Felix's instructions, sent via telegraph, created ripples between New York and Chicago.
Charles Reeves was the first to feel it.
When a hundred-thousand-dollar bank draft from Argyle Bank was placed before him, the old engineer, who had been stubborn his entire life, felt his hand tremble slightly as he held the thin piece of paper.
On his office desk lay a loss report, compiled just yesterday—within a week of the Eastern Railroad Alliance initiating a price war, the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company's most profitable eastbound freight line had lost over sixty percent of its orders.
"Charles, our losses this month… are terrible," Benjamin, the company's chief accountant, said worriedly. "If we follow suit and cut prices, the losses will be even greater. If we don't cut prices, customers will continue to leave. This… this is a dead end."
"No, Benjamin."
Reeves slapped the bank draft onto the loss report, and the fighting spirit re-ignited in his eyes, which usually carried a look of fatigue. "This is not a dead end. This is an opportunity our opponents have delivered to us."
He picked up the telegram Felix had sent along with the draft; the handwriting was clear and firm.
"Mr. Felix is right." Reeves's voice grew louder. "What we need to do now is not save money, but spend money! Spend every last cent of this hundred thousand dollars!"
He stood up and walked to the map in his office.
"Benjamin, go to Springfield (the capital of Illinois) immediately. Mr. Felix mentioned in the telegram that we need to secure the friendship of some state assembly members. I don't understand this, but once you arrive, a lawyer named 'Logan' will contact you; he knows what to do. Tell him our budget is very ample."
"Also," he said, pointing to the dashed line on the map leading west, "send out our best survey team and engineers! Immediately begin the land survey and design work for the new line in Nebraska. I want the tracks laid to the doorsteps of those ranches as quickly as possible!"
Accountant Benjamin looked at Reeves, who seemed like a changed man, opened his mouth, but ultimately swallowed the words "too risky"… Meanwhile, in another, more luxurious office in Chicago, Philip Armour's mood was far from as pleasant as the steak on his plate.
"What did you say?" He put down his knife and fork, looking at his assistant. "That old stubborn Reeves, not only didn't cut prices with us, but instead started a large-scale recruitment of engineers and is preparing to expand west?"
"Yes, sir," the assistant replied cautiously. "And according to information we received from our friends in New York, just yesterday, a huge sum of one hundred thousand dollars was injected into the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company's account from Argyle Empire Bank."
"One hundred thousand dollars…" Armour chewed on the number, a hint of coldness flashing in his usually narrowed eyes. "Is that kid from New York crazy? He's burning money! He'd rather burn money on a railroad destined for losses than sit down and talk with us?"
"Perhaps," the assistant speculated, "he's just bluffing, trying to scare us."
"No." Armour shook his head. "A person who can build a business of that scale from scratch in three years would never do something meaningless. He's not bluffing; he's declaring war on us."
Armour was silent for a moment.
"Tell the people at the 'cooperative' to continue their actions," he instructed. "Raise the prices a bit more. Since he wants to play a money-burning game, let's make the fire burn hotter. I want to see whether his profits from canned goods are greater, or if the combined capital of all our peers in Chicago is more substantial."
...Wall Street, Patriot Investment Company's office.
Tom Hayes, like an experienced chess player, was moving his pieces on his huge information chessboard.
"Johnny," he said to his assistant, "regarding Pennsylvania Railroad stock, continue with our plan. Acquire small amounts daily, and don't attract anyone's attention. Our goal is shares, not price."
"Yes, sir."
"Also," Hayes pulled out a file marked "Confidential" from a pile of documents, "how is the investigation into Philip Armour's meat processing company coming along?"
"Mr. Hayes," Johnny replied, "this is a bit difficult. Armour's company is not listed in New York; it's a completely private company, almost entirely controlled by him. It's hard for us to obtain his true financial situation from public channels."
"Then use non-public channels." A sharp glint flashed in Hayes's eyes. "Investigate his loan records. With his kind of frantic expansion, there must be bank support behind him. Check Chicago Commercial Bank, Illinois Trust Company, and see how much money he borrowed from these places and what he used as collateral."
"Also," Hayes added, his voice even lower, "I heard from friends in Philadelphia that Armour has a very close relationship with a private credit company in Philadelphia. That company… doesn't have a very good reputation. Go and investigate what kind of business dealings they have."
"I understand, sir."
After Johnny left with his orders, Hayes paced alone in his office. He knew that his Boss had given him this task not just to get a financial report.
What Felix needed was a sharp knife that could pierce Armour's seemingly impenetrable business fortress.
And to find this knife, he first had to find the most inconspicuous crack.
A week later, a detailed report was sent to New York via encrypted telegram.
In Felix's study, he looked at Hayes's analysis, a meaningful smile appearing on his face.
"Catherine," he handed her the telegram, "look, our old friend has appeared again."
Catherine took the telegram, and when she saw the name of the "Philadelphia Commercial Credit Company" repeatedly mentioned in the report, a hint of surprise flashed in her eyes.
This was precisely the company that had driven MacGregor to desperation and then sold the debt to them.
"This shouldn't be a coincidence." Catherine immediately realized the connection.
"Of course not a coincidence." Felix walked to the map. "This credit company is like an octopus hidden underwater. Its tentacles reach one end to the shipyards of New York, and the other end to the slaughterhouses of Chicago. And behind it, it's very likely our old opponents, like Sloan."
"Through this credit company, they provide funds to Armour, supporting him in establishing 'cooperatives' in the West to attack our supply chain." Felix's thoughts became incredibly clear. "This is a perfect closed loop. They are using financial means to wage a proxy war against our industries."
"So what should we do?"
Felix looked at the map, at the invisible chain of funds extending from Philadelphia to Chicago.
"They think they are safe hidden behind the scenes," he said softly, "but they forgot that every chain has its weakest link."
He picked up a new telegraph paper and began dictating a reply to Hayes.
"Tell Tom to go to Philadelphia and find all the information on that credit company for me. I need to know who its owner is, all its operations, and its biggest weakness."
Tom Hayes, in Philadelphia, looked at the telegram paper with the sentence, "Find its greatest weakness."
"Johnny," he said to his young assistant, "Notify everyone in our Philadelphia network to suspend all current work. From now on, there is only one target—Philadelphia Commercial Credit Company."
"Sir," the young assistant Johnny said with some difficulty, "I've checked, and this credit company's public records are very clean. Its owner is a holding company registered in Delaware, and the people behind it are completely invisible."
"Clean?" Hayes scoffed, "Johnny, in our business, 'too clean' means very dirty. They've just hidden the trash under a carpet we can't see. If you can't find anything in public records, then check its clients. If you can't find the source of a river, then see which fields it irrigates."
Hayes activated the intelligence network he had cultivated for half his life in the financial world.
Retired bank auditors, disheartened law firm clerks, and even telegraphers fired by big banks for being indiscreet. These people constituted Hayes's true strength.
A few days later, the first valuable piece of intelligence arrived on his desk.
"Sir," Johnny's tone was excited, "We heard a name from a lawyer's clerk who once handled documents for one of this credit company's clients."
"Speak."
"Julian Davenport," Johnny read out the name, "He is the registered president of Philadelphia Commercial Credit Company. But what's interesting is that this person has no reputation in Philadelphia's financial circles. He is more famous as a... how should I put it, an active figure in Philadelphia's high society."
Hayes became interested, and he signaled Johnny to continue.
"Davenport comes from a declining old family and inherited a substantial fortune, but he squandered it on a luxurious lifestyle and several failed industrial investments. He is keen on hosting balls, collecting European artworks, and is a regular at the city's most exclusive private casinos. Everyone describes him as a decent and tasteful gentleman who is always short on money."
Hayes listened to this, and a knowing smile appeared on his face.
"It seems my guess was correct, he isn't the real master, Johnny," he said slowly, leaning back in his chair, "He's just a puppet pushed to the forefront. A respectable puppet placed in the shop window by the real masters, used to sign documents and attend balls."
"I can roughly guess who Sloan and Armour are."
Hayes's thoughts became incredibly clear, "They need a financial tool to execute plans they can't conveniently appear for themselves. But they don't want their names associated with such a risky company. That's why they found Davenport."
"They provide Davenport with funds to maintain his extravagant lifestyle. In return, Davenport only needs to play his role as 'company president' and sign all the documents they need. It's a perfect deal."
"So what's our next step?" Johnny asked.
"Of course, we dissect this puppet." A hint of ruthlessness flashed in Hayes's eyes.
"Focus all our investigative efforts on Julian Davenport alone. I want to know everything about him. Every expense, every win or loss at gambling, and whether he has quietly taken anything that doesn't belong to him from those ledgers he himself doesn't understand."
...A week later, Hayes personally boarded a train to New York. Some intelligence was too important to transmit by telegram.
In the study of a Fifth Avenue mansion, he placed a detailed investigation report in front of Felix.
"Boss, I've found the weakest link in that chain."
Felix picked up the report and read it carefully. Catherine, meanwhile, poured hot tea for the two men.
"Julian Davenport, our Mr. Puppet," Hayes began to explain, "has a secret he values highly."
"He owes a large gambling debt. Not in those respectable private clubs, but in an underground casino in Philadelphia's dock area. The creditor is an Irish gangster named Maloney. To pay the monthly interest, Davenport has been secretly siphoning small amounts from the credit company's operating funds."
"He's been cooking the books," Catherine concluded.
Hayes nodded, "Exactly. He's walking a tightrope, hoping Armour's or Sloan's next big plan succeeds, allowing him to get a large sum of money to cover this hole. But what he doesn't know is that his tightrope is about to snap."
"This is indeed a fatal weakness." Felix put down the report, his face showing no obvious emotion, "Tom, any suggestions?"
Hayes looked at Felix and offered two choices.
"The most direct method is to anonymously send this evidence to Philadelphia's newspapers and prosecutors. Davenport will be immediately disgraced and thrown into prison. Philadelphia Commercial Credit Company will be plunged into a huge scandal and investigation. Armour's capital chain in Chicago will also be severely impacted as a result."
"That's a good plan," Felix commented, "But it's too noisy, and too wasteful."
"Other options?"
A ruthless glint flashed in Hayes's eyes.
"The second is to find that Irishman named Maloney and buy all of Davenport's gambling debts from him."
He looked at the teacup in his hand and lightly added, "Then we can control him just like Sloan and his people control Davenport. We can make this credit company stop providing loans to Armour at the most critical moment, or even recall a portion of the loans early under the guise of 'risk assessment'."
"Heh, a puppet bound by debt..."
Felix softly repeated the phrase, a cold arc curving at the corner of his mouth, "This is the foolish mistake they made."
Hayes understood, but what followed was beyond his scope of business.
"Boss, dealing with someone like Maloney..."
"I know," Felix interrupted him, "I'll have the professionals handle this."
He walked to his desk and began to write. Catherine handed the note and file bag to the waiting butler, instructing him to deliver it immediately to the main office along the East River.
It was for Flynn.
Flynn looked at his Boss's note, his face devoid of expression. He took out another file from a locked drawer, labeled "Special Personnel."
He pulled out a card from it, containing only a codename and basic information.
"Donovan."
Flynn pressed the desk bell. Moments later, a man with a sharp demeanor, looking more like a dock foreman than a corporate employee, knocked and entered.
"Supervisor." Donovan's voice was low.
Flynn pushed an envelope containing a bank draft and Davenport's information across the table.
"Donovan, new assignment."
"Go to Philadelphia and find an Irish man named Maloney, who runs an underground casino. Buy all of Julian Davenport's debts from him."
Flynn looked at him. "The process must be clean; don't let anyone know this money came from New York. You can use some… methods if necessary."
Donovan picked up the envelope, weighed it in his hand, and a confident smile appeared on his face.
"No problem."
He didn't ask another question, turned, and walked out of the office, disappearing into the New York night.
Compared to New York, Philadelphia was less flashy and boisterous, possessing more of the old city's steady calm, but beneath this calm, equally deep undercurrents lay hidden.
On his first night in Philadelphia, Donovan was not in a hurry to act.
Like a chameleon blending into a new environment, he shed his New Yorker's respectable coat and put on a set of coarse canvas work clothes commonly seen in the dock area. He also rented the cheapest room in a sailor's inn by the Schuylkill River.
For the next two days, he immersed himself in the cheap taverns surrounding Maloney's underground casino.
He never actively inquired, merely sat quietly in a corner, drinking locally produced rye beer, listening to the drunken confessions of dockworkers, small vendors, and disheartened sailors. He was not only learning about Maloney but also searching for a suitable person—an intermediary with high prestige and influence within Philadelphia's Irish community.
He quickly found his target.
An old man named O'Connell, who ran an Irish pub in the dock area that had been open for thirty years. The pub itself was not involved in any illegal business, but O'Connell himself was the recognized "uncrowned king" of the area. Any disputes between gangs, if he mediated, were usually resolved peacefully.
On the third night, he found O'Connell wiping glasses behind the bar.
"Mr. O'Connell." Donovan's voice was low. He placed an old badge from the Irish Gaelic Athletic Association on the counter. "I am from New York, and my Boss, Mr. Felix Argyle, sends his regards."
O'Connell's hand, wiping the glass, paused, and a shrewd glint flashed in his cloudy eyes.
"Argyle…" He slowly uttered the name. "The rising tycoon from New York?"
"Yes."
"What does he want with me?"
"My Boss instructed me to discuss a business deal with Mr. Maloney." Donovan was succinct. "A debt business concerning Mr. Davenport. I hope you can help arrange a quiet meeting. The location is up to you."
O'Connell silently looked at Donovan for a long time, then nodded. "Tomorrow night at nine, in the back room of my pub."
The next evening, in the back room of O'Connell's pub.
Only a single kerosene lamp lit the room, casting dim light. Maloney was already waiting there, without any of his men. He knew that on O'Connell's turf, safety was not an issue.
Donovan walked in punctually.
"Alright, gentlemen." O'Connell personally poured them whiskey. "You are all Irish compatriots; let's discuss whatever matters you have here."
"Mr. Maloney." Donovan got straight to the point. "My Boss recently took over some new businesses. Some of them have financial connections to Mr. Julian Davenport."
Maloney's gaze shifted slightly.
"As far as we know," Donovan continued, "Mr. Davenport has a private debt of fifty thousand dollars with you. My Boss is someone who dislikes complicated relationships, and he hopes to clear this line before everything else begins."
"What does he want to do?" Maloney asked warily.
"He authorized me to come and purchase this debt." Donovan stated his purpose. "We are willing to settle it in cash, according to the principal amount of fifty thousand dollars on the IOU."
A mocking smile appeared on Maloney's face. "Fifty thousand dollars? Mr. Donovan is also a man of the streets; he should understand. The value of this paper is not just fifty thousand dollars."
"I understand, of course." Donovan nodded. "But some things are built on strength, Mr. Maloney. Your influence is only effective in the Philadelphia dock area."
"My Boss is willing to resolve this matter in the most respectable and peaceful way, out of consideration for our compatriots. You get back your full principal, unharmed, and this business is concluded."
"That sounds more like a warning." Maloney's gaze turned cold.
"You can interpret it that way." Donovan responded frankly. "My Boss believes that New York business should stay in New York. Philadelphia business should also stay in Philadelphia. It's best if no one crosses the line."
The atmosphere in the room instantly became tense and confrontational.
Just then, O'Connell, who had been silent, spoke.
"Maloney," his voice was old and strong, "this is a good deal. You've already earned several months of interest. You should know better than I do what Mr. Argyle's success in New York means for us Irish. There's no need to provoke someone you shouldn't for an IOU that could turn into scrap paper at any moment."
Maloney looked at O'Connell, then at Donovan. O'Connell's words were right. He was not facing a messenger from New York, but the will of the tycoon behind him.
Finally, he took out the IOU he had prepared earlier from his pocket.
"Alright." He placed the IOU on the table. "For Mr. O'Connell's sake, where's the money?"
Donovan pushed a pre-prepared leather briefcase across.
The transaction was completed in silence.
That night, a short, encrypted telegram was sent from Philadelphia to New York.
"Chain acquired, returning tomorrow."
...New York, Fifth Avenue mansion.
Felix read the translated telegram, then threw it into the flames of the fireplace.
"Flynn."
"Yes, Boss."
"Hayes's report says Davenport's monthly interest is paid at the beginning of the month. When is the next one?"
"Next Wednesday, Boss."
A slight curve appeared at the corner of Felix's mouth.
"Donovan did well this time. Let him rest."
The thin IOU Donovan brought back from Philadelphia lay quietly beside the cigar box on Felix's desk.
It looked unremarkable, yet it was an invisible thread capable of manipulating a commercial storm in Philadelphia, and even Chicago.
"What should we do next, Boss?" Tom Hayes asked, his tone filled with curiosity. "Should we send someone to confront Davenport directly?"
"No, Tom." Felix shook his head. "You can't deal with a proud peacock the way you deal with a wild dog. That would only scare him away, or make him do something irrational. We need him to willingly walk into the cage we've prepared for him."
He turned to President Templeton, who had been organizing documents nearby.
"George, I need you to do me a favor."
"Please instruct me, Boss," Templeton replied.
"Find the most capable and presentable lawyer in the Argyle Bank's legal department," Felix said, resting his chin on his hand.
Templeton pondered for a moment. "Lawyer Hoffman would be suitable. He is the bank's best when it comes to handling non-performing assets and debt issues."
"Then him." Felix nodded. "Have Hoffman personally go to Philadelphia. Next Wednesday is when Mr. Davenport pays his monthly interest. I want Hoffman to be in Davenport's office at exactly ten o'clock that morning."
"You mean..." Hayes instantly understood Felix's intention.
"Yes." A slight curve appeared on Felix's lips. "After all, we are not a gang. Sending a professional lawyer from New York's most respectable bank to 'remind' Mr. Davenport that his bill is due. It's just that the payee has changed."
"This... this is simply a brilliant humiliation." Hayes couldn't help but laugh. "Davenport will go mad."
"I want him to stew in fear and anxiety for a few days before we officially meet," Felix's gaze shifted. "Go, George, get Hoffman ready. Remember, only discuss the interest, nothing else. For the rest, I will personally go to Philadelphia to discuss it."
...Meanwhile, in Philadelphia.
At Julian Davenport's mansion, a lavish dinner party was underway.
New crystal chandeliers, recently arrived from France, illuminated the dining room as if it were daytime. Elegantly dressed guests, holding champagne glasses, discussed art, the situation in Europe, and the latest social gossip.
Davenport, as the host, strutted like a peacock, moving among the crowd with an enthusiastic yet false smile.
He was creating a facade of "prosperity and stability" for himself, and for the Philadelphia Commercial Credit Company behind him.
"Mr. Philip Armour's business in Chicago is progressing very smoothly," he boasted to an important potential investor. "Our credit company is Mr. Armour's most important financial partner on the East Coast. Western beef, Eastern capital—it's a perfect combination."
However, when he was alone on the balcony getting some air, that confident disguise quickly faded, replaced by deep anxiety. Next Wednesday was the day he had to pay the exorbitant interest to that damned Irish Maloney. The hole from his misappropriation of company funds was growing larger and larger.
His only hope was that Armour could quickly defeat the company called "Metropolitan" in Chicago, and then give him a huge bonus from the excessive profits, enough to cover everything.
Unfortunately, he had no idea that a large net woven in New York had quietly descended upon him... Next Wednesday morning, in the President's office of the Philadelphia Commercial Credit Company.
Davenport was drinking a strong coffee to alleviate his hangover when his secretary knocked and entered.
"Sir, there's a Lawyer Hoffman from New York outside, saying he has urgent personal financial matters to discuss with you."
"A lawyer from New York?" Davenport frowned. "I don't recall knowing any lawyers from New York. Never mind, let him in."
A moment later, Hoffman, the chief lawyer of the Argyle Bank, entered, carrying a black leather briefcase.
He wore an impeccable black suit, his hair was meticulously combed, and a polite yet distant smile played on his face.
"Good morning, Mr. Davenport." Hoffman sat down at his desk. "My name is Hoffman, and I am from Argyle Empire Bank in New York. I am here today, at the behest of my client, to handle the handover of a private debt."
Upon hearing the word "debt," Davenport's heart sank. He had a bad feeling.
That damned gangster shouldn't be that untrustworthy, should he?
Hoffman ignored the change in his expression. He took a document from his briefcase and placed it on the table.
"This document," Hoffman explained, "is a private IOU for fifty thousand dollars that you previously signed for Mr. Maloney. As of last Friday, all rights to this IOU have been fully acquired by my client, Patriot Investment Company."
Davenport looked at the IOU, which was all too familiar to him, and felt his blood run cold.
"This... this is impossible! This is a private matter between Maloney and me... How could you..."
"Any financial instrument is a commercial asset that can be legally transferred, sir," Hoffman's tone was like stating a legal statute. "I am here today, first, to formally inform you of this fact. Second, to collect your interest due this month, totaling five hundred dollars."
Hoffman leaned forward slightly, his voice lowered, but every word was like a hammer, striking Davenport's heart. "My client is very confident in your ability to repay. He is just... very interested in the source of the funds you use to pay this interest."
"He sincerely hopes," Hoffman said, looking at Davenport's now bloodless face, "that these funds do not come from the Philadelphia Commercial Credit Company's public operating account. Because, as you know, that would trigger some... very serious legal issues regarding 'misappropriation of public funds' and 'commercial fraud.'"
This understated remark caused Davenport's legs, hidden beneath the desk, to begin trembling uncontrollably at a rapid pace.
It's over.
It's completely over.
The new creditor not only knew he owed money, but also knew he had been using stolen money to repay the debt.
Seeing the other party's pale face, Hoffman stood up, preparing to end the brief meeting. "Oh, and sir, I forgot to mention, my client will be coming to Philadelphia himself next week. He is very much looking forward to having a more in-depth and comprehensive discussion with you regarding your company's future management and financial health."
"I trust you will be fully prepared for that meeting."
After speaking, Hoffman nodded politely at Davenport, who was slumped in his chair, then turned and calmly left the office.
When the office door closed, Julian Davenport trembled all over, his clothes soaked with cold sweat.
His magnificent palace, built on lies and extravagance, had begun to collapse from its foundations.
And the new master who was about to come and judge him, he didn't even know his true identity yet.
After Lawyer Hoffman left, the French chiming clock in Julian Davenport's office seemed to tick slower than ever before.
Each tick was like a countdown to his freedom.
After the initial shock and fear, Davenport gradually regained his composure and began to recall information about the Argyle Empire Bank.
He quickly remembered that this bank was the property of Felix Argyle, who had become famous in the Federal business world in the past two years.
More importantly, he was Mr. Sloan's opponent.
Subsequently, an absurd urge to survive sparked a flicker of fantasy in him. He rushed to the telegraph office, wanting to send a distress telegram to Mr. Sloan of the Eastern Railroad Alliance in New York.
But when he picked up the pen, he found he couldn't write a single word.
What was he supposed to say?
"Your old rival Argyle bought out my gambling debts to the gang, and he knows I've been embezzling company funds?"
Shaking the thoughts from his mind, Davenport knew very well that once this message was sent, what he would receive would certainly not be rescue. Sloan would cut all ties with him like discarding a dirty rag, and might even send someone before Argyle to make him "permanently silent."
He was utterly helpless.
That thin IOU, like an insurmountable barrier, cut off all trust between him and his so-called "powerful allies."
Over the next few days, Davenport was plunged into a hellish torment.
He locked himself in his luxurious mansion in Philadelphia, spending his days with brandy. He dared not go to the office, fearing the probing eyes of his employees. He also dared not go to the club, afraid of revealing his inner panic at the card table.
Every knock at the door in his room sent a cold sweat down his back.
Finally, on a gloomy afternoon a week later, the summons arrived.
It wasn't through a lawyer, nor a telegram. Instead, a well-dressed messenger delivered a concise note with handwritten, powerful script:
"Mr. Davenport:
I have arrived in Philadelphia and am staying at the Continental Hotel. I look forward to our meeting this afternoon at three o'clock.
— Felix Argyle"
Davenport's pupils constricted; it really was this man.
The implicit command in his words left him no room to refuse.
Exactly three o'clock in the afternoon, the presidential suite on the top floor of the Continental Hotel.
When Davenport was led into the spacious, ballroom-like living room by an expressionless waiter, Felix was standing alone by the massive floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the Philadelphia cityscape.
He wasn't wearing a businessman's suit, only a comfortable wool sweater, holding a cup of black tea. He looked less like a ruthless business magnate and more like a young scholar on vacation.
"Mr. Davenport, welcome." Felix turned around and pointed to the sofa by the fireplace, "Please sit. Would you like a brandy? I hear it's your favorite lately."
This seemingly casual opening remark made Davenport's heart clench.
It seemed all his movements over the past week had already been under his surveillance.
"No… thank you, Mr. Argyle." He sat down awkwardly, his hands nervously placed on his knees.
Felix didn't immediately get to the point. Like a true host, he chatted with Davenport about Philadelphia's history and the new city hall being built outside the window. His tone was gentle, without any hint of pressure.
But this gentleness, more than any direct threat, made Davenport feel even more terrified.
He was like a mouse being played with by a cat, not knowing when the fatal claw would descend.
Finally, after ten minutes of torment, Davenport completely broke down.
"Mr. Argyle…" His voice had a hint of a sob, "What exactly do you want? As long as you let me go, I… I'm willing to do anything for you."
Felix placed the teacup on the table with a crisp, soft clink.
"Mr. Davenport," he finally spoke, "I don't need you to do anything for me. You just need to be a more 'prudent' and 'responsible' company president starting today."
Davenport looked at him in confusion.
"Your credit company is Mr. Armour's moneybag for his operations in the West, isn't it?" Felix asked.
"Yes… yes, it is."
"That's right." A smile appeared on Felix's face, "I heard that Armour's 'cooperative' needs to get a new sum of money from you every week to pay advances to ranchers."
"Starting next time, when their funding application comes in, you can approve it. However, you need to find a small flaw in their documents. For example, a signature in the wrong place, or a decimal point issue with a number."
"Then, you need to send the documents back, asking them to correct it. This process will probably cause a delay of two to three days, right?" Felix looked at him.
"…Yes." Davenport answered subconsciously.
"When they send the corrected documents back again," Felix continued, "you need to find another equally trivial problem. For example, the wording of a certain clause doesn't meet your company's 'latest' internal risk control requirements. Then, send it back again."
"In short, the money will eventually be given to them. But it must arrive at least a week later than they expect."
Davenport instantly understood Felix's intention, but this didn't make him feel difficult.
"At the same time," Felix added, "if necessary, you personally go to Chicago and tell Armour that it's not that you don't want to help, but because recently… the market is unstable, and some 'new' anonymous investors behind you are concerned about high-risk projects in the West and require you to strengthen all audit processes. You have to tell him that you are fulfilling your duty as a company president and protecting 'everyone's' financial security."
Davenport looked at Felix; he understood his calculations, but for him, it was simply too good, as he hadn't been asked to betray anyone.
"I… I understand." He replied with difficulty.
"You are a smart man." Felix stood up, ending the conversation, "I believe you will do very well."
As Davenport walked out of the luxurious suite, Tom Hayes emerged from the adjacent room.
"Boss, that move was brilliant." Hayes's voice was full of admiration, "It's like a slow-acting poison that will trigger a plague of distrust within Armour's organization."
Felix walked to the window, watching Davenport's retreating figure disappear into the streets of Philadelphia below.
"Tom." He began, "Now send a telegram to Bill to get ready."