Ch.21Ch.3 – My Miskatonic Comrades (1)

“I don’t like that kind of footsteps.”

April 16, 1929, 9:14 AM

22 Gorde Street,

Crayfield’s Office

The visitor on the landing was moving at ten-second intervals. Cautious steps, as if the stairs were a minefield. Perhaps that’s why he managed to safely navigate even the protruding nail heads on the steps.

“Slow is fine. Heavy is good too! Could be someone sturdy like our Mrs. Margaret. But that kind of leisurely pace really bothers me. Like footsteps that say ‘the world’s at my feet, so what’s the hurry?'”

He’s right.

People who seek out detectives are those burdened with serious problems. The weight on their minds manifests in their actions. Misplacing a step and twisting an ankle. Rushing up the stairs in haste.

But this visitor’s footsteps were remarkably steady. He placed his heel down first, then gradually shifted his weight to the entire foot. It meant he wasn’t coming out of desperation.

But then again, who would visit a detective’s office with peace of mind?

Knock knock.

“Come in!”

It was a familiar man.

Caramel-colored fedora and a raincoat with bluish tints. The loner from Sister Abashina’s tavern who had stood alone against the wall, silently watching the mafia men.

He wore black leather gloves and carried a bag in his left hand.

“John Crayfield?”

His pronunciation was precise, his voice projection excellent. Any decent choir would be eager to recruit him.

“Who else would I be? Didn’t you see the nameplate that says John Crayfield?”

“Specialist in background checks, tracking, protection, and securing evidence of infidelity. Correct?”

Crayfield gritted his teeth.

Among church folk, Crayfield was known as “a better young man than expected.” This was because he had handled an immigrant disappearance case that even the police had ignored.

Of course, the actual rescue was accomplished by his “assistant,” but the substantial investigation was credited to Crayfield.

Crayfield fumed that this was a scheme by Josh and Margaret.

Now missing immigrants would seek out Crayfield’s office instead of the police, reducing Josh’s workload. Margaret, seeing Crayfield earning more money, would have grounds to raise the rent.

Though never explicitly stated, Mother Superior Abashina also seemed complicit in the slander. Putting Crayfield forward while hiding herself behind the scenes.

Of course, it would be difficult to confirm this with her personally. She was currently investigating the underground tunnels of the Southern Cemetery.

Anyway, landlady Mrs. Graham had paid more advertising fees to both the Arkham Times and Pollard Times.

Thanks to that, Crayfield Detective Agency had moved from a tiny ad space that required a magnifying glass to see, to a large box framed with elegant pen lines.

If the landlady spent more money, they might even include a caricature. Throughout all this, she hadn’t modified the advertising copy one bit.

“Look, I don’t take infidelity cases! And who might you be?”

Still standing rigidly, the man flipped open his lapel to reveal his credentials. A silver double-headed eagle badge gleamed like a shield. A gun peeked out from between his coat flaps.

“Federal Bureau of Investigation, Special Agent Henry Payne. Badge number 25112.”

“Well, well. What brings someone who should be in Washington to this backwater town? Eloping with the First Lady, perhaps?”

“The First Lady has been deceased for quite some time.”

Payne didn’t so much as twitch an eyebrow. And he still hadn’t taken a seat. Instead, he remained standing straight as he surveyed the room.

“Your clock is wrong.”

He was right. The Doomsday Clock showed two o’clock.

That irritated Crayfield even more. The “protagonist” had appeared, but searching all over Pollard City had yielded nothing.

According to the game design, every protagonist was supposed to meet Crayfield at least once, making this an extremely exceptional case.

Fortunately, the clock had stopped moving since two days ago, the 14th.

“Indeed it is. I keep meaning to fix it but I keep forgetting.”

“Isn’t that inconvenient?”

“It’s tolerable.”

“Sounds like you don’t need to check the time much. Either you’re frequently away from the office, or that clock serves some other purpose.”

Crayfield looked up at Payne with an incredulous expression.

Agent Payne pulled out a thick cigar from his pocket. He also took out a match from his pocket, struck it against Crayfield’s desk, and lit it.

Once the cigar was lit, Payne lightly flicked the match and tossed it onto the floor.

Frowning, Crayfield took out a cigarette.

But his newly acquired lighter failed to ignite.

Payne, exhaling smoke like gunpowder, offered a lit match.

Crayfield muttered a halfhearted thanks.

“Your bookshelf is interesting.”

Payne pointed to the books lying on the shelf. Covered in blankets of dust, they were still deep in slumber.

“If you don’t have a case…”

“Gustave Le Bon’s ‘The Crowd.’ Edward Bernays’ ‘Crystallizing Public Opinion’ and ‘Propaganda.’ Good books. Excellent books.”

“I could give you a good price for them secondhand.”

“I’m not sure they’re appropriate reading for a private detective. And such books are too burdensome to offer even as a token gift.”

More gunpowder-like smoke. But Crayfield was a seasoned veteran.

“They were gifts from someone who spent her life advocating for women’s rights. I’m not lying when I say if she’d been twenty years younger, I would have dated her. She passed away from old age last year.”

“Mr. Crayfield. You’re not a serious person, I see.”

Payne stabbed his cigar into the edge of the desk. A thin wisp of smoke rose from the crushed cigar.

“That’s rich coming from a federal agent who barges into other people’s offices and litters as he pleases.”

Finally, Payne sat down. He leaned back in the chair, crossed his legs, and looked at Crayfield.

“Mr. Crayfield. What do you think about communism?”

“It’s a failed ideology.”

Crayfield’s moment of carelessness.

He deliberately blew cigarette smoke to hide his expression, but the very act of trying to conceal something was itself a clue to the federal agent.

“Interesting. Very interesting.

The Soviet Union continues to expand its influence, and communist revolution is being noted as a new ideology and new wave.

Not ‘it will fail,’ but ‘failed ideology.’ That’s past tense, isn’t it?”

“Stalin’s antics are obvious. That mustached fellow’s policies won’t be accomplished overnight.

He’ll inevitably hold power for a long time, and that will naturally lead to dictatorship. Mark my words.”

“So you’re not denying the ideology itself, is that what you mean?”

“Is ideology the problem? The problem is those who wield it like some kind of power in all directions.

Look, I couldn’t care less whether you, Payne, eat Chicago pizza with a knife or scoop it up with your shoe.

But the moment you try to force one method on me, I’ll shoot you.”

“Even if it’s the right way?”

Payne was persistent. Crayfield furrowed his brow.

“You seem to be talking in circles, so let me put it this way. There’s a ‘great ideology.’

If such a thing exists, which I doubt, but let’s say it does. That’s good, right?

Coercion? That’s bad. So is forcing a great ideology on someone good or bad?

You answer that, Mr. Smart Government Man.”

“Your answer is different from what I expected. I was hoping for something a bit more… ‘patriotic.’ The tree of liberty must be refreshed with the blood of patriots and tyrants, after all.”

“Haven’t you heard that patriotism is the virtue of the vicious?”

“Thomas Jefferson said that.”

“Oscar Wilde answered that.”

Crayfield added, as if just remembering:

“And he was ‘English.'”

“America is a great nation, Mr. Crayfield.”

Agent Henry Payne shook his head.

“The time for feeling inferior to England has passed. After the Great War, the relationship between America and England was reversed. Now we are the advanced nation.”

“Ha. America? Sure, it’s a good country. It has everything except happiness.”

“Are you not happy?”

“I was quite happy before you came in. And I’d be happier if you left. I’m a busy man.”

“Too busy to fix a broken clock. I understand.”

But Payne didn’t move an inch. He drummed his fingers on the desk and opened his bag.

He held out a photograph. When Crayfield tried to look at it, he pulled it back.

“Isn’t that a bit much?”

“One last question, Mr. Crayfield. If America could become better than it is now, would you do anything for it?”

“Are you crazy?”

“Please answer yes or no.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

For the first time, a satisfied smile appeared on Payne’s face.

“Why not?”

“Go out on the streets. Listen to the radio, attend church! There are plenty of people willing to do anything to improve this country, so why should I join that parade?”

Payne leaned forward.

“If the world could be made better with just a small gesture—one phone call, one nod—would you do it?”

“That’s a terrible thing to say. In other words, that same gesture could turn the world into hell.

Whatever it is, having such a large influence on the world with just a tiny gesture? I find that repulsive.”

“So you’re not a patriot. Nor an anti-communist. Nor a communist, nor even a fascist.”

“Of course not. I’m an atheist. Though I do believe in angels.”

Payne took out a sealed envelope from his bag and held it out. Crayfield, who had been looking at it indifferently, wondering what trick was coming next, noticed the unusual thickness and his eyes lit up.

Payne removed his hand from the envelope as if to say “take it.”

“Wow.”

It was filled with crisp, thick high-denomination bills.

“Mr. Crayfield. As a member of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I thank you. I have determined that you are ‘suitable’ to carry out our request.

This modest compensation is the minimum that the nation can offer you.”

“Finally getting to the point?”

Instead of answering, Payne held out the photograph he had pulled back earlier.

Crayfield’s lips twitched.

“Yes. Terrible, isn’t it? Taken at Miskatonic University. Two days ago. As you can see, the head is completely blown off, and flowers have grown in its place. You… come to think of it, we’ve met before. Come see.”

A poster labeled “Miskatonic Campus Radio Station” decorated the wall. Under the mechanical equipment lay two headless bodies. One appeared to be a man, the other a woman. Both had enormous flowers blooming from their heads.

“What on earth is this?”

“That’s what we’ve hired you to find out, Mr. Crayfield. Let me tell you from the beginning. There’s a Soviet spy at Miskatonic University. However, we know nothing about this person. Purpose, identity, gender. We’re not even sure if it’s an individual or a group.”

Crayfield took out a notebook and busily worked his pen. Thoughtfully, Payne waited until the pen stopped.

“We call this person ‘Rasputin.’ Note that we don’t know if it’s a group or an individual.

The FBI is engaged in a very tedious battle. Rasputin knows we’re tracking him.

We’ve been pursuing him continuously, and finally caught a lead.

Now look at this photo. It was taken two days ago at a military base I cannot name.”

Crayfield turned his head away as soon as he saw the photo.

“Everyone, including the person in charge, is dead. There’s no sign of intrusion whatsoever. No possibility of biological weapons or viruses either.

On the same day. At the same time, victims appeared simultaneously in two different locations.

The only common factor is one thing: both groups were listening to the same frequency.”

“Damn it. What do I need to do?”

“We suspect this might be a new Soviet weapon. A terrifying weapon that can kill people through radio waves. It doesn’t just kill; it also instills fear.”

Agent Payne put the two photographs back in his bag.

“Of course, the FBI won’t entrust all of this to you, Mr. Crayfield. My role is merely that of a guide.

Our colleagues, along with the military, police, and quarantine personnel, are already deployed at Miskatonic.

Your job is to closely guard Professor Mark Bravery, the faculty advisor of the Miskatonic campus radio station and an astronomer.”

“Somehow that sounds more like ‘surveillance’ to me.”

Crayfield grumbled. Agent Payne smiled again.

“Please go to Miskatonic, Mr. Crayfield.”

“Fine.”

“You’re quite straightforward.”

Payne offered a handshake. Crayfield stared blankly at the hand. Payne gave him a kind smile.

“But I have one condition of my own.”

“Just name it, Crayfield.”

“Take your trash with you when you leave.”