The five-day deadline, a Sword of Damocles hanging heavy over his ambition, dissolved quickly.
Felix wasted no time. By day, he remained locked in the basement, furiously producing canned goods. The resulting aroma of stew was stronger than ever, reassuring Mrs. Hudson and convincing neighbors that the young man was frantically struggling to raise the extortion money. His diligence became his best disguise.
But by night, when the city slept, the scent of beef stew gave way to a pungent chemical tang. Under the dim oil lamp, Felix worked like a meticulous, modern alchemist, carefully adjusting the timing of his incendiary fuses. He needed a perfect delay, precise to the second, to ensure his safe retreat while giving the enemy no chance to react.
On the third evening, a small, spectral figure materialized at the back window. It was Timmy.
"Come in, quick." Felix let the boy in and offered him cold water and bread. Timmy gobbled the food, then wiped his mouth and delivered his report with nervous excitement.
"I've been near 'Cripple Dog' for two days. The two guards are Jack and O'Malley. O'Malley sneaks off around one o'clock every night for a half-hour rendezvous on the docks. That leaves Jack alone! And Jack? He's even lazier. He immediately breaks out a bottle of brandy and dozes off in a chair. Sleeps like a dead pig, sir, I saw it with my own eyes!"
Excellent. That was his half-hour window.
"Very good, Timmy. This information is critical, and it's worth this price." Felix handed him ten dollars. Timmy's eyes widened like brass bells.
"Sir, I… I don't like the Viper Gang. They always oppress us common folk," Timmy confessed, his gaze sincere. "You can trust me, sir."
Felix nodded, deciding to trust the boy's self-interest for now. "So, now I need you to do something very simple but very crucial. On the night of the operation, I need you to create a major feint at the other end of the street. Get some friends, make a lot of noise, a loud argument, a brawl, the bigger the commotion, the better. The goal is to vacuum up every eye on the street for those crucial few minutes. Can you do it?"
"No problem, sir! Arguing is my specialty!"
Felix then transitioned to the next piece of preparation. "Timmy, do you know the Italians? The ones called 'Mafia.'... They like to wear a red silk scarf around their necks. I need you to acquire one. Buy it, don't steal it, and no one must know it came from you or me."
Another ten dollars was promised, sealing the deal.
After sending Timmy away, Felix spread out a map of the docks, detailing the warehouse's structure, the guards' napping spot, O'Malley's departure route, and his planned high-window infiltration point. He meticulously rehearsed every detail, every contingency. This was not simple revenge; it was a precise, surgical strike.
The next afternoon, the fourth day, Felix set his external alibi. He visited Mr. Gable, looking tired and helpless.
"Tomorrow is the deadline, Mr. Gable. I have to work all night trying to produce your order in case I can't raise the money for Murphy."
"Sigh, you child, you're just too stubborn. I can lend you part of it first," Gable offered.
"Thank you, but I must solve this problem myself." Felix politely declined the money, cementing his image as the exhausted, principled businessman fighting until the last minute.
Night fell.
Just after midnight on the fifth day, Murphy's collection day, Felix created his internal alibi.
A muffled THUD, like a stack of tin cans falling from a height, echoed from the basement. Up above, Mrs. Hudson was startled awake.
"Mr. Felix! Good heavens, are you still working?" she called down, her voice thick with sleep.
"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson!" Felix's reply was filled with a practiced blend of fatigue and annoyance. "Dropped a crate! Too tired! I'll clean it up right away!"
Relieved that he sounded "all right," Mrs. Hudson returned to her bedroom.
With his alibi locked in, Felix quickly changed into dark, coarse clothes, packed the canvas bags, a small crowbar, and the red silk scarf into an unassuming burlap sack. Like a cat, he slipped out of the narrow back window and disappeared into the cold New York night.
He met Timmy near the lumber pile, two streets from Pier No. 4.
"O'Malley just left! Jack is inside drinking, he'll be asleep soon. My friends are ready!" Timmy reported, his eyes gleaming with nerves.
Felix handed him the heavy money bag. "This is the last payment. Remember: when you see a flash of fire in the warehouse window, you run as far as you can. From tonight onwards, forget you ever saw me."
"Understood! I don't know anything!" Timmy gripped the money bag and vanished.
The two-story red brick warehouse lay silently before Felix. He observed the entrance: Jack was there alone, leaning back in his chair.
Just then, a commotion, shouts and playful arguing, came from the distant street corner. The feint had begun, drawing all attention away.
Felix darted out, circling to the back of the warehouse. He found the high ventilation window, silently inserted the crowbar into a crack, and expertly pried open a decayed board, creating an opening just large enough to squeeze through.
He landed silently inside. The air was thick with cheap alcohol and tobacco. He moved like a shadow, placing four smaller incendiary packages near the wooden walls and flammable material. The largest, final package went straight into the gaps between the French brandy crates, the fuel for his coming explosion.
Then, the symbolic act: he hung the bright red silk scarf on a protruding nail, a clear, silent accusation for the police and the press.
Finally, he struck a match, and the yellow flame illuminated his calm face as he sequentially lit the five, precisely calculated fuses. He had exactly three minutes.
Felix slipped back out the window and ran, climbing onto the roof of a three-story apartment building for a perfect vantage point.
As he counted "ten," a faint orange glow flashed in a distant window, followed immediately by a second and a third.
Then: A deafening, muffled roar of flame!
The center stack of brandy crates acted as a powerful accelerant. The liquor instantly vaporized and detonated, ripping the roof clean off the building. A colossal fireball erupted, instantly transforming the structure into a monumental, blazing torch, staining the night sky a terrifying, orange-red hue.
Shrill screams echoed throughout the block. Jack, the gate guard, rolled out of the inferno, screaming and covered in flames. Meanwhile, O'Malley, who had just returned, stood dumbfounded at the street corner, watching everything unfold.
Felix stood on the rooftop, illuminated by the destructive flames. His face was devoid of emotion, like a stone sculpture. He had, in the most drastic way, destroyed the Viper Gang's economic foundation and arms reserves.
Without another glance, he turned and slid down the roof, blending into the New York night. He had to be back in that stew-scented basement before anyone discovered his absence, waiting for dawn like the most innocent of victims.