Free Glorious by Jeff Guinn

President Grant was being urged by his confidants to blast them into extinction. The St. Louis foundry could be quickly converted to manufacture ammunition for cannons. Mr. Douglass wanted to acquire it, but owner Arthur Cory refused to sell. McLendon spent hours with Cory, pointing out the splendid profit he would make, but the man was adamant: He had worked hard to build his company, and he meant to keep it. After a week of nonstop effort, McLendon reluctantly reported to Mr. Douglass that Cory would not budge.
    â€œDon’t blame yourself; some men simply will not reason,” Mr. Douglass said. “I think we must take another approach.”
    Two days later, Mr. Douglass welcomed a mysterious visitor to his home. The towering, thick-shouldered fellow was ushered into the book-lined study at the same time that McLendon routinely met there with his employer. Now he was kept waiting while Mr. Douglass and the newcomer met privately. McLendon paced restlessly in the vast backyard, poking at shrubs and croquet goals. Once, when he looked up, he spied Ellen gazing at him from an upstairs window. When she saw him looking back, she moved out of sight. Finally, a servant came to say that Mr. Douglass now required him.
    â€œMeet Patrick Brautigan,” Mr. Douglass said. “He’s lately from Boston, and highly recommended.”
    Brautigan’s hand was much wider than McLendon’s; Cash flinched as they shook, as it was clear that Brautigan could have easily crushed his knuckles. But he exerted only enough pressure for a firm shake and then dropped back into his chair.
    â€œA pleasure,” he said to McLendon. There was a complete absence of emotion in his voice and in his deep-set, opaque eyes.
    â€œBrautigan is a man of certain persuasive skills,” Mr. Douglass said. “He joins us on a permanent basis. Initially, he will assist with this man Cory, who Brautigan will call on in the very near future.”
    â€œArthur Cory is a decent man, but stubborn,” McLendon said to Brautigan. “I’ll come along with you, of course, though I doubt we can persuade him to be smart and sell.”
    â€œNo need,” Brautigan said. “I’ll manage on my own.” He stood and made a slight bow to Mr. Douglass.
    â€œI want that foundry,” Mr. Douglass said.
    â€œI expect to soon report satisfactory results,” Brautigan replied. He nodded to McLendon and turned to leave. Even though the floor was carpeted, Brautigan’s heavy boots thudded as he walked. McLendon noticed that the toes of the boots were reinforced with polished steel plates.
    Mr. Douglass handed a thick sealed envelope to McLendon. “Tomorrow, take this to police chief Kelly Welsh at City Hall. Be discreet when you do. We must always demonstrate respect for public officials.”
    Three days later, the St. Louis newspapers reported that Arthur Cory, the fifty-six-year-old owner of a local metal foundry, had been found dead behind a riverfront saloon. His head was so damaged by repeated strikes from some hard, blunt-tipped object that he had to be identified by the rings on his fingers rather than his pulped facial features. When he saw Brautigan that night, McLendon looked again at the plating on the toes of his boots. It seemed to him that the steel toe on the right boot was freshly scraped. Chief Welsh announced a full investigation, but nothing came of it. Not much later, Cory’s widow sold the foundry to Rupert Douglass.
    McLendon was so shaken that he confronted Mr. Douglass.
    â€œWhy has this happened, sir?” McLendon demanded. “Is theownership of one factory among so many worth the cost of a human life?”
    â€œIt’s not just the factory,” Mr. Douglass said. “Word was around town that I wanted to buy it and Arthur Cory refused. If one man so publicly defied me, more might find the gumption to attempt the same. This act was necessary to send a message, and the