Chapter 169: Target Locked
A cool, crisp early spring breeze swept across the stone terrace of the grand Albany estate, rustling the manicured hedges in the formal garden below.
Laurence Veymont stood near the carved stone balustrade, a heavy crystal glass of deep red burgundy held loosely in his hand. He took a slow, deliberate sip, staring out over the sprawling green lawns toward the Hudson Valley in the distance, his face unreadable.
Behind him, the French doors opened with a soft click. Soft, measured footsteps sounded against the marble flags.
Without turning his head, Laurence swirled the wine in his glass. "Is there any word from my father?"
Graves stopped three paces back, adjusting his silver wire-rimmed spectacles and smoothing the front of his black tailcoat. "None today, sir. From all accounts, the Senator’s attention remains entirely consumed by your brother Friedrich’s political campaign in the capital."
A quiet, bitter smirk touched the corner of Laurence’s mouth. "Of course it does. Friedrich plays the dutiful, golden-haired son, so Father feeds him the political machine."
"If I may add, sir," Graves continued smoothly, resting a thin leather dossier against his arm, "there was a dispatch from the family estate this morning. Your sister, Miss Tatania, has formally announced her engagement to the youngest son of the Wrill family. A grand reception is being organized for late April."
"The Wrills," Laurence mused dryly, taking another sip of wine. "A union built on bank stock and political favors. Graves, I am thoroughly exhausted by these pompous, suffocating social galas. Do not pretend for a moment that my presence at Tatania’s party would be anything more than a decorative bridge between my father and that arrogant parasite Friedrich."
"Understood, sir," Graves replied without a hitch in his tone. "Shall I craft a polite regret on your behalf?"
"Do so," Laurence said, turning his head slightly toward his valet. "Besides, my time is far better spent where the real authority lies. I already hold the Merchant Association in the palm of my hand. Once we consolidate our grip, the entire New York distribution network will belong to me—not my father, and certainly not Friedrich."
Laurence took another drink, setting the crystal glass on the stone balustrade. "Speaking of the market, Graves... what of the inquiry I gave you?"
Graves opened the leather dossier, his eyes scanning the crisp white pages within. "I have the preliminary findings regarding the gentleman you wished investigated, sir."
"And?" Laurence asked, turning fully to face him, crossing his arms. "What did you uncover?"
"We ran extensive cross-checks through both the municipal registry in New York City and the state records here in Albany," Graves reported precisely. "There is no record whatsoever of a ’Richard Stevenson’ here in New York."
Laurence raised an eyebrow. "A ghost?"
"Essentially, sir," Graves said. "The name first surfaced five months ago, around October of last year. This Mr. Stevenson mysteriously acquired the Atlantic & Pacific Trading Company—which, prior to his arrival, was nothing more than a failing, unnoticeable distribution firm operating out of lower Manhattan. Other than that single filing, his name appears on no government documents, immigration logs, or census rolls."
"Then it’s an alias," Laurence stated coldly. "Or he hails from another state entirely. Scouring registries across the entire country for a common name would waste more resources than it’s worth. What about his inner circle? His associates, his backers?"
Graves turned to the next page of the dossier. "Most of the individuals surrounding him are merely hired hands, clerks, or regional shipping agents. However, one key figure stands out—a man named Marek Kowalski. A Polish immigrant."
Laurence scoffed softly. "Kowalski? Who is this fellow? Another ghost with a fake name?"
"No, sir. Mr. Kowalski’s paper trail is quite legitimate," Graves explained. "Immigration records confirm he arrived through Ellis Island from Poland in the spring of 1908. According to local informants in Greenwich Village, Kowalski and this ’Stevenson’ arrived together around August of last year, posing as independent wholesale merchants operating out of New Jersey."
Graves adjusted his glasses, continuing down the report. "Their initial operation was modest, but within two months—by October—they had completely captured the local distribution market in Greenwich Village. And a week after that, they made their first public appearance in Midtown at the Waldorf-Astoria, where they began undercutting established suppliers and securing massive commercial contracts."
Laurence stared at his valet, a look of incredulous amusement crossing his features. "Are you telling me that those pompous old fools in the Merchant Association—the founders of the Allied Distributors group—were thrown into a blind panic over a newly formed, two-man trading firm?"
"It would appear so, sir," Graves said calmly.
Laurence let out a short, mocking laugh, shaking his head as he picked his wine glass back up. "Well... if you think about it, any businessman with a shred of actual competence can easily kick around a pen of fat, complacent pigs. But where is this Stevenson fellow now? Why hasn’t he expanded into Midtown directly?"
"As of December of last year, sir, a warrant was quietly issued for Richard Stevenson’s arrest," Graves replied. "The charges include multiple counts of murder and large-scale contraband smuggling. However, the official police files are a mess of contradictions. The witness statements are wildly inconsistent, and there is virtually no physical evidence linking him to the crimes. Nevertheless, the indictment remains active, and Stevenson himself has completely vanished from public view."
𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞
Laurence frowned, his laughter instantly fading. He tilted his head, watching Graves closely. "Murder? That seems odd for a man whose sole focus was building a commercial distribution network. A real merchant doesn’t waste time shooting people in dark alleys unless someone deliberately backed him into a corner. What actually happened down there?"
"Our sources within the Ninth Ward Precinct paint a far more complex picture, sir," Graves explained, his voice low and steady. "The incident stems from an internal power struggle within a lower West Side syndicate known as the Hudson Dusters. The gang was originally run by three men—Jack Diamond, known as ’Circular Jack’; Francis Knox, who goes by ’Frank’ or ’Goo Goo Knox’; and Terence Yorkston, known as ’Kid Yorke’."
"Classy street thugs," Laurence remarked dryly.
"Indeed, sir. But the catalyst was Frank Knox’s younger brother, Barnabas—commonly called ’Barney.’ When Frank stepped up into Midtown politics with Tammany Hall, he handed the day-to-day management of Greenwich Village over to Barney. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Stevenson secured an exclusive distribution agreement for several high-grade imported liquors—most notably a whiskey brand known as Royal Spades."
Graves turned the page. "Kid Yorke demanded a share of the import distribution for his own territory in Chelsea, but Barney Knox refused to yield a single crate."
Laurence snorted in disgust. "Greed. A classic blunder. He wanted the entire pie for himself."
"Precisely, sir," Graves agreed. "Barney’s greed sparked a violent feud with Kid Yorke. In the ensuing chaos, Barney was killed. Frank Knox, being politically sharp, realized that openly accusing Kid Yorke would tear his own syndicate apart. So, to preserve his gang’s unity and save face, Frank framed Stevenson for his brother’s murder, bribed the precinct detectives, and had Stevenson thrown into a holding cell."
"And Stevenson escaped," Laurence guessed, taking a slow sip.
"He broke out of the Ninth Ward precinct that very night, sir," Graves confirmed. "And he hasn’t appeared ever since."
Laurence walked back toward the stone balustrade, resting his hand on the cold masonry as he pondered the information. "Intriguing... But what of his partner? What is this Pole, Marek Kowalski, doing while Stevenson is playing a wanted man?"
"Mr. Kowalski has stepped into the spotlight, sir," Graves said, his expression turning serious. "On October of last year sir, Mr. Stevenson and Mr. Kowalski has acquired and finalized the acquisition of Harrison & Bell Limited—a well-established import-export firm with extensive maritime connections across several eastern states and international trade routes."
Laurence froze, his eyes snapping back to Graves. "Hold on. Are you telling me these two managed to acquire two separate commercial trading companies in less than five months?"
"Two months and a half, sir, for Harrison & Bell specifically," Graves corrected precisely. "Furthermore, Mr. Kowalski has initiated an aggressive price-cutting strategy across lower Manhattan. By offering wholesale commodities and imported spirits at rates nearly fifteen percent below market value, dozens of local shopkeepers, saloon owners, and independent grocers have become entirely dependent on Harrison & Bell."
Graves closed the leather dossier with a soft thud. "This, sir, is the primary reason the Allied Distributors Association of Greater New York has failed to penetrate the southern wards. Kowalski’s firm has built an ironclad monopoly over lower Manhattan’s wholesale trade. They are currently the single greatest obstacle to your plans for the city."
Laurence’s jaw tightened. A cold, sharp tension settled over his shoulders as he stared out over the peaceful Albany gardens, his mind racing through the financial implications.
"If they hold the south with those margins," Laurence said, his voice dropping into a stern, dangerous register, "it is only a matter of time before they start expanding outward—into Brooklyn, Queens, and Long Island. And once they consolidate the outer boroughs, they will push straight back up into Midtown and crush our margins."
He turned sharply to face his valet, his eyes dark with irritation.
"Dig deeper into this Marek Kowalski, Graves," Laurence commanded harshly. "Find out where he is sourcing his capital. I want to know who is bankrolling these acquisitions. And keep a tight watch on Harrison & Bell’s shipping docks. Mark my words—this ’Stevenson’ fellow hasn’t disappeared at all. He is still standing right behind Kowalski, pulling the strings."
"And if they continue to artificially drive the market prices down, sir?" Graves asked quietly.
"Then we destroy them before they reach Midtown," Laurence spat, gripping his crystal glass until his knuckles turned white. "I will not have a pair of nameless street-merchants ruin my takeover of New York."
"At once, sir," Graves said with a crisp, respectful bow. He tucked the leather dossier under his arm, turned on his heel, and glided back through the French doors into the mansion.
Laurence remained alone on the terrace, his gaze fixed on the southern horizon, the crisp spring air doing nothing to ease the sudden, heavy weight resting on his chest.