"Creak…" The heavy door swung inward with a soft groan, and Dutch, radiating an almost insolent calm, stepped into the room.
The study was a masterpiece of refined opulence, every detail screaming of the owner's impeccable taste and fathomless wealth. Golden tungsten lamps cast a warm, almost sanctimonious glow, illuminating polished mahogany and leather-bound books.
Behind a vast, imposing desk, a man in a perfectly tailored suit sat, his posture rigid. At the sound of the door, his head snapped up, his gaze locking onto Dutch, a meticulous, dissecting stare that swept from the crown of Dutch's head to the tips of his impossibly shiny boots.
"Arthur Callahan?" The man's voice was a low, interrogative hum, thick with unspoken judgment.
The elite, Dutch knew, were relentless observers, cataloging every nuance. A man's very soul, they believed, could be read in the cut of his cloth, the flick of his wrist. Dutch's suit, unlike the sedate attire of Arthur and the others, was a flamboyant statement: trousers adorned with a stark white decorative band, a collar of crisp, contrasting white. This was not a suit worn by a man who wished to blend in. This was a suit that announced its presence with a theatrical flourish.
Consequently, the man behind the desk had already painted Dutch's portrait in his mind: a daring innovator, perhaps, one who reveled in uniqueness, a flamboyant individualist. Or perhaps, simply, a pretentious peacock.
"Yes." Dutch nodded, a mere dip of his chin. The other man made no move to rise. Dutch's lips, for a fleeting moment, thinned into a tight line, a silent acknowledgment of the insult. He said nothing, simply glided across the polished floor and, with an air of absolute nonchalance, settled himself into the chair directly opposite the desk.
Basic etiquette dictated a man of breeding would rise to greet a visitor, not perch like a king on his throne. This silent defiance was clearly designed to put Dutch in his place, to establish dominance from the outset. Dutch, however, was in no mood for such games.
"And you, sir?" Dutch inquired, his voice smooth as silk. His fingers, slow and deliberate, drifted to a gleaming cigar box on the desk. He plucked one out, savored its rich aroma, then drew a match, striking it with a crisp, audible flick against the ornate side of the box. He took a long, luxurious drag, exhaling a plume of fragrant smoke that curled lazily towards the ceiling. His utterly unperturbed demeanor, far from provoking the man, instead brought a thin, almost predatory smile to his lips.
"Hahahaha, Arthur Callahan, you truly possess an abundance of audacity!" The man's smile widened, a glint in his eye. "Or perhaps, I should address you as… Mr. Dutch Van der Linde?"
The moment the name escaped his lips, the man leaned forward, his gaze boring into Dutch's face, meticulously searching for the slightest flicker of surprise, the tell-tale twitch of a muscle. This was his true test, a calculated probe. Dutch's reckless attitude, he reasoned, could only stem from two possibilities.
First, Dutch was an arrogant fool, genuinely convinced his identity remained a secret. If so, the reveal would shatter his composure, revealing some abnormality, no matter how well he pretended. Such a man could attend this banquet, yes, but beyond the clothing business, there would be no further contact. Once his factory was established, he would be carved up by the vultures of Saint Denis's elite, his ambitions scattered like dust.
Second, and far more intriguing, Dutch already knew. He understood the game, grasped the purpose of this meeting, which explained his fearless composure. If Dutch showed no surprise, it would confirm him as a truly intelligent, cunning man. Then, perhaps, this intelligent man could serve as a formidable counterweight to that damned Bronte. In essence, it was killing two birds with one beautifully aimed stone, maximizing everyone's value—the very essence of their high-society machinations.
Dutch, however, merely took another delightful puff from his cigar. No surprise. Not a flicker. He even offered a slight, almost imperceptible smirk.
"Oh, sir," Dutch purred, exhaling a long, slow stream of smoke. He tapped the ash deliberately onto the ornate ashtray.
"Your cigars here are truly exquisite, exceptionally high-class. The aroma is captivating, quite befitting high society. One might even speculate that the price of a single cigar is enough to cover a common worker's daily wage, wouldn't you agree?"
Dutch placed the cigar box back onto the table, nudging it gently towards the man, his expression unconcerned, utterly indifferent to the casual revelation of his true name.
The man's face, in that instant, underwent a profound transformation. The cynical amusement vanished, replaced by a radiant, almost desperate warmth. He sprang from his seat, his hand shooting out to grasp Dutch's left hand in a firm, almost overly eager grip.
"Oh ho ho, Mr. Van der Linde, it is an absolute pleasure to finally meet you!" Norton Lemieux beamed, his smile stretching from ear to ear. "I must apologize for my rather… cold reception earlier! You understand, of course, for someone of your… unique status, one can never be too careful. Hahahaha…" He laughed, a booming, artificial sound that filled the room.
As Norton's demeanor shifted, Dutch's own expression mirrored his with astonishing speed. He, too, rose, a blindingly bright smile plastered across his face. With a graceful motion, he placed his cigar precisely in the ashtray, then clasped Norton's hands with both of his own, his grip firm, almost paternal.
"Hahahaha, Mr. Lemieux, the pleasure is entirely mine! Oh, please, forgive my own rather… impolite behavior just now." Dutch winked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You know, for your earlier impolite behavior, I simply felt obliged to reciprocate with a little impoliteness of my own."
Norton Lemieux threw back his head and roared with genuine laughter this time. "Oh, Mr. Van der Linde, Mr. Van der Linde! You truly are a most interesting individual! Hahahaha…" He released Dutch's hands, then gestured expansively to the chairs, ushering him to be seated once more.
"Oh, Mr. Van der Linde, please, sit!" Norton practically commanded, his warmth now undeniably sincere. "It is a genuine pleasure to meet you, my dear friend, but I confess, I don't quite understand. Why do you dare to show your face in Saint Denis? Shouldn't you have taken that one hundred and fifty thousand dollars and fled? To Mexico, to Spain, even to England, anywhere would have been fine! Why on earth would you open a clothing store here?"
This was the third, and most crucial, test. Dutch's response would determine his true worth. If his words were logical, compelling, truly convincing, then this man was indeed a rare gem: capable, daring, and possessing an ambition that could be leveraged.
Listening to Norton's pointed question, Dutch simply smiled. He reached for the cigar he'd casually placed in the ashtray earlier, retrieved it, and took another slow, deliberate puff.
"Mr. Lemieux," Dutch began, his voice calm, almost meditative, "times are changing, sir. How long can one hundred and fifty thousand dollars truly last us? A year? Two years? Perhaps ten, even twenty? And what then, when the well runs dry? We cannot simply rob for the entirety of our lives, can we?"
Dutch paused, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Rather than clinging to that dead money, that static hundred and fifty thousand dollars, it is far wiser to put it into circulation. That, Mr. Lemieux, is how true wealth is cultivated. That is how empires are built."
Norton, his initial skepticism slowly eroding, leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed in thought. He pondered Dutch's words for a long moment, then slowly, begrudgingly, nodded.
Dutch had convinced him again. The concept of money circulation, a foundational principle in modern economics, was rudimentary to Dutch, but in the untamed American West of this era, especially among commoners and hardened outlaws, it was a revelation. Most ordinary folk simply saved what they could, or spent it. The idea of money actively working for them, of wealth expanding through dynamic flow, was alien. And gang members, living by the gun, rarely grasped such abstract concepts. That Dutch could articulate such a sophisticated idea, and with such casual confidence, proved his thinking was remarkably advanced—at least, certainly not behind their own.
Norton's gaze swept over Dutch's flamboyant attire, then settled on his composed, utterly self-assured demeanor. A hearty, delighted laugh finally escaped him.
"Oh, Mr. Van der Linde," Norton exclaimed, shaking his head in a mixture of awe and bewilderment. "Your views are truly… advanced. I find it almost impossible to believe that someone, someone of your… background… would possess such foresight! You are unique, Mr. Van der Linde. Truly, you are superior to most Americans!"