Ch.146Interlude (3)

July 16, 1929. 10:00 AM

Crayfield Detective Agency

22 Gorde Street

Pollard Island

I handle the scissors. Crayfield handles the glue. As always, I cut out newspaper articles, and Crayfield pastes them into the scrapbook.

What’s different today is that Crayfield has spread out all the scrapbooks he’s collected so far. He’s reclassifying a series of incidents. Politics. Economy. Society. Local… well, not exactly in that order. Eventually, I couldn’t contain my curiosity.

“Have you been dabbling in stocks?”

“Huh? What? What did you say?”

I raised my hand in apology. Crayfield seemed more deeply absorbed in that simple task than I’d thought, and I had unintentionally disturbed him.

“Stocks. Investing in stocks means you believe the money you’ll spend tomorrow is more valuable than the money you spend today. Right? But I’m the type who’d spend all his life’s money today if possible. I have no concept of ‘future utility value.'”

“Because the end is coming?”

“No. Just because I want to live as I always have. Tomorrow’s me probably won’t hate today’s me too much. Well done, Crayfield! Keep living recklessly like that. Can you hear it? That’s tomorrow’s Crayfield cheering on today’s me.”

I examined his scrapbooks again.

Crayfield had classified the scraps into three main categories: Unimportant cases. Closed cases. Important and unresolved cases. The third pile was the most problematic.

“House fire in North Arkham, 1 resident missing. Estimated property damage…” Below that article,

“Grain shock… Transport disruptions due to high waves, temporary food shortage expected.”

And beneath that, “The shadow of prosperity… Corporations and the wealthy increase while inequality deepens. Get-rich-quick mentality prevails.”

“Arkham Mayor declares emergency irrigation work at Western Reservoir complete… ‘Safe for drinking, and will serve as water source for all eastern Massachusetts from today'”

At the very end was “Broadway’s sensational performance finally arrives on Pollard Island! With new stage equipment and New York’s rising star ‘Atticus Freeman’ joining, original cast remains despite unfortunate incidents!”

To this, Crayfield added the advertisement I had just cut from the newspaper:

“Broadway’s sensational performance finally arrives on Pollard Island! With new stage equipment and New York’s rising star ‘Atticus Freeman’ joining, with the original cast’s renowned reputation intact!”

“Do you see the difference?”

“The part about ‘unfortunate incidents’ is missing.”

“That one’s from a few days ago, and this is the revised press release from the very next day. Looking into those ‘unfortunate incidents,’ I found that the production is famous for its lead actors committing suicide. Suicide. Accidental death. Drug overdose. Robbery. Whatever. Statistically, it’s entirely ‘possible,’ but it’s statistically proven that statisticians’ words are hard to believe with high probability, isn’t it?”

Conspiracy theorists worldwide should listen to Crayfield. Conspiracy theories pour out every time he opens his mouth. Of course, it might be received differently when the speaker isn’t some unwashed basement dweller with thick glasses, but a clean-cut detective with blond hair.

“Alright, Crayfield. So you’re saying all these are connected?”

Crayfield was silent for a moment before answering. His voice was slightly hoarse, as happens with people deeply immersed in their thoughts.

“It might seem strange.”

Strange indeed. A man who knows the end is coming, reclassifying newspaper clippings. An ordinary person would be securing a bunker safe from high-explosive bombs and hoarding enough food and medicine to last three years, but he wasn’t doing that.

“Assistant. I don’t know the answer. But I do know how to approach it. That’s my methodology. The reason the Necronomicon comparison work was important was because I wanted to know who exactly we’re up against. You need to know what kind of bastard you’re dealing with to determine how to handle them.”

“You mean our final opponent is an entity that appears in the complete book but is missing from the incomplete one?”

“Exactly.” Crayfield nodded. “But this time there are two. Azathoth. Hastur.”

I flinched. Those names were unpleasant. The back of my hand that had been scratched by the Necronomicon’s pages itched.

“Hastur.”

I recalled that entity wearing a silver mask and wrapped in a yellow cloak.

“To be honest, even ‘Hastur’ isn’t the correct pronunciation. ‘The Unspeakable One’ is a more accurate alias.”

“Why such a name?”

“Because he has countless names.” Crayfield tapped the scrapbook.

“He’s gone through innumerable names. He’s a jester and an actor. He’s played countless roles and performed various parts, all of which suited him so well that it’s difficult to specify just one. Isn’t it common for famous actors to be called by their character names rather than their real names?”

According to the Necronomicon, his specialty seemed to be bewitching people. Truth and falsehood. Reality and dreams. Sensation and imagination… past and future. Hastur mixes them all up and rearranges them to his liking.

“What would happen if he descended?”

“Everyone in the world would experience what you went through at the Western Reservoir in Arkham.” Crayfield stared blankly at the ceiling.

“Something you clearly experienced, but no one will listen. Something you definitely saw, heard, and felt, but the world says never happened. You’ll start doubting yourself, your sense of self will crumble piece by piece. Your sense of reality will collapse. Eventually, you’ll let go.”

“Let go?”

“Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. All is fleeting and fleeting, so fleeting. Walking through the world wearing masks, wearing the appropriate mask for each situation and occasion would remain the only joy in life, but after wearing too many masks, you wouldn’t know which face is truly yours. Just like Hastur himself. That’s the meaning behind the Yellow Sign. Like the world is fake. Believing that you yourself are also fake.”

I pondered his words for a long time. As I thought, I cut the newspaper with scissors, and he resumed his classification work. Only the rustling sound of folding paper filled the room. Somewhere, a dog was barking.

“By the way, the Necronomicon. Why did we need the dog?”

“Event trigger.” Crayfield didn’t take his eyes off the newspaper classification.

“It’s like a jump scare, something that startles people. Having a dog nearby can prevent that. Strangely, the entities in Lovecraft’s novels are no match for dogs.”

He was indeed a reassuring presence. Any problem would be as childish as a kid’s puzzle before him.

“There’s nothing to worry about then. Since you’re here. You may not know the answer, but you know the solution method, right? So if I just trust you, we can overcome everything? We can win.”

“Assistant.” Crayfield’s voice was subdued. The corners of his eyes drooped, making him look strangely sad.

“Yes?”

“We cannot win.”

I had to force myself to breathe. Because I had forgotten how to breathe.

“What do you mean?”

“I said we cannot win.” Crayfield tapped his desk with his finger.

“Have I mentioned this? All games in the world are designed with the premise that they ‘can be beaten.’ A game that cannot be beaten isn’t a game. It’s just a chunk of code. While the Drugstore is a despicable fellow, he didn’t create this game alone.

And the Drugstore’s coding skills are terrible. So… at the very least, the level design, structure, and layout of this game were done by a sensible programmer. Which means, ultimately, this game was designed to be beatable by someone.”

“But that means the end of the world, doesn’t it?”

“The end will come.” There wasn’t a hint of joking on Crayfield’s face. “Would I be investing in stocks if that were the case?”

“Wait. Wait, Crayfield. So we’re just doing pointless things now. Is that… is that what you’re saying?”

“Pointless?” Crayfield finally smiled.

“Did you say pointless? Come on. That’s too pessimistic. Look. Is a life that cannot prevent the end all in vain? Is living a life that will eventually end meaningless? Is attempting something that will fail pointless? We’re just living our lives.

We can’t win. So what? What difference does that make?

How is it any different from the fact that we’ll all die anyway? We just do what we can do today. Just as we’ve always done, we analyze cases, predict our enemies, and prepare everything we can more meticulously. I am Crayfield and Sagan, and I’ll live that way until the very end. I don’t have even a bottle cap’s worth of complaint.”

“Not everyone in the world is like you.” That was all I could say.

“Of course not. I’m a below-average, hopeless blockhead. So bring some alcohol for this pitiful human. And… the theater performance. Was it at the Savio family theater?”

It was. A theater that Aurora had specially renovated, equipped with a large casino and hall, fitting for the new century.

“Then go get some floor plans. And… tell people to boil water before drinking it. Take care of your girlfriends. I’ll visit some people I owe.”

My face reddened at the mention of girlfriends, but Crayfield had already put on his coat. He also opened a drawer and handed me a bundle of bills.

“Let’s go. Eat, drink, and be merry today and tomorrow. See some people too.”

“Where are you going?”

“Downstairs.” Crayfield scratched the back of his head. “To repay our respectable landlord for her kindness and seek some advice.”

* * * * *

11:00 AM

Trieste Theater Office

Downtown

Pollard Island

The men in white gloves were always consistent. They searched my body with the same thoroughness even though I had surrendered my gun. Their attitude suggested they wouldn’t miss anything potentially dangerous. I decided to take it as evidence of Aurora’s excellent organizational control rather than her being cold-hearted. She made no exceptions, even for close friends.

“Mmph.”

Except, of course, for kissing me as soon as I entered the office.

With her lips still on mine, Aurora grabbed my collar and yanked me forward, then pushed me back. I fell onto a soft sofa. The powerful left hand of the Massachusetts mafia straddled me.

“Aurora.”

“Shh.”

Aurora didn’t move from on top of me. Her panting breath brushed against my ear. I slowly stroked her back. Her heated body beneath the white blouse warmed my fingertips.

“Now talk.”

“Like this?”

Impossible. Not with such a beautiful creature writhing on top of me.

“Then don’t talk.”

Lips meeting again. Her hand pulling mine. The sound of her truthful heart beating strongly beneath her trembling chest. Dizzying pleasures. Her red hair tickling my cheeks. The sweet scent of flesh, more comforting than morning bedsheets. Flashes. Suppressed passions. Entangled and mixed, breaths falling to the floor, drop by drop. Breaths.

Crayfield was right.

Even a life that cannot prevent the end is not in vain.