Ch.145Interlude (2)

# 1929. 7. 14. PM 9:12

## Northern Residential Area

## Arkham

The residential area in northern Arkham is cheaper than other places. The houses are small, and so are the rooms.

College students settle in boarding houses near the school, and day laborers find their places in the “hive” of the south, making northern Arkham a typical lower-middle-class residential area. It means that as long as you secure your front door and avoid causing a commotion, you won’t die in your sleep. Perhaps that’s why this place has a strangely faint presence.

That’s why this neighborhood is home to people who don’t want to cause trouble with others, workers with meager earnings but fixed commuting hours. For example, the man known as “the Englishman” among taxi drivers is a prime example.

It’s not entirely wrong, as he’s known to be from Portsmouth, England. When asked how he ended up on American soil, he would talk about the winds of Portsmouth. A strong gust had thrown him into the sea, and according to him, it hurt more than when he was thrown out of a third-floor window.

After three days of intensive care, he survived and was nicknamed “Jesus.” His beard was so curly and long that he truly resembled Jesus from religious paintings. But having lost all affection for England, he chose to come to America, and after drifting around, he arrived here in Arkham, he said.

It’s difficult to call Arkham a vibrant city. There’s something damp and gloomy about it. The air is heavy, and the streets smell of mold. The winding Miskatonic River is incredibly murky, and the subtly concave basin terrain prevents moisture from leaving.

That’s what attracted the Englishman, he said. Portsmouth was like that too.

Rumors. Gossip. Strange tales? In Portsmouth, such things were openly published in newspapers. A compression cylinder pierced through two people’s abdomens. An overcharged auxiliary spring mechanism burst, rupturing someone’s eyeball… Here, there’s none of that. At most, there are only ridiculous stories about strange creatures leaping out of graves and howling.

Is that all? In Portsmouth, there were many lunatics who would smash a bottle against the wall and threaten to stab you to death just for making eye contact. At least there are none of those here. Instead, he’s rather respected. Americans seem to have a strangely fantastic view of British accents.

The “Englishman” thought Americans would never distinguish between Cockney and RP, but he didn’t think they were stupid or ridiculous for it. He didn’t particularly dislike how his Portsmouth accent attracted the interest of young ladies.

Germans who stubbornly cling to their accents, despicable Irishmen who can’t give up their drinking habits, sinister Italians who whisper in their own language… Compared to such types, the position of the “Englishman” was quite favorable. When cheap lard is placed next to low-grade olive oil, doesn’t it look relatively stylish?

If there was one flaw, it was his complete lack of interest in romance. The man appeared somewhat older, but many women found attractive masculinity in his good build and “charming British accent.” The women all had ordinary faces, but many had nice figures and good hearts.

Yet each time, he would politely decline, saying, “Now is not a good time.” Of course, he never forgot to subtly avert his gaze from the women. Such behavior only increased their interest. Though he was as big as a bear, his touch was incongruously delicate, and his eyes revealed an unmistakable intellectual quality.

Moreover, he was always kind. Even on reluctant dates, he never made his companion uncomfortable. It was his own form of consideration. “It’s not that I don’t like you, but we don’t seem to be a good match. Since we’re already here, let’s have some fun.”

“Here. I really like this part. Hmm, hmm-hmm.”

Sometimes he would dance the Charleston to street radio music, and the sight of a white English laborer openly dancing like that on the street was enough to attract attention. If a bear doing tap dance were walking down the street, wouldn’t anyone take notice?

The woman, her face bright red, watched the man through her fingers, the audience who jeered, cheered, and laughed at him, and the Englishman who winked at her, shifting the public’s attention toward her.

It was like a bouquet of baby’s breath memories without a single rose. An event that might happen once or twice in a lifetime.

After marrying another man and with a granddaughter on her knee, she could tell various stories, including “When this old lady was young, something like this happened.” A piece of spring day.

What completed such romance was the romance and wistfulness that came from never having been together. It’s the road not taken that makes one keep looking back.

“Cough. Cough.”

But this date seemed determined not to leave any regrets. The Englishman, who returned home after finishing work on time, froze at the sight of a lady sitting demurely in his living room chair.

The lady seemed to stand up briefly before stabbing an iron rod into his body. With a crunch, it got caught between the gears in the man’s body. The Englishman became unable to move.

“Cough.”

Oil, antifreeze, and blood flowed from the Englishman’s mouth. The Englishman’s body had not yet been fully mechanized.

Yet the lady before him managed to avoid all his vital points while precisely stabbing, cutting, and blocking his power connections. She even attached a strong magnet to his vocal device. As a result, the Englishman’s speech sounded like a radio with static.

“Kee-huh. Kee-huuuh.”

The Englishman stood like a mannequin, breathing. All he could move were his eyeballs and facial skin. The gray lady pulled out a large suitcase from behind the curtain, like a traveler who had just checked in. It was large enough to comfortably fit a person.

“Coming to America was a very foolish choice, ‘Englishman.’ That’s what they call you here, right?”

Impeccable Posh accent. The self-proclaimed “Englishman” felt pathetic that he couldn’t even nod. That’s the problem with a mechanical body. It looks strong, but it stops working if even a small screw comes loose.

“You wanted to pretend to be an English dock worker, and you wanted to play the playboy too. You worked as a driver to scout victims, and at night you strangled them to death and then raped them. You didn’t discriminate between men and women. You left no traces because you didn’t make typical intrusions like walking down hallways and flinging open front doors.”

“This isn’t English soil. It’s been independent for quite some time, hasn’t it?”

That was all the “Englishman” could say. The gray lady didn’t blink. The room had curtains drawn, and the only light was the moonlight desperately piercing through the fabric.

But that was enough to illuminate the outline of Clarice Holmes.

“True. I’m not the police either. Just as you’re not the ‘Englishman.’ Ismael Van Helsing. ‘Vladimir’ Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov. Isn’t that name too grandiose for a communist Red? So, how does it feel to have fallen from grace and fled all the way here?”

“Stalin is an idiot. He talks impressively about Marxism-Leninism, but that Georgian bank robber filled the gap between theory and reality with blood.”

“And you bent over with your ass spread for him. How did the taste of rubles in your ass feel? Was it sweet?”

The gray lady opened her bag. Ismael Van Helsing lowered his eyes. It was filled with bizarre instruments he had never seen or heard of before, but their purpose was clear.

Torture.

Clarice Holmes twirled around and flung open the curtains, as if she didn’t care who saw. When she opened the window, Arkham’s night view was visible. The sudden glaring moon made Ismael’s legs tremble.

“Tell me. Everything related to Moriarty. Why you’re here. Where Moriarty is. Why Stalin’s discarded male prostitute is squirming in this rotten, cave-smelling city.”

“I’ll answer if you suck mine.”

“Shall I?”

Clarice Holmes smiled. It was closer to pulling her mouth sideways than a smile. Her foot moved with a rustle.

Ismael’s head fell off with a thud.

“Uh…?”

On a small table was a white vase containing withered roses. Clarice placed Ismael’s head next to it. She gently picked up the collapsing body and laid it on the floor. Antifreeze, blood, and black oil flowed from the severed neck like sobs.

“I dislike dirtying my hands, but.”

Clarice twisted her wrist. A long blade protruded from her forearm. She roughly cut up Ismael’s body. After skillfully carving out only the parts corresponding to the spine and vocal cords, she reassembled Ismael’s head, inserted it, and placed it on the sofa.

“Uhuuuuuu…”

“Tell me. Everything related to Moriarty. Why you’re here. Where Moriarty is. Why Stalin’s discarded male prostitute is squirming in this rotten, cave-smelling city.”

“Didn’t…”

“What?”

“Didn’t… suck it…”

Clarice showed an even deeper smile. As if having made a decision, she took out a small bag from the carrier.

“Do you know what this is?”

“Box…”

“Yes. A standard postal box. I’ll ask one last time, and if you don’t answer, I’ll send you to the Count’s daughter.”

Ismael’s eyes changed. His spine, connected by mechanical wires and iron rods, trembled.

“She’s grown up quite beautifully. Good at fighting, with a nice figure. Like a well-ripened Italian fruit. It seems the Vatican has raised her well as a tomboy lady… I think she’ll be very happy to see you. What do you think?”

“I’ll… I’ll talk… I’ll…”

“Speak.”

“If you… put me… back together…”

Crack.

Clarice lifted her foot from Ismael’s body. She had completely shattered his genital area.

“Oh my. This part wasn’t mechanical. Surprising. Well, now you can’t be sucked. What shall we do?”

“This… this…”

“I made too difficult a request.”

Clarice stomped on Ismael’s foot. She knew exactly where to step for maximum damage. The ankle bone area. Near the ankle ligaments. She meticulously tore out each nerve bundle and power connection.

“Bomb…”

“Hmm?”

“Bomb.”

Clarice lifted her chin as if telling him to continue. Yet with her hands, she continued to dismantle Ismael’s body piece by piece.

“Why… why… I’m talking… I’m talking…”

“I really hate it when people drag things out. The more you drag it out, the more irreparable your body will become. If that’s what you want, keep doing it.”

“Fine. Fine. Moriarty wanted to defect to the Soviet Union. But the Soviets were suspicious of Moriarty. They suspected he might be a spy from the ‘Circus’ like you. So they sent him to America to assess his capabilities. The Soviet United State Political Directorate sent me to London to find out details and also to plant a spy in America. In the end, it all failed.”

This was information she already knew. Clarice silently removed Ismael’s knee joint.

“But things got bigger. Moriarty made contact with Senator Annette Cole. Annette Cole promised… knowledge. If Moriarty did something for her, she would give him cosmic knowledge.”

Clarice still showed no reaction. Nor did she dismiss it as nonsense.

“And then?”

“Annette Cole gave Moriarty a factory. To replicate bodies. I only know it’s a weapons factory in an eastern U.S. city… In return, she asked him to steal a book.”

“A book?”

“The name was strange. Necronomicon… something, the pronunciation was so weird I can’t remember. But I’m certain something happened in Innsmouth, and Moriarty lost many of his duplicates there. He couldn’t leave the factory for quite some time.”

She was aware of the fall of Innsmouth City. The ‘Circus’ had analyzed it from various angles and reached the ambiguous conclusion that it was definitely not a natural phenomenon, but also difficult to analyze scientifically.

Strangely, the answer came from a spy planted in the U.S. Federal Security Bureau. It was a report from the absurd team called Project: Red Alpha. Team leader Katherine Scully’s report, frankly speaking, would have been dismissed as the ravings of a madwoman if it didn’t have an official state seal.

Americans. Clarice frowned. It disturbed her that such outlandish stories were increasingly proving to be true.

“So what happened?”

“Moriarty and Senator Annette Cole had a long argument. Sadly, neither had the power to finish the other off. But they still had to cooperate. Annette Cole wanted a criminal who could move freely, and Moriarty wanted knowledge. Whether it was out of thirst for knowledge, or thinking the Soviets would accept him if he increased his value… I don’t know.”

“What about the bomb story?”

“I heard it was some kind of incendiary bomb. I don’t know the details. But they needed quite a lot. From what I heard… enough to blow up two cities.”

“What’s the transport plan?”

“Hidden in the bodies of the duplicates.”

“Where to?”

“They said Pollard Island. I don’t know the date. I don’t know the reason either. I just vaguely heard that it had to match the ‘theater opening day’…”

“I see.”

Clarice stood up. She gently lifted Ismael Van Helsing’s head and spine. With most of his cerebrospinal fluid drained, he now seemed to struggle even to continue speaking.

“Now, me…”

“Shall I tell you an interesting story?”

Clarice smiled mercifully.

“How do you think I knew you were here?”

“You… tracked me…”

“No. I was contacted by the Soviets.”

Antifreeze dripped from Ismael’s mouth.

“Lie. Lies…”

“Not only did you brazenly take operational funds, but you even submitted fake receipts. Why was that? Why would a con artist need money? Were you trying to go to India? Or were you planning to escape to some unnamed Asian country?

Three young officers in the London delegation committed suicide. Those military attachés you led. They said they suffered unspeakable humiliation. Considering your record, it’s not hard to figure out what happened. So you ran away. Because Stalin is not favorable to male prostitutes.”

“Absolutely not, I, I…”

“Ismael Van Helsing is loyal only to his lower body and money, two things. But your lower body is already crushed, and you’ve lost all your money. What now?”

Ismael’s head trembled.

“You. How much… how much do you have left?”

“Me?”

“Your humanity! How much is left?! I’m more human than you! That’s what humans are! I’m better than a state whore like you who’s given her body and soul to the country!”

“I’ve kept enough to maintain loyalty.”

Clarice let go. Ismael fell. No. That’s not it. The world rushed up above Ismael. From far away. From the lower part of his spine, the sensual and delicate touch of the lady from London tapped, tapped on his nerve bundles.

But Ismael couldn’t scream. Clarice had already removed his vocal cords. Quickly, she drilled through his skull with a thick syringe and directly injected cerebrospinal fluid. It contained a small amount of stimulant, a triumph of modern medicine that allowed one to feel pain fully while remaining conscious.

“In the storm, sleep peacefully.”

That was the last sentence Ismael’s brain registered. Clarice crushed his brain with her foot. It was as meaningless as bursting a dead frog.

Clarice transferred the pieces of Ismael’s body into the carrier. Ismael’s body was sturdy and worth analyzing. It was also an opportunity to check how much Moriarty’s tricks had improved.

However, she placed the head and crushed genitals in a wooden box. The cargo that would be submitted to the post office early tomorrow morning would arrive at the Mother Superior of the southern cathedral on Pollard Island via regular liner.

One task remained. She took out a small clock from her bag. After winding it with a click, she placed it on the floor. In 10 minutes, the clock would explode and neatly blow up this apartment. Before leaving, however, she set off a smoke bomb and triggered the fire alarm.

So that those with ears to hear might survive.

Clarice came out onto the street, pulling her carrier. Indifferent cars brushed past her. Occasionally a taxi would slow down, but seeing her stoic face, they would just drive on.

Pollard Island.

Clarice took out a pipe and put it in her mouth. It was a habit she couldn’t give up even after becoming a mechanical body. With a boom, the dead man’s apartment exploded. Amidst the smoke, flames, and confusion, she vanished calmly.