Ch.22Ch.3 – My Miskatonic Comrades (2)

We gathered our supplies and stood up. With no players on Pollard Island, we now had to search inland.

Crayfield occasionally muttered that perhaps that arrogant federal agent might lead us.

“Don’t you think you should have a notebook of your own by now?”

Though the paper was worn out, it contained quite detailed information. Some pages even had maps drawn on them.

“If you flip through the pages, you’ll find quest lists too. I told you about this last time, but you don’t seem to have used it properly. This time it’s complicated, so pay close attention.”

“When new information comes in, the notebook’s contents will change, so make sure you familiarize yourself with it. Now, take it.”

* * * * *

April 16, 1929. 10:00 AM – 4:14 PM

On the way to Miskatonic University

There’s a regular ferry from Pollard Island to Kingsport.

If Pollard is an outpost, Kingsport could be called a supply base of sorts.

It was the first gathering place for newcomers hoping to make their fortune as whalers, and also served as a collection point for intermediate goods like whale oil, ambergris, and bones that had been initially processed on Pollard.

But that’s all in the past now.

The Kingsport dock was desolate. The Coast Guard was seen more often than fishermen or tourists.

Fortunately, there was still a bus to Arkham. Although the service interval was two hours, we timed it well and didn’t have to wait long.

There were quite a few people coming from Arkham to Kingsport, but we were the only ones going from Kingsport to Arkham.

Since it wasn’t a direct bus, it would occasionally veer off the paved road onto dusty dirt paths if one’s mind wandered even slightly.

Surprisingly many people got on and off the bus, all of them men in suits carrying what looked like briefcases under their arms.

“It wasn’t like this even last winter.”

Crayfield pointed out the window. Outside was a wheat field, the stalks grown tall but still green, not yet ripe.

The endless expanse of wheat suggested a promising harvest this year. But Crayfield’s finger was pointing not at the wheat field, but at the wasteland beside it.

The warehouses, paths, wells, and stables for livestock looked no different from the wheat field, but the area was utterly desolate.

The ground was cracked and reddish, with only sparse weeds growing here and there.

“This used to be where hay grew. They would sow it around the same time as the wheat farm, between late autumn and early winter, and harvest after May. But while the wheat farm seems to be operating well, the hay farm has been completely abandoned.”

“The farm owner committed suicide.”

The answer came from the seat across the aisle.

He was a white man with a thick chin and completely sunburned skin. His hands were thick with protruding knuckles and split fingertips.

Judging by his worn nails, he was undoubtedly a farmer.

But why was he wearing an ill-fitting suit and a ridiculously small-brimmed fedora?

“Committed suicide?”

“Yes. He went bankrupt. He was a good man, but he misread the trends. As you know, hay is eaten by horses and cattle, right?

But since automobiles came along, the number of horses has decreased, and so has the demand for hay.

The real problem, though, was that last year’s harvest was too good.

The price of hay plummeted, and the old man couldn’t pay his debts.

That was the final straw that broke the camel’s back.”

It was a terrible joke, but the thick-set man shook his head dismissively.

“Everything depends on supply and demand matching up. That’s why farming is difficult.

It takes a year for the product to be ready, and no one knows what might happen in the meantime.

Supply might be excessive. Demand might suddenly decrease. Life is the same way.”

Crayfield nodded.

“You’re right about that.”

“So, young men.”

Suddenly, the man turned his body toward us.

“An old man like me is just a rotting body, but you are young men with bright futures ahead of you. No one knows what might happen in the future.”

“We’ve got a live one,”

Crayfield whispered in a low voice. But he answered the thick-set man kindly.

“No one knows indeed.”

“So, as a reward for listening to this old man’s words, I’d like to offer you something. What do you say?

I can’t guarantee a solid and stable future, but I can sell you a safety net that will save you in times of crisis at a very reasonable price.”

“Ah. You must be talking about those suit-wearing types who shoot up drugs and masturbate to maintain clear judgment.”

Unfortunately, the thick-set man didn’t seem to understand Crayfield’s sarcasm.

“Yes, that’s right! In fact, how could people like us understand things like stocks and futures options?

It’s best to leave such matters to experts!

Just as we seek doctors and pharmacists when we’re sick, and firefighters when there’s a fire, it’s investment firms that grow your money!”

“Oh, my aching head.”

The enthusiastic old man seemed completely deaf to Crayfield’s words.

“Yes! Your head must hurt! Let me get to the point. It doesn’t matter how much. Just invest more than $1. Then those experts will invest your money and generate returns for you. It’s a chance to legally print money, and you’d be a fool not to take it. A fool.”

“Let’s at least hear the company name.”

The old man shouted with the exaggerated manner of a cheap medicine peddler.

“Lehman Sisters Investment Company!”

Crayfield’s expression turned very sour.

“Well. I think the name itself sounds problematic.”

“Hey. Excuse me.”

Suddenly, a man from the seat in front leaned over.

He had a long scar running from his temple along his jaw and made no attempt to hide his displeasure. The thick-set old man shrank back slightly.

“Who invests there these days? Their return rate last month was only 5%. Investment companies need credibility. Credibility. There’s no company more credible than Enron Management! Their return rate was 7%. Seven percent!”

“Wasn’t that 7% just a figure on paper, and actually 0.77% in reality?”

Crayfield’s quiet muttering was drowned out by the old man’s sneer.

“Ha! They lost 4% the month before!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. That very product has been converted to a 7% return this month. Don’t you read the newspapers?”

The pride battle between the two salesmen showed no signs of abating. Other passengers joined in too.

As it turned out, all those suit-wearing men were selling something. Insurance. Funds. Stocks. Bonds. Even the bus driver was shouting and asking curious questions.

By the time we reached southern Arkham, all the salesmen on the bus had signed each other’s financial product application forms, allowing us to quietly slip off the bus and walk to Miskatonic University.

* * * * *

Same day, 4:42 PM

Southern Arkham

Compared to Pollard Island, the buildings in southern Arkham might as well be falling apart.

People looked shabby, and the stench of putrid water permeated from the direction of the Miskatonic River.

Above all, the people’s lethargy was most noticeable. No one bothered to shoo away the flies swarming around display cases.

As we got closer to the university campus, young people came into view. Male and female college students carrying thick textbooks.

Their faces showed clear signs of fatigue and irritation, and some looked stiff with tension up to their necks.

“Exam period? That’s a shame. I was hoping for a more lively campus.”

Crayfield decided to find lodging first. Since it was still during the semester, the boarding houses around Miskatonic were full.

After searching the alleys above the university grounds, we finally found a relatively clean hotel.

It was a four-story brick building, and I liked the owner who was diligently mopping the first-floor hall.

Vitality, perhaps. Or liveliness. He seemed to possess something like that. Unfortunately, he wasn’t a player either.

We each took a room and paid in advance. The daily rate was $5.60, but we negotiated it down to $15 for three days by paying upfront.

“You’re private detectives, from Pollard Island?”

The balding man wiping his sweat asked.

“This isn’t my first time here. I visited quite frequently last year. By the way, Arkham has changed a lot.”

The man, who had returned after washing his hands and face, offered us two glasses of cool lemonade. It had a bit too much sugar syrup, but the tartness and sweetness blended well.

“The streets haven’t changed. It’s the people who have changed. Everyone having a stock or two has become the norm. Even Miskatonic University undergraduates are only interested in money these days.”

“Is that unusual?”

“It is unusual.”

The bald man wiped his forehead.

“Just ten years ago, there were many officer veterans returning from the war as students. They were interested in abstract things.

Why such a war happened. How times would change. How democracy differs from imperialism.

But those fellows must have done too well after graduating and entering society.

Now, any decent middle-class family has at least one radio and one car at home.”

Crayfield briefly shared his experience on the bus. The man sighed deeply.

“That’s how it is these days. Those people were probably farm workers or factory laborers originally.

There aren’t as many jobs as you might think, and with fewer opportunities to earn money honestly, everyone’s getting caught up in baseless money games.

What can you do? There aren’t many other ways to make a living.”

“Is Arkham affected too?”

“Very much so. The unemployment rate is enormous. But in my opinion, that’s not the real problem. The problem is that people aren’t visible.”

“Not visible?”

“The radio talks all day about who’s bragging about having more money. Men and women adorned with jewelry, accessories, and gold-plated watches strut down the streets.

New cars in different colors roll by every other day, but people without money and possessions aren’t mentioned. They’re not even visible.

They must be breathing and living somewhere, but I guess they all stay in their rooms.”

Two female students entered the lobby, greeting everyone cheerfully. The shop owner waved back kindly.

“Mr. Rober, we have a new poster. Can we put it up in the hall?”

“Go ahead.”

Crayfield watched the female students putting up the poster with great interest. He seemed to be looking at their tiptoeing and slightly upturned skirt hems.

The poster’s content wasn’t entirely legible, but it read “Are Social Revolution and Struggle Compatible? – A Late-Night Grand Debate for Miskatonic University Students.”

“Isn’t that a rather sensitive topic?”

Crayfield inquired. The female students who had finished putting up the poster pressed themselves against the wall. Crayfield waved his hand.

“Don’t worry. I’m just a traveler from that whaling island. Not a bad government agent.”

“You’re a private detective with business at Miskatonic University.”

The freckled student was still pressed against the wall, but the student with round glasses cautiously approached.

“Are you here to investigate the murder case?”

“You guessed correctly.”

“They were both good kids. Mickey, Olson. Both were central to our reading group, but they were assassinated.”

“Assassinated?”

Crayfield asked incredulously.

“Rumors are rampant among students. This country is oppressive about the spread and discussion of free thought. The government is behind their deaths.”

The student with round glasses emphasized “government.”

“Is there any evidence?”

“A Federal Security Bureau agent came to attend our university seminar a few days before the accident. Isn’t that too coincidental? And that person is supposedly a doctor. Even graduated from Johns Hopkins University.”

It seems to be the same doctor that Dr. Gregory Hugh introduced to O’Brien and Audrey as a rising star in psychology.

But that person was already at the school before the incident occurred, and at that time, the Doomsday Clock hadn’t advanced.

Therefore, she might be an important figure, but she can’t be a player.

“I suppose many reporters came too?”

“Of course. But they can’t get through the entrance. It’s strictly controlled. The fence is guarded by the state guard and police, so they absolutely can’t get in.

Those beasts look at female students’ cleavage with binoculars. It’s extremely unpleasant. Really.”

“Ann. We have to go.”

The freckled college student gently admonished.

“We have another exam in three hours.”

“See? This is how I am. Nice to meet you. I’m Ann Molly. A student in Miskatonic’s Political Diplomacy Department. That kind friend is Marie Shelley. Miskatonic Folklore Department. An elite.”

“Don’t give your name to strangers!”

Despite Marie’s protest, Ann shook Crayfield’s outstretched hand. Crayfield’s eyes widened, but he quickly smiled again.

“Nice to meet you. I’m John Crayfield. A private detective. I’ll be staying at this hotel for a while.”

“Who’s the person next to you?”

“My assistant.”

“Nice to meet you, Assistant. Well, we must go now. Let’s talk more later!”

The two female students went up the stairs, chiding each other. They looked like ordinary college students. Crayfield carefully observed their skirts and legs again, but then looked at his notebook and his face hardened.

“Assistant.”

Crayfield frowned.

“One of those two is a player.”