In the compartment of the Pennsylvania Railroad express, the only sounds were the crisp clink of ice against crystal and the rhythmic ticking of the telegraph relay.
Shane slit open the wax seal with a silver letter opener. The faint scent of fresh ink wafted from the telegraph note as he unfolded it, revealing Mikhail's hasty scrawl.
"It seems our friend's luck has finally run dry," Shane murmured, passing the message across to Old Henry, seated opposite him.
"Nicholas came up empty at the Patent Office," Shane continued. "Deputy Director Clemens canceled his breakfast meeting and suddenly left for Philadelphia — something about an uncle's funeral."
Henry chuckled softly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "How tragic. I could have sworn I saw Mrs. Clemens taking afternoon tea at the Waldorf yesterday."
Shane allowed himself a small, wry smile—but before he could respond, the shrill cry of the locomotive's whistle split the silence. A porter appeared at their door, balancing a silver tray. Upon it lay a fresh telegram sealed with crimson wax.
Shane unfolded it carefully. The edges of the paper carried a faint scent of pine resin—Swiss wax. His eyes scanned the lines swiftly.
"Credit Suisse Patent Management Association acquires exclusive improvement rights for Tri-Ergon patent — $50,000.
All derivative technology revenues to buyer; original patent holder bound to permanent confidentiality."
(1922 German patent — the foundation of sound film and early color-sound synchronization.)
Shane's fingertips lingered on the last two words.
Henry leaned back, producing from his breast pocket a sliver of polished steel—engraved with the address P.O. Box 18, Bahnhofstrasse, Zürich.
"Marcus's little masterpiece," Henry said softly, flicking ash from his cigar.
Through the window, the snow-covered Pennsylvania fields blurred into streaks of silver and white. Shane watched them pass, lost in thought.
Henry's low voice broke the moment.
"You remember the story I told you once — that storm back in '21? Marcus Hofmann, drenched to the bone, showed up at my Fifth Avenue apartment. The great banker of Berlin, reduced to a refugee. I gave him a towel, a passport, and a promise — 'Put it on the tab.'"
He smiled faintly, though his eyes remained cold. "Fifty thousand dollars, my boy—that's the price of keeping German innovation chained for twenty years."
Shane looked down at the telegram, expression unreadable. "No," he said quietly. "It's fifty thousand to buy the only key to the kingdom of color sound film."
He folded the paper and slipped it into his briefcase. A thin smile curved his lips. "Of course… if Mr. Hofmann is willing to do us one more favor."
New York City – Vanguard Headquarters
A gust of cold wind followed Volker as he entered Shane's office, snow still clinging to his overcoat.
"We found him," Volker said, laying several folded papers on the desk. "Thomas Wilson—headwaiter at the Blackstone Hotel. He's neck-deep in gambling debt and the Italians are after him."
Shane looked up from his documents, the nib of his fountain pen pausing mid-sentence.
"It didn't take much persuasion to make him talk." Volker unfolded one of the papers—a wine receipt from Château Margaux, 1923, scrawled with the initials J.H.
"Judge Hudson's nephew," Shane murmured.
"December fifteenth," Volker confirmed. "Our moral crusader of a judge, dining and drinking with family at the Blackstone—during Prohibition."
Shane scanned the numbers on the receipt, exhaling slowly. The tightness in his shoulders eased.
"Where is Wilson now?"
"As you instructed—ten thousand dollars and a one-way ticket to Southampton. He'll be taking a long holiday in England."
Shane nodded. Without another word, he tore a page from his notebook, scribbled a few lines, and handed it to Volker.
"Deliver this to Klausser. All personnel from Kodak Tower 34 are to be given paid leave after signing their non-compete agreements. No movement until we've closed every loose end."
Outside, New York's winter night pressed hard against the glass. Neon signs flickered across Fifth Avenue, their glow fractured in the windowpane. Shane turned the Château Margaux receipt in his hand, watching it catch the lamplight—a yellow halo of quiet satisfaction.
January 2, 1928 – Chicago Federal Building
Mist clung to the brass nameplate of Room 701.
William Catterson, Chief Legal Counsel for Pioneer Optics, knocked three times on the oak door. The leather briefcase under his arm carried the scent of fresh ink and clean paper — inside were three items:
Inside it lay three crucial documents:
• The sworn testimony of Thomas Wilson, headwaiter of the Blackstone.
• The original Château Margaux receipt.
• And a New York Trust Bank transfer record—$10,000 to William Hudson Jr., "Christmas bonus."
"Judge Geiger is currently presiding," said the secretary, adjusting her gold-rimmed glasses. The engraving on the frame read Metropolitan Club 1903.
Catterson said nothing. Instead, he set a cedar cigar box onto the tray. The gilded initials H.H. on its underside perfectly obscured the date line on the bank record.
Three days later, the courthouse bulletin board bore a discreet change: the presiding judge replaced. The new name typed neatly beneath the case number—Eleanor Clayton, the first female federal judge in Chicago, known for her incorruptibility.
January 6, 1928 – MGM Boardroom
The eleventh chime of the ship's clock echoed across the mahogany table as the scent of fresh Wall Street Journal ink filled the air.
Nicholas Schenck's bronze signet ring scraped a long mark across the headline:
"Federal Court Urgently Replaces Presiding Judge."
Gold dust from the MGM lion emblem flaked from the ring like ash.
"Pull the Variety Daily layout," he ordered, voice cold as steel.
The cigar broke clean in his fist. Sparks danced briefly across the marble floor before fading.
His crocodile-skin shoes ground across the scattered proof sheets, twisting the gold MGM–Technicolor emblem underfoot.
"Replace it with…"
He paused, eyes narrowing on the half-finished set outside the window.
"...a feature for the Children's Actors Charity Fund."
The air in the room went still. The secretary's notepad slipped from her hands, pages fluttering.
Nicholas turned slowly toward the legal director. "Call Joseph," he said quietly.
"Tell him to reach out to Shane Cassidy."
His voice dropped, deliberate and final.
"Tell him MGM is willing to reconsider the terms of cooperation."