Chapter 9: The Road to Profit

A complete rookie?!

Anderson, who had been drifting through the streets of London for over two decades, saw the look of confusion on the man's face and understood immediately.

For a moment, he could have slapped himself.

A gold watch? You bloody fool, why'd you have to go flashing a gold watch…

Gold watches were seriously valuable.

And precisely because of that, items like gold watches could get you almost anything on the black market — including the much-coveted gasoline coupons.

Watching the way the man's expression shifted again and again, Pierre didn't know exactly what was going on, but he still took the initiative.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

"A drink?" Anderson replied with some hesitation.

"Liquor's not easy to come by these days, even for diplomats."

"Is there a pub nearby?"

Pierre had his reasons, of course.

The presence of a black market meant one thing: profit.

Profit meant opportunity.

Anyone who had bought a bag of vegetables on the side already understood —

and for someone actively looking for a way to make money, this was like discovering a new continent.

And new continents... needed guides.

This street hawker might be the perfect person to get some market intel from. Couldn't hurt to ask around.

"…Gasoline coupons," Anderson began, lowering his voice,

"Among all ration coupons, they're the most precious. Everyone needs fuel. Gasoline was rationed even before food was — and once that started, all kinds of restricted goods — fuel, food — began appearing on the black market.

And the market's very active. Everyone needs something.

Gas coupons? They're practically hard currency.

You can trade them for food, watches, even gold coins…"

After two glasses of long-missed whiskey, Anderson was more than willing to explain the ins and outs of London's underground economy.

Pierre now had a rough understanding.

For people with a certain… flexible mindset, rationing wasn't a problem — it was a goldmine.

Store owners always found ways to get their hands on scarce goods and sold them privately at a premium.

Black market traders roamed certain streets offering all the rare items.

And buyers? They knew it was shady, but they still paid — supply was everything.

"Meat," Anderson said with gravity.

"At the docks, hundreds of tons of meat go 'missing' every day. That meat? Ends up on the black market. Marked up several times, then sold to those who need it.

"Sir," he added, voice now serious,

"I know you diplomats get way more than the average person.

Ten packs of cigarettes a week, isn't it?

But the thing is, you lot often don't even use it all — your food, booze, smokes — they're all delivered to the embassy.

If we work together, I guarantee you can make at least ten pounds a week."

In Anderson's eyes, this young man was probably some small-time embassy worker — and to a guy like that, ten pounds a week would be a serious temptation.

"Take that bag of food you've got — you probably paid two pounds for it.

I can sell it for four. Maybe even five."

"What sells best?" Pierre asked calmly.

"Cigarettes. And sugar."

Anderson didn't even pause.

"Cigarettes go to the army first. What trickles down to the market? Never enough — and you need cigarette coupons to buy them.

And those coupons? Barely buy you a few packs.

Per month.

So yeah, cigarettes are gold.

And sugar? Well… who doesn't need sugar?"

Then he turned and shouted toward the man behind the bar.

"Billy! Does your wife need sugar?"

"You got some?"

"There you go. Every kitchen needs sugar. Sure, we've got sugar coupons — but they're never enough."

"Why not?"

"Well, the newspapers blame the German U-boats — sinking merchant ships and all that. But the truth? To the folks on Downing Street, sugar, milk, meat, even tobacco — none of it's as important as tanks, planes, or artillery. They won't waste precious foreign currency on those things, so instead they blame the Germans and tell ordinary people to just 'get through it'."

Anderson took another sip of whiskey and continued.

"That's why everyone depends on the black market. Everyone. Even the guys flying mail planes out of the airfield. When they stop over in the U.S., they stuff cartons of cigarettes in the cargo hold. In America, a pack of Lucky Strikes or Camels is what — twenty cents? Here? You can sell one for a pound."

"That much profit?" Pierre's eyebrows lifted. "They must be making a fortune on each trip."

Anderson could tell — this guy didn't have a clue about how things worked.

"Sir, by the look of you, you really don't know the market, do you?

Britain has rationing. America has it too. Not as strict, sure, but there are still quotas those mail plane pilots? Yeah, they can smuggle a bit — but only a bit.

They don't have access to that much. And it's not like the post office gives them unlimited cigarettes to buy.

If it were that easy, forget the pilots — even the guys on cargo ships would be doing it. Ships are huge compared to planes — you could stuff entire crates on board. The only problem is: you can't buy more than what the quota allows."

Quotas.

So even in the U.S., buying cigarettes was limited. No wonder prices were holding so steady.

Thanks to this crash course in black market economics, Pierre had just learned something interesting.

"You're saying planes fly from Britain to the U.S.?"

"Mail planes," Anderson confirmed.

"Way before the war, there were already flights between the two.

Big aircraft meant for postal shipments.

Some of them can even make the trip nonstop.

Back then, who'd have thought a pack of cigarettes could earn ten times its value?

Only problem is, they can't get their hands on enough of them — or else, they'd fill the entire plane with smokes."

That bit of information lit a spark in Pierre's mind.

Could this be the real "new world"?

He quietly poured Anderson another glass of whiskey — that one cost seven ration coupons — and only when it arrived did he casually ask:

"Do you know where those mail planes land?"

"Seaplane dock on the Thames," Anderson replied.

"Still… compared to those guys, most people prefer to deal with ship crews.

You'd be surprised what they smuggle — cigarettes, sugar, coffee… everything."

Having eaten someone's food and now sipping someone's whiskey, Anderson kept talking.

"They won't take pounds though.

Pounds are useless in the States.

What they want are dollars —

and if you don't have that, then watches, cameras, even antique furniture.

There are shops all over the port that deal in that kind of stuff.

They sell high in the U.S.

Watches and cameras especially.

You know the Americans — les paysans modernes, they can't make a decent timepiece to save their lives.

German and Swiss stuff has always been their favorite.

But now, with the war…

they can't get any."

Finally, after downing the second whiskey, Anderson returned to the matter at hand.

"So tell me, sir — do you have any gasoline coupons?

I can pay top price…"