Ch.24Request Log #004 – Justice of a Bygone Era (6)

I haven’t even spent all of the $300 I received from the demon yet, but getting another $500 from Gremory had made me comfortably flush with cash, which tends to make a person lazy.

Naturally, I didn’t open the detective agency. My schedule for the day consisted entirely of listening to baseball game broadcasts on the radio all afternoon. The Yankees were still making history.

But the day wouldn’t end in boredom. When the baseball games finished and the evening papers came out, the bars would open.

I needed nothing more than a bottle of whiskey to end my day. Nothing drowns dreams better than alcohol.

As I got up to leave this shabby apartment, the office phone began to ring. The fact that someone was calling my office number rather than my personal line meant business.

I’d have to save the drinking for later. I returned to my office desk and picked up the receiver.

The static indicated it was a long-distance call. There was only one person who would call me from out of town.

“Yes, Mr. Clichy. Husband here. Do you have a job for me?”

Mr. Clichy was an elf who had recklessly expanded into all sorts of businesses from oil to processed meat down in Texas.

He wasn’t as wealthy as the Archdemons, but he had more money than ordinary demons, and he was a business contact I’d established before Gremory.

While I was recalling what kind of person he was, his youthful voice—characteristic of elves who don’t age easily—came through the line.

“Yes, I subscribe to several New York newspapers for personal reasons… and some journalist has insulted my hometown. He insulted someone from my hometown and also insulted a journalist who spoke well of that person. Do you think I can just let this slide? Of course not. It’s truly sad that I can’t resolve this legally because of freedom of expression.”

“Stop being so polite and just tell me the name and newspaper.”

“It’s Walter Moss from The Reasonable Insight. Find him, teach him a painful lesson, and then make him write an apology letter to the journalist he insulted. That journalist said nice things about someone from my hometown, so he deserves an apology. Make sure the handwriting doesn’t shake, and the content should be quite sophisticated and respectful. You understand?”

He was lying. The cold-blooded Mr. Clichy would never show such kindness to a journalist just because they said something nice about his hometown.

But did that matter to the job? No, probably not. If it wasn’t relevant to the job, there was no need to worry about it. If it was a female journalist, she was probably a candidate for his third wife.

“Of course I understand. It’ll take about three days… maybe up to a week at most. I’ll need to find his home address first, then observe him for a day or two before going in to finish the job cleanly without complications.”

“I don’t care how long it takes. Just handle it cleanly in your usual way. What was the fee again?”

“Twenty dollars per day plus any additional expenses that might occur. I’ll send you the bill after the job is done.”

I needed to make a plan first. Breaking into a stranger’s home to threaten them is difficult work.

When you break a window to get in, the whole family might be having dinner together, or the person might have a habit of drinking coffee and chatting with neighbors at that time. I needed to thoroughly investigate.

First, I changed into my work clothes and went downstairs. The Reasonable Insight, he’d said.

I thought I should at least check what kind of article this Walter Moss character had written to earn Mr. Clichy’s resentment.

I handed two one-cent coins to the owner of the newspaper stand in front of my building.

“One copy of The Reasonable Insight.”

A lizard-man wearing a hot water bottle under his clothes to maintain body temperature handed me a newspaper with a magnifying glass logo.

Is this today’s paper? It would take a day or two for newspapers to be delivered to Texas where Mr. Clichy was, so it might be better to look for yesterday’s or the day before’s paper.

I checked just in case, and today’s paper was the right one. On the last page, reporter Walter Moss had published a verbose article criticizing the South and a journalist in one fell swoop.

If The Reasonable Insight had been a major newspaper, this would have been a serious problem, but it was small and unremarkable. Did he think he could get away with writing such inflammatory content?

After reading the newspaper, I crumpled it up and threw it in the trash can in front of the newspaper stand, then headed to the parking lot.

I located The Reasonable Insight newspaper office on a map in my car, then drove straight there.

I knew the general daily schedule of journalists. The basic edition of the newspaper was completed around 4 PM, but journalists typically left work around 6 PM. It was now 5:30 PM, so if I hurried and got lucky, I might be able to meet the journalist Mr. Clichy had mentioned. This was a matter of luck.

There was no time to be leisurely. I drove through the increasingly busy roads toward The Reasonable Insight newspaper building I had located on the map.

It didn’t take long. It was a distance that could be comfortably reached by 5:50 PM. The parking lot was on the side of the building. It was a small lot that could barely fit about a dozen cars.

I parked my car on the curb that separated the parking lot from the sidewalk. First, I needed to identify Walter Moss. I leaned back in my stiff seat and watched as journalists began to leave.

Journalists typically had two schedules after work. The more diligent ones would have dinner with their sources, while the others…

“Hey, Moss! Going straight home? You wrote a decent article, but you’re going home dry?”

This is how it happens. If he was going to make drinking plans with colleagues, it would have been better for his well-being to do so before leaving the building.

I scanned the group of about ten people, looking for someone who would respond. A fat man nodded with an expression that suggested he might snort at any moment.

“Would you be satisfied with just one good article? I’m going back in to work on another piece. Don’t ruin the reputation of our Reasonable Insight, just eat quietly and leave. Got it?”

Quite proud of himself, I see. I looked him over. His suit pants were high quality, but the patches added for repairs weren’t as fine as the pants themselves. He had saved up to buy the suit but couldn’t afford to maintain it properly.

His shirt also seemed quite nice, but he was wearing it with a collar that had been dirtied by sweat. Disgusting. He was the type who tried to fill his lack of self-esteem with possessions but didn’t know how to properly maintain them.

From the beginning, there were no decent humans among those who became self-righteous, intoxicated by their own image of cleverly refuting others’ opinions. Still, if he wasn’t going to drink, he would probably go home alone.

Before his car departed, I left first and exited the company parking lot onto the only road available.

I let Walter Moss’s car naturally overtake mine and pass by, making my car appear not to be following him.

After that, I followed quietly, without being detected. The first place he stopped was in front of a newspaper stand. I thought he might be buying a copy of The Reasonable Insight, but what he purchased was unexpected.

“So, one copy of Weird Stories… one Strange Tales, and one Mystery Night. No, what are you doing! You should put them in a paper bag! You want me to carry them like this?”

Mystery magazines and a reasonable perspective—what an amusing combination. And I could be certain that his personality would make him many enemies.

I continued following him. Without stopping anywhere else, he seemed to be heading straight home, gradually entering a residential area.

This time, I stayed closer behind him. After watching him drive into a not-so-large detached house, I made a wide turn onto the road leading out of the residential area.

A detached house was actually fortunate. Monitoring an apartment is difficult. If it’s on a high floor, I might need to climb to the roof of another building, and from such rooftops, it’s quite obvious that I’m watching.

After making a wide loop, I parked my car on the road opposite his house. With binoculars, I could peek a little through the windows on the second floor, and the first floor was clearly visible.

He didn’t even turn on the lights on the first floor and went straight up to the second floor. All I could see from here was the ceiling visible through the second-floor window, so I couldn’t tell what he was doing.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. The metallic sound of a typewriter being pounded could be heard.

It was such an unpleasant sound that I wondered if the neighbors would complain, but thanks to it, I could tell what he was doing. He came home and immediately started writing. Whether it was work or a hobby, I couldn’t tell.

If there happened to be an empty house near the client’s home like when I caught the embezzler last time, things would be much simpler, but I’ve never seen things work out that easily in this world.

Then, a second sound was heard. The sound of a radio. I couldn’t hear the content, but judging by the constant talking with occasional pauses for breath, it seemed to be a drama.

If he had a habit of listening to the radio, this would make things easier. He lived with his radio turned up so loud that it could be heard in my car across the street, so neighbors wouldn’t think it strange if the radio got even louder. They’d just think their dirty neighbor had gone deaf for the day.

However, people like this usually had conflicts with their neighbors. Someone might come by to complain that the radio was too loud. I observed quietly.

At least today, no one came from the neighboring houses. About two hours after he entered the house, the work stopped. The light on the second floor went out, and soon the light on the first floor came on.

Walter Moss came down carrying a radio, placed it on the living room table, and sat on the sofa. He sat with both feet on the table and began reading the weird fiction magazines he had bought.

I tried to see if I could read the title of the magazine with my binoculars. Weird Stories, a weekly magazine. Perhaps this schedule happened only once a week. Still, targeting a day like this would probably have the highest chance of success. He read all three magazines he had bought. It was 10:30 PM.

Was Walter Moss already going to bed? I desperately wanted to smoke a cigarette, but I didn’t want to break the invisibility of a driver in a dark place. A cigarette light can be seen from a quarter mile away.

He turned off the lights on the first floor as he went up, but even after going up to the second floor, the light in his room didn’t turn on. Instead, the bathroom light seemed to be on, as a yellowish light flickered from the edge of the building.

It seemed he bathed from 10:30 PM. After about 20 minutes, the room light briefly turned on and then off. Now he really seemed to be going to sleep.

Targeting him during the day at his office would be difficult, so I’d have to aim for after work, but if his daily routine was always like this, I could go in tomorrow rather than waiting three days. Still, I needed to observe more.

The next day, I changed where I parked my car. I waited for him again, and today he went into the house carrying a bundle of newspapers. Given the article he wrote, it was obvious what he would use those newspapers for.

Except for the change in the papers he was holding, his schedule was the same as yesterday. The only difference was that today the typewriter sounds were irregular, as if he was having trouble writing.

After observing for three full days, I found he was a man who didn’t drink, didn’t go out to meet anyone, and simply went back and forth between home and work on weekdays.

Tomorrow was Friday, and the day after was the weekend. Unless he was a factory worker who worked on weekends, schedules often changed on Friday, the end of the workweek. I needed to pay closer attention.

This time, I parked my car right in front of his neighbor’s house, which made it easier to observe. He came home about 30 minutes later than usual, almost at 8 PM. He was carrying grocery bags in his arms.

I couldn’t see the contents, but the fact that he had gone shopping meant he had no plans to eat out today. Fortunately, thanks to where I had parked, I could vaguely see into the kitchen of the house.

I watched him put down the groceries. Several cans of spaghetti and what looked like a piece of meat already cooked and wrapped in yellowish paper. With a little more evidence, I could go in today.

As I continued watching through binoculars, he opened a can of spaghetti and dumped the bloated pasta onto a plate.

This meant he had no plans to go out or have visitors today. No one in the world would serve bloated canned spaghetti to guests.

Since I didn’t want him to see my face, I prepared a mask and waited for him to finish his meal. It was a relief that he didn’t take long to eat, given how voraciously he ate.

After finishing his meal, Walter Moss stuffed the meat wrapping into the empty can, disposed of it, and that was the extent of his cleanup before heading back upstairs. I could enter through the garage again.

I checked the gun I had tucked away. It was well-maintained, and the seven-round magazine was neatly full. But I wouldn’t fire it. This was a residential area.

Instead, I checked the knife I had brought. It wasn’t military-grade, but one I had bought that hunters use for tanning. It was sharp enough to skin animals.

Even if he had a gun prepared in his room, he wouldn’t notice if I approached quietly, and once I got close enough, I would be faster than him finding and firing his gun.

I waited for the moment when the light turned on upstairs and the daily typewriter noise began. With both knife and gun hidden on my person, I checked that there was no one around the car, put on my mask, and left the car.

I entered the garage where he kept his car. The garage door wasn’t locked, and neither was the door leading from the garage into the house. It’s amazing that he even bothers to lock his front door.

As I entered the house, I could finally hear the loudly playing radio. It was indeed a radio drama. And an insufferable detective drama at that.

“Don’t worry! Blingkerton’s detective is here…”

If Blingkerton’s detective was here, there was cause for worry. They were the kind who didn’t realize they were outnumbered and shot at union members when sent to calm strikes, only to be captured.

Fortunately, the floor didn’t creak, so I could reduce my footsteps as I began climbing the stairs to the second floor. I tried not to smell the stench of food scraps coming from the kitchen on the first floor.

I knew the layout of the second floor from days of watching from outside. The door on the left was the bathroom, and the second door on the right was the entrance to his workroom.

“Help me, Eric! Eric Blingkerton!”

Thanks to the loud sound of the radio drama, there was no need to hide my footsteps, but there was no reason to be noisy either.

I slowly opened the slightly ajar door in time with the dialogue of the radio drama and entered. Walter Moss’s desk faced the window.

No wonder the typewriter sound echoed outside the house. I approached quietly without drawing my weapon. To break a person’s will to resist, choking was the best method.

I wrapped my arm around his fat neck and pulled with force. Unprepared and unable to anticipate the choking, he made wheezing sounds as he was pulled backward.

The chair fell over, but it wasn’t louder than the dialogue from the radio drama. He tried to turn his head to see what was wrapped around his neck, but there was no way he could look back.

I choked him until he nearly lost consciousness before releasing him. As he collapsed on the floor and tried to struggle, I knelt on his chest with one knee, pressing down on his lungs.

Since he was still trying to struggle, I took out the skinning knife from my pocket and pressed the back of the blade against his neck. His resistance ceased, and he barely exhaled as he raised both hands, showing his palms.

“You didn’t think everyone would like that article, did you? Don’t tell me you thought you could ignore a complaint letter or two and be done with it. It’s obvious that’s not the case.”