Just after midnight, a muffled thud, like a stack of tin cans falling from a height, suddenly echoed from Allen's basement.
Upstairs, Mrs. Hudson was immediately startled awake.
She put on her coat and went to the top of the stairs, her voice thick with sleep and worry.
"Mr. Allen! Good heavens, are you still working? Has something happened?"
Allen's reply quickly came from downstairs, his voice filled with just the right amount of fatigue and a hint of annoyance.
"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson! I woke you up! I was too tired, and I dropped a crate of cans. I'll clean it up right away, I'll be done soon. I'm so sorry!"
"Oh, you child..."
Mrs. Hudson, hearing that he sounded "all right," felt relieved and mumbled as she returned to her bedroom.
"Don't work too hard, there's no end to making money."
What she didn't know was that the loud thud was intentionally made by Allen.
It was the last piece of his alibi.
After confirming that Mrs. Hudson had gone back to sleep, Allen quickly changed into a set of dark, coarse clothes he had prepared earlier.
He packed five canvas bags, a small crowbar, and the red silk scarf into an unassuming burlap sack.
Then, like a cat, he silently slipped out of the narrow back window of the basement and disappeared into the cold New York night.
He didn't take the main road but instead weaved through a labyrinth of garbage-strewn back alleys.
Every step he took was in shadow, avoiding all lit windows and the occasional patrolman.
Next to an abandoned lumber pile, two streets away from Pier No. 4, a small, thin figure was already waiting.
It was Timmy.
"Mr. Williams!"
Timmy's eyes gleamed in the darkness, both nervous and excited.
"What's the situation?"
Allen's voice was extremely low.
"Just as you said! O'Malley, that scoundrel, just left. I saw him wiggling his backside off to find his old flame with my own eyes!" Timmy replied.
"Jack is inside drinking, he'll probably be asleep soon. My friends are all ready too, waiting for my signal at the end of the street!"
"Very good."
Allen pulled a heavy money bag from his pocket and handed it to Timmy.
"This is the last payment I promised you. Remember, when you see a flash of fire in the warehouse window, take your friends and leave immediately, run as far as you can. From tonight onwards, forget you ever saw me, and forget about this incident. Understand?"
"Understood! I don't know anything, I was just playing games with my friends!"
Timmy gripped the money bag tightly and nodded vigorously.
"Go."
Timmy's figure quickly disappeared into the darkness.
Allen took a deep breath, tightened the strap of his burlap sack, and continued towards his target.
Soon, the two-story red brick warehouse appeared before him. It lay silently in the darkness, like a sleeping beast.
Allen didn't rush to approach but hid in the shadows, observing carefully.
As Timmy had said, there was only one guard at the warehouse entrance.
By the faint light of the distant pier's oil lamp, Allen could see the man named Jack leaning back in a chair, occasionally raising a bottle to take a swig.
Just then, a faint commotion created by Timmy and his companions came from around the distant street corner.
"You liar! Give me back my money!"
"Who took your money? You lost it yourself."
The children's quarrel broke the silence of the night.
In the few houses on the street that still had lights on, figures appeared behind the windows, clearly drawn by the commotion.
The time had come.
Allen, seizing the moment when all attention was diverted, darted out of the shadows like a black lightning bolt, circling to the back of the warehouse.
He found the high window used for ventilation.
The wooden boards were decayed; he gently inserted the crowbar into a crack and, with very little force, silently pried open a board.
An opening just large enough for him to squeeze through appeared.
He deftly flipped inside, landing silently on his feet.
The warehouse was filled with an unpleasant smell of cheap alcohol, tobacco, and burlap.
Allen's eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, and he saw piles of wooden crates and burlap sacks haphazardly stacked everywhere. These were the Viper Gang's "trophies."
He placed four incendiary packages in each of the four corners of the warehouse, choosing locations closest to wooden structures and flammable materials.
Then he walked to the center of the warehouse, where a dozen wooden crates stamped with French words were stacked—the brandy obtained from the French ship.
This would be the star of tonight's "fireworks show."
He tucked the last, and largest, incendiary package into the gaps between the wooden crates.
After completing all of this, he took out the bright red silk scarf.
He walked to a corner of the warehouse and hung the soaked scarf on a nail in a broken wooden crate.
From any angle, it looked as if it had been accidentally snagged in a hurry.
This was a "gift" for Murphy and the police.
The last step: light the fuse.
Allen took out a match from his pocket and struck it, the dim yellow flame illuminating his unusually calm face.
He successively lit the precisely calculated fuses on the five incendiary packages.
The cotton wicks sizzled with sparks, slowly but steadily extending towards the deadly powder.
He had three minutes.
Allen showed no reluctance, turned back to the rear window, and quickly slipped out, even roughly restoring the pried-open board to its original position.
He did not take the way he came but quickly retreated along another pre-planned route.
He silently counted the time in his mind.
One hundred eighty, one hundred seventy-nine, one hundred seventy-eight... He ran wildly, quickly climbing onto the roof of a three-story apartment building.
The view here was open, and from here, he could see the distant warehouse perfectly.
Time was almost up.
Just as he counted down to "ten," a faint, orange glow suddenly flashed from a window in the distant warehouse.
Then a second, a third!
Suddenly!
"Boom—!!!"
A muffled explosion erupted!
In the center of the warehouse, where the brandy was stored, a huge fireball suddenly exploded!
The liquor instantly vaporized at high temperatures and then detonated, its power comparable to dynamite!
The roof of the warehouse was completely blown off, and a scorching blast of air, mixed with sawdust and bricks, scattered in all directions.
Huge tongues of flame poured out of the doors and windows, instantly engulfing the entire building, transforming it into a colossal, blazing torch!
The night sky was stained a terrifying orange-red.
"Fire—!!"
"Help! It exploded over there!!"
Shrill screams and terrified cries echoed throughout the entire block. In the distance, the urgent ringing of a fire wagon's bell could be heard.
Jack, the gate guard, rolled out of the inferno, screaming and covered in flames, desperately thrashing on the ground.
Meanwhile, O'Malley, who had just returned, stood dumbfounded at the street corner, watching everything unfold, his liquor bottle dropping to the ground with a "CRACK," shattering into pieces.
Allen stood on the rooftop, the night wind fluttering his clothes.
His face, illuminated by the destructive flames in the distance, was devoid of emotion, like a stone sculpture.
He had, in the most drastic way, destroyed the Viper Gang's economic foundation and arms reserves, which they relied upon for survival.
Without another glance.
Allen turned and slid down the other side of the roof, once again blending into the New York night.
He had to return to that stew-scented basement before anyone discovered his absence.
He had to wait for dawn like the most innocent victim, waiting for the explosive news to spread throughout the city.