The Cadillac V8 eased away from the dockyard, its polished body reflecting the last streaks of afternoon light. Old Henry rolled up the window, muffling the hum of the harbor and the metallic clang of cranes unloading freight.
He leaned slightly toward the young man beside him and spoke in a low, deliberate voice.
"Morgan's men have been on us since yesterday. See that gray Packard? It's been tailing us since we left the port."
Shane's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. Beyond the haze of coal smoke and the grid of warehouse roofs, a Packard Twin Six kept a steady, unhurried distance in the stream of cars.
"What's the situation with MGM?" Shane asked quietly.
Henry opened a folded Variety Daily, the creased edges showing how many times he'd read it.
"Louis B. Mayer paid a visit to the Morgan Mansion two days ago. Stayed nearly three hours, walked out with two sealed file boxes."
He spread out the front page. The headline stretched across the paper in bold print:
"Hollywood's Big Five Unite Against 'European Pre-Sale Bonds': A Stand for American Film Sovereignty."
Shane took the newspaper. His eyes lingered briefly on the words cultural invasion and financial manipulation. A faint, humorless smile touched his lips.
"They're frightened," he said simply.
"Not only that," Old Henry continued, his tone tightening. "Kalmus from Technicolor slipped into Morgan's estate the night before last. Word from our man inside says they discussed a 'complete solution to the patent issue.'"
The Cadillac turned onto Broadway and wound its way into lower Manhattan. The skyline of the financial district rose ahead — the Woolworth Building gleaming like a cathedral of commerce in the late sun.
The tires hissed softly over new concrete as the car pulled into the underground parking bay.
In the slow-moving brass elevator, the dial pointer crept upward. Shane leaned slightly toward his legal adviser, William Catterson, and murmured, "Double-check every voucher for the European box office remittances from the circus tour."
Catterson nodded, the reflection of the brass doors flickering on his glasses. When the elevator stopped, he stepped out briskly, shoes tapping in even rhythm on the marble floor as he disappeared toward the finance wing.
Shane and Henry continued down the hall toward the main office. Volker, ever efficient, opened the heavy oak doors of the conference room.
Shane strode directly to the floor-to-ceiling window and pulled the curtains aside. Morning light poured in, flooding the room with gold. The grid of Manhattan's streets stretched below — Wall Street's canyons shimmering with movement.
Marian entered quietly, silver coffee pot in hand. The scent of roasted beans filled the air as she poured for each man in turn.
Volker passed Shane a crocodile-skin briefcase. Shane drew a small brass key from his suit pocket, the faint click of the lock echoing through the room.
Inside were neatly stacked documents, stamped with the wax seal of a Viennese bank.
"All the results from Europe are here." Shane placed a bundle of contracts on the table.
Henry leaned closer, his reading glasses catching the sunlight. When he saw the figures, his brows shot upward.
"Good Lord — seven million dollars? That's nearly triple what we projected."
Shane's tone was calm but measured. "Rothschild added three million more — in exchange for priority distribution rights in the Far East."
He turned another page, pointing to a gilded heading. "And here — Pielz Industries' new carbon-arc lamp design. Twenty percent brighter, twice the lifespan."
Henry removed his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief, disbelief in his eyes.
"Five years of exclusive supply? That's a stranglehold on the market."
"In six months," Shane said, closing the folder, "we'll dominate Europe's high-end projection systems — from the West End to the Bolshoi."
A sharp knock came at the door. Catterson entered, holding a sealed envelope bearing the HSBC crest.
"The first round of European box-office returns just came in," he reported. "Two hundred thirty-one thousand pounds — roughly 1.1 million dollars at the current exchange rate."
Shane unfolded the telegram, the embossed seal catching the light.
"That's within two months of release?"
"Yes," said Catterson. "The next settlements from British and French cinemas are due by Halloween. We've requested payment in Swiss francs from Germany — safer than marks."
Henry chuckled, pulling a Montecristo from his breast pocket.
"It seems the Europeans adore our circus more than we guessed. Your idea of using entertainment cash flow to feed the film dream factory — well, it sounded mad, but damn if it doesn't work."
Shane's smile was faint, self-aware. "Like a gambler's lucky streak, perhaps."
He placed the bank letter atop the contracts. Sunlight from the window illuminated the HSBC watermark, the letters glimmering faintly.
"This money came at the perfect time," he said evenly.
He glanced at the open Variety on the table.
"Now let's talk about the next step."
He tapped his fingers lightly on the polished surface. "If we merge the Three-Color Band process with RCA's Photophone, we'll create something no studio can rival."
He crossed to a nearby display case, lifted a brass projector model, and held it up so that the sunlight gleamed off its lens.
"I believe we're close to the world's first full-color sound projection system."
Henry exhaled a long trail of cigar smoke. "Sarnoff's in trouble already — Warner's Vitaphone is bleeding him dry. Morgan's given him until Christmas Eve to turn things around."
Shane smiled faintly. "Then let's give him an escape route — one that leads straight through us."
He turned back to the table. "Two phases. First, assess patent value and combine RCA's Photophone with our system. Ensure perfect synchronization between image and sound. Second, initiate discreet talks through Rothschild to test Sarnoff's limits. Once he bites, we bring Morgan in — and negotiate profit control directly."
Henry tapped ash into the tray, thinking aloud. "Morgan's no fool. He doesn't care about invention — he cares about monopoly. If we can show him the global market for full-color sound…" He trailed off, watching the young man. "Then there's your improved Tri-Ergon. That's your real ace, isn't it?"
A knowing smile crossed Shane's lips. He opened another folder, revealing a Swiss bank agreement embossed with a gilded crest.
"It's not time for that card yet."
He ran his finger over the data sheets. "Europe's forecasts are complete. Once the American orders are confirmed, every factory under contract will move to full-capacity production. The profit margins will be astronomical."
Henry's expression turned grave. "You're walking a razor's edge, boy. Morgan doesn't like being outplayed."
Shane closed the file with a soft thud.
"As long as everyone believes this was Morgan's idea, he won't feel outplayed."
He walked to the window again. Outside, sunlight glinted off the new radio antenna atop the Morgan Mansion.
Henry froze mid-gesture, cigar halfway to his lips. "You're going to let Morgan think he's the visionary?"
Shane turned, the golden light outlining his silhouette.
"When the king of the jungle believes he's found the prey himself," he said quietly, "he never minds if the hyenas get a bone."
He returned to the table, his tone turning practical again.
"In this jungle we call Wall Street, the fiercest don't always win — only those who know how to play along."