The war was entering its second week.
The two-pronged stranglehold initiated by Allen was even more effective than the most optimistic projections.
In New York high society, a "lead panic" ignited by The New York Tribune's popular science article was continuously fermenting.
Panic is the best marketing tool.
Those ladies who usually paid no attention to prices began to carefully examine every can in their pantry.
Their private doctors and tutors also cited the newspaper's views, instilling in them the terrible dangers of lead poisoning to family members, especially to heirs.
For a time, all canned goods using traditional lead soldering techniques, no matter how famous the brand or how distant their European origin, were labeled as unsafe.
And the prominent shield logo of Williams Food Company became synonymous with "safety," "health," and "high quality."
In the office of Tilford Trading Company, Mr. Charles Tilford was speaking with Allen, his voice filled with uncontrollable excitement.
"Unbelievable, Williams! It's a miracle in business history!"
His voice was a bit shrill with excitement.
"My Gold Label series in the department store is completely sold out. Of the thousand cans you sent yesterday, less than a hundred remain this morning.
My customers are already pre-ordering your canned goods, do you know that? Pre-ordering! This is a treatment only afforded to new wines from top French wineries in my trading company!"
"This only proves that New York consumers have the wisest judgment, Mr. Tilford."
Allen raised an eyebrow, a smile playing on his lips.
"They are indeed wise, but also very... anxious," Tilford laughed loudly.
"You've successfully made them believe that an extra dollar buys not stewed beef, but peace of mind. I now need you to double the supply in our contract! Price is not an issue."
"I will try my best to meet your needs."
In the office, Catherine handed him another report.
"Sir, these are the latest sales data for the Bowery District."
"Our Red Label series, after an initial brief dip, has seen a strong rebound in sales. That article about lead poisoning has had a greater impact than we imagined. Many citizens who previously sought convenience are now also worried about their family's health, and they are willing to spend a little more to buy our products with the shield logo."
"What about Croft? And our 'iron man'?" Allen asked.
"That's the most exciting part, sir," Catherine's eyes sparkled with awe.
"Mr. Gable sent word that Croft lowered his prices again three days ago. His canned goods dropped to twenty cents, and our 'Iron Man Stew' also dropped to nineteen cents."
She turned to another page of the ledger.
"At nineteen cents, we lose about half a cent for every can of iron man sold. Last week, our total strategic loss on the iron man project was thirty-two dollars."
"Thirty-two dollars..." A slight smile played on Allen's lips.
"Using thirty-two dollars to tie up a competitor's entire energy and disrupt the entire low-end market's pricing system. This is a very cost-effective deal."
"Yes, sir," Catherine nodded. "And the real strangulation has only just begun. Mr. Gable says Croft is almost insane. He completely doesn't understand why this 'Iron Man Stew' that appeared out of nowhere can engage in such a suicidal price war with him, as if it has unlimited money."
"He doesn't know yet, his nightmare is far from over." Allen's gaze turned to the window.
He looked towards New York's poorest and most chaotic area—Five Points.
In the afternoon, Catherine changed into simple clothes and, accompanied by several factory security guards, stepped into that chaotic place that even the police were reluctant to enter.
Following Allen's instructions, she found the small workshop that supplied cheap iron cans to Croft.
The owner of the workshop was a scrawny Ireland man named Finn.
He looked at the distinguished lady before him, his eyes filled with alert.
"Miss, who are you looking for? This is not a place for you."
"I'm looking for you, Mr. Finn." Catherine placed an envelope on Finn's table, which was covered in rust and grease.
"I represent my employer, and I'm here to discuss a business deal with you."
Finn opened the envelope; inside were fifty dollars in cash.
"My employer," Catherine said calmly, "hopes to buy all of your workshop's production capacity for the next three months. He wants all the cans you produce, good or bad. The price will be twenty percent higher than what you currently sell to Mr. Croft."
Finn's eyes instantly widened.
"All... all of it? And twenty percent more?" He couldn't believe his ears.
"Yes," Catherine nodded. "However, we have one condition. This contract needs to be kept absolutely confidential. You cannot reveal who my employer is to anyone, especially Mr. Croft. If he asks you, tell him you received a large order from Philadelphia and can't supply him."
"But... Croft is my old customer..." Finn hesitated.
Catherine said nothing, but simply took out another envelope from her handbag and placed it on the table.
Inside, there was also fifty dollars in cash.
"This is the deposit. Sign the contract now, and it's yours." Catherine's tone was devoid of emotion.
"Mr. Finn, my employer asked me to tell you something: Smart people always find a new, sturdier ship before the old one sinks. Mr. Croft's ship has already started to leak."
Finn looked at the hundred dollars in cash on the table, and then thought about Croft's increasingly anxious face and dwindling orders recently. He no longer had any hesitation.
"I'll sign!"
When Catherine returned to the factory with the signed contract, Allen was in his office, enjoying a celebratory whiskey with old man Bill.
"Allen, you truly are a devil!" Bill's face was full of schadenfreude.
"I sent people to those wholesalers today to gather information. Guess what? Croft is like a mad dog, trying to buy meat from them at high prices.
But because we had cleared out all the surrounding supplies earlier, the wholesalers didn't have much stock. They took the opportunity to raise prices by another ten percent! Croft was so angry he almost flipped their tables!"
"Very good." Allen refilled Bill's drink. "His selling price is collapsing, and his costs are soaring. Soon he will discover that he can't even buy the iron boxes to pack his own rubbish."
"Sir..." Catherine stood at the door, her feelings somewhat complex.
"Isn't what we're doing... too cruel? This is equivalent to cutting off all his paths to survival."
Allen put down his glass and looked at his kind assistant.
"Catherine," his voice was soft but clear, "remember, in the world of business, there is no cruelty, only life and death. Kindness to a competitor is cruelty to oneself. If we don't eliminate him today, tomorrow he might recover and use even more despicable means against us."
"Moreover, Croft is not an opponent worthy of sympathy. Mr. Gable says that some customers have already fallen ill from eating his inferior canned goods.
He is exchanging the public's health for his meager profits.
For such a person, his bankruptcy is a good thing for this market and for those poor consumers. What we are doing is not destruction, but 'purification.'"
This cold, Social Darwinist-tinged rhetoric left Catherine speechless.
She knew she could never view business competition with such a macroscopic and detached perspective as her boss.
All she could do was trust him and execute all his orders.
The noose had completely tightened. Selling price, cost, reputation, packaging... every pillar Croft relied on for survival was mercilessly pulled away, one by one, under Allen's design.
His business life had entered its final countdown.