Mrs. Lainer wore a black overcoat, an expensive pair of ladies' leather shoes, and a dome-crowned bowler adorned with a bird feather of indeterminate origin.
Well past forty and solidly built, she possessed a frame that exceeded the average woman's, giving her a distinctly imposing presence. As for her makeup, one could only say she had tried her best; time's blade had simply carved too deep and shown no mercy.
Wayne considered himself someone who never judged a book by its cover, but if a woman matching that description batted her eyelashes at him, then frankly speaking, he had no flaws other than judging books by their covers.
"A pleasure to see you, Mrs. Lainer."
"The pleasure is mine, Wayne."
Mrs. Lainer removed her leather gloves and spread her arms wide, intending to envelop Wayne in a warm embrace. One look at the predatory gleam in her eyes was enough to know that once she got a grip, she would never let go.
Wayne politely dodged the enthusiastic hug, professionally gestured for Mrs. Lainer to take a seat, and expressed his regrets that the commission had not been completed. He claimed he had expended tremendous time and energy yet failed to turn up any proof of Dr. Lainer's infidelity, advising Mrs. Lainer to seek a more capable detective agency instead.
Mrs. Lainer took no offense whatsoever. She refused to take back the retainer Wayne tried to return, professed complete faith in his capabilities, and insisted she was willing to wait a few more days.
*That really won't do. Time waits for no one—Dr. Lainer already has proof of your infidelity, and the longer you wait, the worse off you'll be.*
Wayne offered a few more words of persuasion, engaged in some awkward small talk, and personally escorted her out of the detective agency.
"Wayne, was that lady just now a client?" Veronica walked downstairs. Impeccable as her sense of grooming usually was, she had failed to notice the dusting of grime on the tip of her nose and across her cheeks.
Scars were a warrior's medals. Wayne offered a salute of silent respect without saying a word, nodding. "Mrs. Lainer is a client of the agency. Some time ago, she commissioned an investigation into a domestic dispute. Due to unforeseen circumstances, she didn't get the report today. My abilities are limited, so I urged her to consult another detective."
"It's only a domestic dispute. We're more than capable of handling it. There's no need to turn down business."
"That may be true, but the circumstances are exceedingly complicated. It can't be explained in just a few words..." Wayne muttered, his vague tone an attempt to brush the topic aside.
"What did you find?"
Veronica narrowed her eyes. A clue delivered right to her doorstep was not something to be let go lightly.
"Uh, how should I put it... How about we get back to the spring cleaning, and when..."
*Swish!*
Taking Wayne's hesitation as holding out for a better price, Veronica decisively paved the way with cash, holding out two notes bearing the Queen's portrait.
Wayne accepted them in silence. A wonderful misunderstanding—one he had no objection to whatsoever, and which he sincerely hoped Veronica would repeat in the future.
"The situation is like this: Dr. Lainer hired me a while back, and then that same afternoon, Mrs. Lainer... I tailed and investigated both of them separately. Since Dr. Lainer came to me first, I handed both reports to him. Out of gratitude, he took the initiative to pay extra..."
Wayne laid out the entire sequence of events. "A detective's professional ethics don't allow me to sell the investigation results to both sides. I am a man of principle. I won't accept another commission from Mrs. Lainer, which is why I advised her to take her business elsewhere."
Veronica: "..."
According to her education, the term 'professional ethics' was not used that way.
Veronica rolled her eyes in a thoroughly elegant display of exasperation. That morning, she had flipped through the diary left out on the desk. Because reading someone else's diary without consent amounted to prying into their privacy and was thoroughly immoral, she had called out to ask Wayne first.
Wayne had been asleep at the time and hadn't answered.
Silence meant tacit consent!
In the diary, clients showered Wayne with glowing praise, extolling the handsome young man's professional standards and moral character. Every bit of daily trivia and personal reflection recorded within pointed to Wayne being an upright, proactive, and outstanding young fellow.
He observed the law and respected decorum; he took joy in helping others; he injected positive energy into a decaying society; he was a shining role model for the youth of today.
Veronica had been deeply shaken upon reading the diary, and her impression of Wayne had improved dramatically. She had felt ashamed of misjudging his character, even asking William to prepare something extra delicious to compensate for her offense in peeking at the diary.
Now she understood why something as private as a diary hadn't been locked away, but left readily accessible right on the desk.
Disastrous. The university girl felt thoroughly played by a piece of social garbage!
"Keep going. What else did you find regarding Mrs. Lainer?"
Expressionless, Veronica handed over another Queen's portrait. The scent of death lingered on Mrs. Lainer; she had been in far closer contact with the Death Walker than Wayne had. Following this lead would quickly reveal the hidden target.
"According to my findings, Mrs. Lainer is fairly well-known among dockworkers and struggling artists for her charitable nature, enjoying a certain... well-rounded popularity..." Wayne had zero qualms about doing the work once paid, spilling everything in a single breath.
From a professional standpoint, a detective briefing his assistant on findings was entirely reasonable and logical.
From a business standpoint, he hadn't sold the intelligence to Mrs. Lainer, thus upholding his professional standards.
"Be specific. Who are the painter and the dockworker?"
"Why are you asking about them?"
Wayne frowned. "Assistant Veronica, don't make things difficult for your boss. I took Dr. Lainer's money. Our detective agency will not provide investigative services for Mrs. Lainer."
"This has nothing to do with Mrs. Lainer. I am commissioning you to investigate right now." Veronica waved the banknotes in her hand.
"Please have a seat."
"..."
*Couldn't you put up even a token struggle?*
***
Socioeconomically, the City of Londan was divided into five districts. The Central District in the middle, also known as Inner Londan or the City of Londan proper, served as the political, economic, and cultural heart of the entire Kingdom of Windsor.
It boasted the finest universities, the best hospitals, the largest stock exchange, museums, theaters, and more, all firmly controlled by aristocrats turned new-money capitalists.
The West and North Districts were middle-class enclaves. The East and South Districts were the largest in area and the poorest in every conceivable resource, home to ports, industries, and warehouses, populated primarily by the working class.
Down at the harbor docks.
Sailors cast off mooring lines as the melodious blasts of steam horns signaled outward voyages. Blazing sun, open sea, and foul curses wove together a tapestry unique to this place.
The harbor took on entirely different appearances depending on who was looking.
To high society, the docks were romantic. Amid the cries of gulls, sailors sang orderly hymns of courage as they braved the wind and waves toward foreign lands, pursuing the true meaning of life, exploring uncharted routes, bringing back wealth, and delivering civilization. Everything looked as though it had stepped straight out of an oil painting.
To the lower class, the docks were filthy: noisy gulls everywhere, freezing sea water, and exhausted workers who, like themselves, ran themselves ragged just to make a living, forced to go about unkempt, caked in grime and foul sweat.
If this counted as an oil painting, it had to have been stamped out by the filthiest feet dipped in the foulest mud and grease.
As an established capitalist power, the Kingdom of Windsor suffered from comprehensive obsolescence across its industrial facilities and supporting infrastructure, unavoidably sliding into a slump of low productivity. Combined with the effects of economic depression and looming war, the docks of today retained little of their former prosperity.
Near afternoon tea time, Veronica sat in a restaurant enjoying black tea with the black cat, Monica, in her lap, while Wayne and William split up to search for Pluto the dockworker.
Pluto was one of Mrs. Lainer's below-the-belt ports of call, notable primarily for being strapping, strong, and capable of heavy pounding.
Wayne looked around for the man as usual, but found no trace of him. According to fellow laborers, Pluto hadn't shown up for work today; he might have gone to the warehouse district, or he might be sleeping at home.
Halfway through, Wayne had the misfortune of running into William. The moment William spotted him, his spirits lifted, and he grabbed Wayne without letting go, sighing and grumbling with deep emotion.
"Wayne, I just ran into a destitute young nobleman who's in debt up to his ears. He was forced to come to the docks to look for work..."
"I made him a suggestion: since he's in debt up to his rear, why not use that rear to pay it off? And you know what? He turned me down! What a shame. Who knows who'll get lucky with him later."
"I scouted a few more after that, but none were as young and handsome as that fallen noble."
Wayne: "..."
What was this? A gay sea king? A safe harbor for every ship? The legendary Fairy Pier?
Wait, after all that time, you didn't do a single shred of actual work!
Wayne refused to converse with William any further. Finding Veronica, he explained the situation, asking whether they should head to Pluto's home to keep looking or check out the rejected art applicant's apartment instead.
"Go find the painter."
The rejected art applicant was named Abel, a cultured young man who failed exam after exam yet held firm to his artistic ideals. Because he had accepted patronage from wealthy ladies for years, every last drop of his youth had been wrung dry. Without youth, there was no patronage; without patronage, there was no income. Unable to pay rent, Abel had been forced to move from the affluent North District to the East District.
Mrs. Lainer wasn't Abel's first patron, nor was she the best in looks or figure. But having grown accustomed to extreme demands, Abel maintained that compared to the noble ladies of the North District, Mrs. Lainer was practically gentle and kind.
It was basically a retreat for rest and recovery.
"Abel plans to pursue his art and earn living expenses in the East District, and once his body recovers, he'll march right back into the North District. He's the sort of man who hates enduring hardships, but can endure them nonetheless..."
In the cab, Wayne recounted Abel's deeds to Veronica as tactfully as possible. He rode in the passenger seat, while Veronica, the black cat, and William took the back.
As he spoke, Wayne glanced back from time to time, puzzled by the perfunctory look on Veronica's face. If she clearly wasn't interested in this commission, why insist on investigating it to the end? What was she really after?
The cab pulled up at the mouth of an alleyway. Following the familiar route, Wayne made his way to the third floor of the apartment building. The wooden floorboards creaked underfoot, and household garbage littered both sides of the hallway.
A rat darted across the floor, vanishing into a crack in the wall. Every detail indicated that Abel's living conditions, like his health, had plummeted to rock bottom.
Wayne had entered via the balcony last time, but took the stairs today. Just as he raised a hand to knock, William shoved him aside, slamming casserole-sized fists against the wooden door with loud thuds.
The door swung open. Abel stood there in an undershirt, wrapped in a blanket. Looking perplexed, he first glanced at the strikingly beautiful Veronica, then, intimidated by William's dancing pectorals, hastily moved to shut the door.
Too late.
William shoved right through, nearly knocking Abel to the ground.
"Mr. Painter, our lady wishes to discuss a long-term patronage arrangement with you."
*A windfall like that?!*
Abel was ecstatic. With Veronica's beauty, let alone patronage, he would gladly do it for free.
A girl brimming with such ethereal spirit would spark countless creative inspirations with the slightest collision. At the thought, Abel felt his body surge with strength.
He had it in him again!
The scene cut: Abel was tied securely to a chair, a cloth stuffed in his mouth.
Wayne: (눈_눈)
*Such practiced bondage art... If I'd refused last night, would I have ended up like this too?*
"Don't be afraid. We aren't good people, but so long as you answer our questions obediently, not only will we not harm you, we'll even pay you a handsome fee."
William sneered, flexing his chest muscles. "Of course, you can refuse. The consequence is your tender little daisy being trampled until it's the size of a sunflower."
Abel shook his head desperately. He didn't know anything!
Wayne rolled his eyes. The threat barely fell within the man's line of work, so it probably wouldn't scare Abel anyway. Stepping to Veronica's side, he whispered, "What's going on? You promised you wouldn't cause trouble for me."
Veronica didn't answer. Reaching into the leather handbag she carried, she produced a glass vial. Wayne peered at it curiously; inside were mushrooms of vibrant, swirling colors.
Judging by the hues, these fungi were sure to have an exquisite flavor.
Sure enough, they proved delicious enough to induce hallucinations. After William forced a mouthful of mushrooms down Abel's throat, the young man's pupils gradually lost focus. The vitality drained from his vacant face, leaving him giggling foolishly in mindless babble.
"Who left this brand on you?"
William gripped Abel's right hand tightly. A wisp of light flared, and an inverted black triangle slowly surfaced on the skin of Abel's hand.
The symbol represented death—the mark of a follower of the Goddess of Death.
Wayne watched the scene in astonishment as a wave of heat surged within his chest. The Book of Greed, which had previously only been visible without offering any response, conveyed a distinct yearning the very instant the light flared.
It wanted it!
Chapter 4