Ch.271017 Investigation Record – Small, Simple, Trivial Tasks (5)

I leave with the well-organized analysis of the God-President’s reelection vote tucked in a paper envelope. If I hand this over to Robert from the politics department, that’s one mundane task completely finished.

Though I no longer forget things randomly, I’ve developed the habit of checking my notebook for my next schedule. The previous task was just busywork, but next I need to do some actual reporting.

Should I be happy or worried that even reporting assignments are being handed to me as busywork? Probably neither. If it’s work, I just need to do it well. I clench my fist once with determination.

I head down to the company and make my way to Robert’s desk. While I’m at it, I should ask for an invitation. I don’t know how many people will be there, but I’ll definitely go.

I’ll try to be a bit braver this Christmas. Not too much—just a bit more would be appropriate. Asking to spend Christmas together would count as “a bit more,” I suppose.

He was a phantom of the past. Just the shadow of someone still living in the past cast upon the present. So even if I reach out, I’ll only grasp at empty air. What I’m attempting might be a form of necromancy.

I’m trying to bring a soul that still only holds the light of 1918 into 1924. Making a phone call is like reciting a prayer for the dead, and preparing a Christmas gift is like preparing a catalyst.

I take a deep breath, approach Robert, and hand him the paper envelope with both hands. As usual, he accepts it with a gentle smile, and I stop him briefly with my words.

“About the Christmas dinner you mentioned this morning… I bragged about having someone to go with, but I’d still like to get an invitation. Um, three of them! One is for Paulina, and another because I might have someone else to give it to. Is that… okay?”

Robert pulls out his notebook calendar from his desk and slowly flips through the remaining three weeks of pages before giving me a full smile, not just his usual eye-smile.

“Aren’t you asking too early, Rose? Three tickets. So when you said 75%… that means you have two people who each have a 50-50 chance of coming?”

This is why perceptive people are… I close my eyes briefly, open them, and glance around. With my ear tips fluttering despite myself, I nod once.

“Something like that. There’s someone who often helps me with my articles. How else would I have become a specialist in crime reporting? It’s because I have someone helping me!”

That seemed like a natural enough excuse. Robert’s smile showed no signs of fading. He stroked his cleanly shaved chin once and nodded.

“I’d like to see what kind of fellow he is. Will you screech if I do? Or would that sound better coming from the editor-in-chief?”

“The editor-in-chief already said something like that, so it’s your turn now… Anyway, don’t forget what I asked for!”

He waves his hand as if telling me not to worry and go ahead, so I head to the telephone. Before going to the factory, I should contact the factory owner briefly.

I dial the phone number listed on today’s assignment sheet. After the distinctive small noise of the automatic connector rings once, the phone begins to connect.

Everyone wanted operators of their own race to connect their calls, but business owners who had no intention of employing people equally across races simply covered all of America with automatic connectors. Apparently, it costs less.

The call connects soon. I don’t try to analyze the background noise, but I can hear voices. The speaker probably thought they wouldn’t be heard, but with elven hearing, I could catch it.

“I told you we’d stop that conversation here. Can’t you stay quiet even while I’m on the phone? Yes, this is Charles Winston Smith, owner of Smith Rat Poison Factory. Who is this?”

That conversation… His tone was quite authoritarian for a factory owner. It’s the kind of talk directed at a subordinate. From his telling them to stop, it seems the subordinate has some complaints.

“Ah, this is Rose Leafman, reporter from Golden Age Press! I’m scheduled to visit for an interview today. I wasn’t given a specific time, just that it would be today…”

At that moment, the factory owner’s voice softens. He’s asking for an advertorial. He’s the type who believes he can get free advertising if it’s written as an article.

But I heard something like noise in the background. I cover one ear and focus on the sound from the phone. It was a groan. Someone was making a voice filled with pain. There was also the sound of someone staggering, as if trying to maintain balance.

“Ah, so you’re the reporter. I left it open because you can visit whenever is convenient for you. We’re just people who make rat poison, and you’re someone who delivers the truth—naturally we should accommodate you. Will you be coming right away?”

His words are gentle, but the background is not. I imagine a factory owner standing before a worker he’s just assaulted. I erase the image and answer.

“Well… even reporters can’t catch rats with their bare hands. If it’s okay to come right now!”

An obviously artificial laugh rings out from the other end of the line. It was half-mocking, but judging by how he answered without even caring, he probably thought he just needed to play along.

Did he choose Golden Age Press because it’s small enough to be bought off with money? If so, he’s probably mistaken. I can at least let him know he picked the wrong person.

“Ah, huh… Really. That’s fine. If you’re coming right away, I’ll be ready for you. I’ll let the security guard know too, so you can come in comfortably.”

It wasn’t exactly a good impression, but I could confirm the rest when I got there. His name wasn’t demonic, but his voice was.

Initially, his voice was rough when quietly ordering someone, but it softened when addressing me. That made it clear. Well, no one would want to use poison made by a demon.

So he’s operating his business under a common name, having abandoned his demonic one. Demons valued pride, but they were a race that would gladly throw away pride for the sake of survival.

I immediately leave the company and catch a taxi. I tell the driver my destination. The elven taxi driver clicks his tongue as if displeased. It seemed like a place where something was happening.

“What business does a reporter have in such a place? That place… if you’re going to report, you’d better take a couple of tough guys with you.”

Demons are a race who know very well that it’s better to kiss a reporter’s feet than to bury one, so it probably wasn’t because of the factory manager. I asked with a sense of preliminary investigation.

“Has something happened at that factory? I’m just going there on assignment…”

The taxi starts moving. The midday sunshine was somewhat warm, but the humid, cold air was blocking most of the warmth.

“That place is, well, you know. It’s where the union members beat up their own union leader and drove him out. Something about colluding with the mafia or whatever—all nonsense, but they did it anyway. If it had really been a problem involving those hyena-heads, the workers who lynched him wouldn’t be intact, but they’re all perfectly fine. And the Industrial Federation has washed their hands of it, so that says it all.”

“What happened to the union leader?”

The taxi driver makes a “huh” sound as if exasperated by my naive question, then continues.

“Well, I heard he sided with the factory owner. So now they’re debating day by day whether to strike or not, but since the Industrial Federation won’t help, the union members can’t do anything on their own.”

Having said that much, the taxi driver continues with excuses as if to prove he’s a safe person, not a police informant or a noble’s spy.

“You see, my younger brother works there, and I told him to quit right away. If he gets his head cracked open by getting involved in something strange, who’s going to fix it?”

“No one would take responsibility, I guess. I didn’t know it was that kind of place… But since the boss is a demon, I should be able to walk out on my own two legs today, regardless of what kind of article I plan to write, right?”

After finishing the article, it might be better to stay at Paulina’s house for a day or two. Paulina was a reassuring person. No matter how big the problem, I could always lean on her.

Besides, unlike Michael, there was nothing to fear about her. She was an excellent and devoted guardian.

Although she deceived me about the Followers of the Forest’s Firstborn, she was also the only person who apologized to me among those who had deceived me. That’s why I didn’t cut ties with Paulina. That’s all.

A moment later, the car climbs onto the body of the Industrial Spirit King. It was at the edge of the factory district, in the opposite direction from downtown. That’s unavoidable for a chemical factory.

I hand the taxi driver who told me so much a dollar and fifty cents, including a tip, and get out without taking any change. I take a deep breath.

I enter the factory gate. A large, fat orc sitting inside a small security office that was too small to contain him points toward the factory when he sees me.

“I heard a reporter was coming. Go through that door next to the factory over there. What we make is quite toxic, so if you go into the factory itself, you’ll have a hard time. Well…”

He didn’t seem inclined to come out and guide me, and he seemed to fit perfectly in that small security office. I nodded lightly in greeting and headed toward the door he pointed to.

Opening the door revealed an office-like staircase completely separate from the factory, leading to an office that had nothing to do with the factory itself. The stairs weren’t made of the iron common in factories, and the wooden handrail was warm and soft.

I go up and head to the factory owner’s office. Even the secretary knew that the only elf visiting this place would be a single reporter, so I could enter without any hindrance.

Normally, a factory owner would sit in his office waiting for a reporter. But this time, the office door was open… and seeing me meet the secretary, he walked out first to greet me.

As expected, he was a red-skinned demon. He was properly dressed in a vest, using a pocket watch instead of a wristwatch, armed with old-fashioned and neat manners… a demon with black horns curled once like a sheep’s.

I could guess what kind of article he wanted. An article about what a good factory owner he was. There must have been some bad rumors circulating, so from the factory owner’s perspective, he needed a means to cover them up.

No matter who your blood relatives are, a story known by even one taxi driver would soon spread throughout New York. Taxi drivers were people with loose lips.

“Ah, you came quickly. This place isn’t exactly in the center of town. Please come in. Our union leader is waiting too.”

I recall what I know. This must be the union leader who was lynched and then sided with the factory owner. I felt grateful for having gathered this information beforehand, but that gratitude faded as I entered the factory owner’s office.

The union leader with a bandage around his head was sitting on the guest sofa in the factory owner’s office. He was quite an old and sturdy dwarf. His beard seemed to reach almost to his stomach or waist, and the part braided to the side was also long.

The factory owner sat down next to him, so I sat across from them. The factory owner deliberately sat close to the union leader. The factory owner, who had been waiting with a smile, completely changed his expression as soon as I sat down and growled.

Demons disliked showing anger. To that polite race, anger strong enough to change one’s appearance would seem bestial.

So what I’m about to see is quite deliberately staged words and actions. It seems I’ve gained some experience.

Thick fur begins to rise on the back of his hand, and his fingernails, not much different in length from a human’s, grow thicker and sharper like those of a beast. Pretending to hide the back of his hand, he said:

“Oh my, such an undemonic appearance… I apologize. On such a nice day, and such an important day… another unauthorized union has caused trouble again.”

The person standing in front of him when I called must have been the union leader. Even now, he’s trying hard to hide his dissatisfied expression, sitting as if it’s tense and uncomfortable to be next to the factory owner but unable to leave. This must be the dwarf union leader. It probably wasn’t done by the workers. I didn’t know enough to guess who did it.

The demon factory owner grabbed the dwarf union leader’s shoulder and shook him a little. The eyes of the head-injured union leader wobbled painfully.

“These! These barbaric fellows attacked our respected worker and excellent employee, our union leader, not just once but twice after the first lynching. I heard they threw our union leader into a locker. They must have heard that a reporter was scheduled to visit today. They wanted to prevent you from capturing the image of a factory owner who even reflects the opinions of his employees.”

I held back the sarcastic comment that was about to come out: “You don’t seem like that kind of person at all.” If there’s one thing I learned from watching Michael… sarcasm is most effective when delivered precisely.

Instead, I said what needed to be said in this situation. If we were truly close, I would have called him by name. Wilfred, whom I met when dealing with the aftermath of the Idealists, called Teacher Lanshore by his name.

“First of all, shaking someone with a head injury like that is dangerous. And a factory owner who reflects employees’ opinions… You must be a Gremorian, right?”

“Oh, of course! You’d be surprised to hear how much I respect Madam Gremory. After seeing the amazing results of goodwill she created in Pennsylvania… I felt, ‘Ah, this is how I should do it too.’ So like this, I’m even close friends with the union leader. Would you take a picture for us?”

He bites the bait easily. Seeing how he’s not very smart for a demon, there might be another demon sitting in this seat next week or next month.

I picked up the camera. I didn’t take a picture of the factory owner trying to appear friendly and the dwarf forcing a smile. I waited until the dwarf naturally showed a painful and suffering expression before taking the shot.

This is exactly what suits this factory owner. This is what suits a factory owner who called someone in to put lies on pages that should only carry truth. It’s a fitting consequence.

The factory owner, still smiling, asked. Today’s coverage is done with this much. The rest would be better covered by interviewing the union members for a somewhat more truthful article.

“Would you give a title to the photo? How about ‘Smith Chemical Factory, Where Labor and Management Move Forward Hand in Hand’?”

He’s probably wearing a fatherly expression now. Just as family was my father’s sore spot, people who try to make me write lies on the page are mine. Even Michael doesn’t make me do such things.

“Oh, is that what you thought? The picture I took was more like ‘A Demon Dragging a Hunting Dog by the Leash.’ Is it okay if I end the coverage here? You’ve shown me so much through actions rather than words.”

It’s a decidedly one-sided hierarchical relationship. The union leader siding with the factory owner means… the factory owner was the union leader’s last chance. The demon knew very well that he was the dwarf’s last rope.

So the dwarf has instantly fallen to the status of a dog. He’s become a German Shepherd who must bite when the master says bite, and stick his muzzle into a dog bowl of unknown contents when told to eat.

The page is like a party venue with a gatekeeper. The dress code is simple and clear. Just one thing: it must be truth. Since hundreds of words wouldn’t be more truthful than this one photo, I stood up.