Calvin suggested we discuss the case further over coffee, away from the stuffy confines of the office. We settled into a quiet booth at a small diner downtown, the clatter of plates and distant streetcar bells a stark contrast to the gravity of our conversation.
“You seem… unusually invested in this, Mr. Price,” I said, stirring my coffee. “Most people would have just brushed me off.”
He put his cup down, his gaze distant. “My father was a small steel manufacturer, Mrs. Holloway. Nothing like Croft’s empire, but he had a good business. Proud of his work.”
A sadness settled over his face. “When the war started, Croft began buying up smaller companies. ‘For the war effort,’ he said. He gave my father an offer he couldn’t refuse. A ridiculously low price, practically pennies on the dollar.”
“My father fought him, tried to get a fair deal,” Calvin continued, his voice tight. “Croft squeezed him, used his influence to cut off his supply lines. Threatened to blacklist him. My father eventually caved.”
I felt a chill. Croft’s tactics hadn’t changed since he forced my own father out of his company.
“A few months after the sale, there was an ‘accident’ at the old plant,” Calvin said, his eyes now fixed on mine. “A boiler explosion. They ruled it faulty equipment. My father was killed. Alone.”
He took a slow, deep breath. “Croft profited immensely from that plant. Always does. When I read your report, Mrs. Holloway, about Tommy, about your father’s company… I saw the same pattern. The same ruthlessness.”
“He leaves a trail of ruined lives behind him, all for his own gain,” Calvin concluded, his jaw tight. “I couldn’t help my father then. But I can help you. I *will* help you, Mrs. Holloway. Whatever it takes.”
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