"So, Mr. Lemieux," Dutch purred, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face, his eyes gleaming, "care you enlighten me? Why haven't you reported me? I'd have thought a cool one hundred and fifty thousand dollars and our collective bounty would be quite the enticing offer for gentlemen such as yourselves." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering, initiating the delicate dance of negotiation, aiming to draw out their true conditions. This, he knew, was the crux of the entire evening.
Norton's smile deepened, a shark's grin. He chuckled, a robust, self-satisfied sound, then rose with an almost theatrical flourish to personally offer Dutch a fresh, unlit cigar. "Haha, Mr. Van der Linde," he began, settling back into his seat, a subtle glint in his eye, "the reason we haven't reported you isn't actually due to our… benevolence. No, it's all thanks to Miss Camille. After her meeting with you, she simply declared you 'very interesting.' We've even heard from Mr. Brown, Saint Denis's new financial gentleman, that Miss Camille expressed a desire for him to… get closer to you."
Norton paused, a smug, knowing look on his face. "You see, J.P. Morgan's scale is simply beyond our comprehension; even a minuscule leak of wealth from his hands can bring us untold riches. So, rather than saying we let you go, it's more accurate to say Miss Camille is… quite intrigued by you."
He even gave a slight, almost imperceptible shrug. "Of course, we also have a few small ideas of our own, but they are utterly insignificant compared to Miss Camille's whims."
Norton, a middle-aged man a few years Dutch's senior, actually managed to affect a look of genuine admiration for Miss Camille, his words dripping with flattery. That he maintained such a performance even in front of Dutch spoke volumes about his calculated nature.
The claim that it was all because of Miss Camille was, of course, utter nonsense. Camille had investigated the Van der Linde Gang once, purely out of curiosity, then moved on. The true purpose of keeping Dutch alive and well was a far more practical, far more insidious one: to unleash an outsider force to subtly, yet effectively, undermine Bronte, the entrenched local viper.
They found Bronte increasingly difficult to handle; his pervasive infiltration had even made them afraid to openly discuss plans against him in their own goddamn homes. Such a life, for these self-proclaimed masters of the city, was simply unbearable.
Dutch didn't believe a single word out of Norton's mouth, save for the very last sentence. He merely laughed, a rich, rolling sound that filled the elegant study. He met Norton's gaze, his own eyes sparkling with a carefully crafted warmth. "Oh, Mr. Lemieux," Dutch said, inclining his head slightly, "thank you for your… discretion. You know," he leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "I'm always exceptionally generous to my friends. If there's anything, anything at all, you need my help with, please, don't hesitate to ask!" He gestured expansively with one hand, as if offering the very moon.
"Oh, Mr. Van der Linde, you are truly charming, endlessly interesting!" Norton beamed, his face alight. He spread his hands in a gesture of pure generosity. "How about this, Mr. Van der Linde: from this moment on, the rent and electricity for your factory and clothing store will be completely waived! Consider it a small token of our burgeoning friendship! However," he paused, his smile tightening just a fraction, "I do have a rather small matter that requires your… unique assistance."
"Of course, Mr. Norton, it would be my distinct honor to assist you, sir!" Dutch replied, his smile fixed, his gaze piercing Norton's eyes. This was it. This was the true purpose of the summons, every previous word a carefully orchestrated test to gauge Dutch's willingness to play ball. Communicating with these high-society bastards was truly mind-numbing!
Norton, seeing Dutch's unwavering gaze, showed no surprise. He stood up, moved to the window, and closed it with a soft thud, ensuring no stray word could escape. He then returned to his seat, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a low, almost conspiratorial whisper as he posed the question.
"Mr. Van der Linde, do you happen to… know Mr. Leviticus Cornwall?"
The question was a jarring left hook. Dutch had braced himself for Bronte, or perhaps some petty political squabble of the Lemieux Family. The name Leviticus Cornwall was a seismic shift. Dutch's eyebrows shot up just a fraction, a momentary flicker of genuine surprise that he swiftly masked. He nodded, feigning casual understanding.
"Of course, Mr. Lemieux. Cornwall, the railroad magnate, sugar merchant, oil baron—the undisputed titan of the entire West! Could it be that Mr. Lemieux harbors some… grievances with Cornwall?"
"No, no, no!" Norton waved his hands frantically, his voice still barely above a whisper, as if the very walls had ears.
"We have no grievances with Mr. Cornwall, none at all. But those damned Indians, they are stubbornly blocking Mr. Cornwall's path to boundless wealth!" Norton leaned closer, his eyes glinting with a cold, hard light.
"You see, Mr. Cornwall is an oil magnate! And vast quantities of oil have been discovered right there, in the territory of those damned, inconvenient Indians! These savages parade to the Saint Denis City Government office building every day, trying to manipulate us, to use us to resist Mr. Cornwall. They are utterly deluded, occupying such a vast, underdeveloped area. It's truly… heartbreaking!" Norton even managed a theatrical sigh.
"Therefore, Mr. Van der Linde," Norton continued, his voice hardening, "to assist Mr. Cornwall in expanding his oil empire, we need to resolve this… Indian problem. And Mr. Van der Linde, your group is currently the most suitable for this delicate operation! Your gang, if I recall, used to have a certain… flair… for this kind of work, didn't you? And now, with our official acquiescence, our explicit blessing, you are free to go into their territory and burn, kill, and loot to your heart's content! I can personally guarantee that no one, absolutely no one, will trouble you! All you need to do is force these Indians away, as thoroughly and as violently as possible!"
Norton's tone shifted subtly, the politeness falling away, revealing a chilling undercurrent of compulsion, a barely veiled threat. His eyes were locked onto Dutch's, the implicit menace undeniable.
Dutch, he knew, had played a crucial role in their women's rights charade, bringing them unexpected benefits. But Dutch's method was now exposed. They could easily replicate it, usurp his tactics, and claim both money and reputation for themselves. As for the so-called "favor" of assistance? For these elites, there was only eternal self-interest, no room for sentiment. So now, in delivering this thinly veiled threat, Norton felt not the slightest flicker of shame.
This raw, unapologetic display made Dutch realize, for the first time, a subtle, yet profound difference in American high society. They didn't even bother with the pretense of civility, openly displaying their ugly, calculating hand
No wonder Bronte always cursed these people in Italian as despicable scumbags; they truly were scumbags. Dutch's mind conjured a humorous, though vicious, image: after developing his firearms factory, he'd pay a special visit to Saint Denis, capture this Mr. Norton Lemieux, whisk him away to Guarma, and then, with genuine delight, shove Guarma's most venomous pythons right up his backside!
However, Norton's suggestion was, to Dutch's immense surprise, an unexpected boon. A wide, genuine smile, free of pretense, stretched across Dutch's face. "Oh ho ho, Mr. Lemieux," Dutch practically purred, his eyes twinkling, "how could I possibly bear to refuse a friend's small request? Don't you worry your distinguished head, Mr. Lemieux. Leave this matter entirely to us. In at most a month, I will personally deliver to you a most… perfect explanation!"
Dutch was genuinely thrilled. He'd been fretting over the lack of manpower, the vulnerability of his nascent empire in its early stages. Bingo! Now, he had both the combat power and the manpower he needed, arriving on a silver platter. These Indians were renowned hunters, masters of both gun and bow, and crucial figures like Flying Eagle and Rains Fall were men whose character he actually trusted.
This wasn't just solving a problem; it was being handed a fully trained, highly skilled enforcement squad! And the women from the tribes could be brought into his clothing factory, their unique designs adding another layer of authenticity. It was a stroke of absolute genius—killing not two, but three birds with one perfectly aimed stone!
The only minor wrinkle was how to "persuade" Rains Fall and Flying Eagle to work for him, but that, Dutch thought with a sly grin, was a problem for another day.
Meanwhile, Norton, witnessing Dutch's instantaneous, almost eager agreement, was even more delighted. "Excellent, excellent, Mr. Van der Linde, my friend! I believe our future together will be most… pleasant! And now, Mr. Van der Linde, shall we descend and enjoy tonight's truly wonderful banquet?" He gestured grandly towards the door.