
"Symbols?"
Timmy thought for a moment, "Oh! Their small bosses sometimes like to wear a red silk scarf around their necks; they look very flashy!"
"A red silk scarf..." A meaningful smile played on Allen's lips.
"Timmy, one last task. Get someone to acquire such a red silk scarf. Don't steal it, don't snatch it, buy it with money, or find another way. In short, I need one, and no one must know it has anything to do with you or me. If you accomplish this, I'll give you another ten dollars."
Another ten dollars!
Timmy felt his head spin a little. He agreed without hesitation.
After sending Timmy away, Allen spread out a map of New York City he had bought from a used bookstore.
He used charcoal to draw the terrain around Warehouse No. 4 on it in detail.
He marked the location of the warehouse, the guards' napping spot, O'Malley's departure route, and his planned infiltration point.
That was a high ventilation window at the back of the warehouse, where the wooden planks looked somewhat decayed.
He also planned three different escape routes to deal with any possible accidents.
The entire plan had been rehearsed dozens of times in his mind; every detail, every potential problem, had been considered.
He wasn't carrying out a simple revenge; he was planning a precise, surgical strike.
The day before the operation, on the afternoon of the fourth day, Allen visited Mr. Gable's grocery store again.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Gable."
"Williams, you look a bit pale."
Mr. Gable looked at him worriedly, "Did those bastards come to rush you again?"
"Something like that." Allen showed a tired and helpless expression.
"Tomorrow is the deadline. So I have to work all night tonight to produce your goods. In case... I mean, in case I can't raise enough money, at least I can't default on your order."
These words sounded reasonable, full of the struggle and perseverance of a small person in adversity.
"Sigh, you child, you're just too stubborn." Mr. Gable sighed.
"Listen, if it really doesn't work out, I can lend you a part of it first. Consider it my investment in your business."
"Thank you very much for your kindness, Mr. Gable." Allen's face showed gratitude.
"But allow me to decline your kindness. I must solve this problem myself. I came to tell you that I will work through the night to make your goods, so there's no need to worry."
"I understand." Mr. Gable nodded, "Take good care of yourself, and remember, as long as there is life, there is hope for everything."
"I will."
Leaving the grocery store, Allen's mind began to calm down.
Mr. Gable's kindness was also incorporated into his plan.
He was using everyone he could to create the perfect alibi for himself.
Night fell once more.
In the early hours of the fifth day, which was Murphy's agreed-upon "collection day."
Allen stood in the center of the basement. On one side were dozens of neatly stacked cans, ready to be delivered to Mr. Gable.
On the other side, beneath a tarpaulin, lay five canvas bags.
Each bag was filled with enough deadly powder to start a large fire. Next to them were several pre-measured fuses, and a red Italian silk scarf that Timmy had quietly delivered that afternoon.
All preparations were complete.
Allen calmly took off his work clothes and changed into a dark, action-friendly night suit.
Then he tucked the Colt Navy revolver into the belt at his lower back.
Finally, he picked up the canvas bags and carefully checked the fuses under the oil lamp, one by one.
The five-day deadline had arrived.
It was time to pay Mr. Murphy his share of the cooperation.