Ch.35Ch.4 – The Perfect Human Ideal (1)

When we returned from our brief trip to Arkham, we were greeted by mail.

Various bills, letters filled with lengthy stories. Pamphlets with good Bible verses and mail-order catalogs.

For some reason, Crayfield carefully examined catalogs he normally wouldn’t even glance at. Then he made a phone call somewhere.

Not long after, a small radio appeared on Crayfield’s desk.

“Made some money, got my arm injured a bit, might as well take it easy while I have an excuse.”

Crayfield lightly shook his right arm wrapped in bandages. When I asked if he should rest for a few days, he scolded me instead.

“You want me to just lie in bed doing nothing? Are you serious?”

Perhaps because he couldn’t drink his alcohol—no, his “sedative”—he was quite sharp.

It was fine that he took a drink as soon as we got back. It would have been even better if he hadn’t torn open the stitches on his right arm while waving both arms like an orchestra conductor in his good mood.

The local doctor, with an extremely spiteful look, stitched his raw flesh with needle and thread, saying he couldn’t administer anesthesia since he’d already had “painkillers.”

“But you know what? I still can’t understand it. The Fiery Breath was clearly approaching. Why did it just turn back?

What’s even more confusing is that you definitely loaded the Chekhov. Right? So why wasn’t there a single bullet left?

I can account for one shot that you fired in front of me. But what about the rest?”

Since the day after our return, Crayfield and I had long discussions on this topic. But I couldn’t remember anything.

With no memory, I had nothing to explain. Things were desperate enough that I even considered visiting Federal Agent and medical doctor Katherine Scully.

A rising star in hypnotherapy and psychoanalysis who could walk down into our subconscious…

In the end, the idea was rejected as the risks outweighed the benefits. We still couldn’t know the inner workings of the Federal Security Bureau.

“You also said you couldn’t remember how you came back up when you went down to the columbarium with Mother Superior Abassina.

So, do you remember anything about our first quest? The incident at the lighthouse.”

I don’t properly remember that either. I remember him handing me the Chekhov. I remember him calling me the mastermind. But that’s it. When I came to my senses, the case was already solved and the Chekhov’s drum was empty.

I asked Crayfield if the Chekhov had any side effects.

“No. None. Not when I used it. The gun is a bit peculiar, but it doesn’t cause short-term memory loss in its user.

I can guarantee that. Because that gun is…”

Crayfield closed his mouth as the sound of creaking footsteps approached.

It wasn’t just one person.

Heavy footsteps naturally came up, but slightly lighter footsteps seemed to have stopped at the nail-studded stairs.

Judging by the grumbling sounds and light tapping against the wall, someone’s shoe must have been quite badly torn.

Eventually, the silhouettes of two men appeared beyond the glass door of the office. Both were in suits, and they seemed to be holding their fedoras in their hands.

“Come in!”

April 25, 1929. 9:30 AM

22 Gorde Street,

Crayfield Detective Agency

The man in front quickly opened the door. The man behind walked slowly into the office.

How to describe him? He was a middle-aged man who looked as if he’d been carved from stone. His face was flushed red and the area below his cheeks was darkish, as if his liver was damaged from heavy drinking.

Narrow eyes, a bulbous nose, and a jutting chin that looked like it could easily take a lightweight boxer’s straight punch. Plus a barrel-like stout figure.

A triangularly folded handkerchief was tucked into the breast pocket of his pinstriped suit.

But what was remarkable were his hands. Both were enormous, large enough to easily cover an apple.

He wore a white glove on his right hand. But his left hand was bare.

In comparison, the man who entered behind him was unimpressively thin.

His sidelong glances revealed a conspirator’s demeanor, and his constantly twitching mustache suggested frivolity.

His tense left arm held his boss’s coat, but underneath it would surely be a loaded pistol.

“Mr. John Crayfield.”

The rock-like man smiled gently.

Crayfield didn’t move an inch from his seat. Of course, the man didn’t seem to expect any welcome, as he pulled up a chair and sat down on his own.

The ferret-like man stood with his back to the closed door, glancing around the office.

Crayfield gave the ferret a displeased look, then turned his gaze to the rock man.

The man smiled at Crayfield as if he were his nephew.

The longer Crayfield remained silent, the more he smiled.

“Joe Torrio.”

Crayfield reluctantly greeted him.

“Do you still dislike being called by your nickname these days?”

“Because a title doesn’t define a person, Mr. Crayfield. This person calls Mr. Crayfield ‘Mr. Crayfield,’ not ‘private detective.’ Who is your partner beside you?”

“My assistant. A proper detective in his own right.”

The rock on the thick shoulders wobbled.

“Mr. Crayfield. This person has not come about past matters. What happened between us is truly regrettable.”

“I believe it was you who said we should never see each other again.”

“We are merely travelers pushed along by rapids. All we can do is barely hold onto the gunwale.

You cannot be an exception to that absolute law. Neither can this person. Nor this person’s attendant. Nor your attendant.”

Was his odd accent due to unfamiliarity with English? Or was he suppressing his naturally passionate temperament?

His manner of speaking was peculiar. It was as if he wasn’t using language appropriate to the situation, but rather quoting someone else’s words.

His speech pattern was neither colloquial nor literary, and his forms of address were respectful yet excessive.

Fat men are often ridiculed. So are people with strange speech habits. Yet despite combining both traits, the rock-like man inspired no desire to mock him.

It wasn’t because of the ferret-like man in the back contemplating when to draw his gun. Nor was it because of that mottled, dirty white glove on his right hand.

His voice had resonance. With each word he uttered, a subtle vibration could be felt in one’s body. That vibration strangely made the body tremble and weakened the knees.

He was a beast.

Wearing a human suit. Speaking human words. But that man was a born carnivore and predator.

“Have you seen your grandchild?”

And Crayfield was a man who knew how to handle beasts.

“No. I have not. Why do you ask such a thing?”

“I’m saying this because you’ve become remarkably weak, even though it hasn’t even been a year since we last met. When men become grandfathers, their canines and molars suddenly fall out. What happened to you?”

The ferret exhaled sharply through his nose and tried to lift his coat, but Joe Torrio stopped him.

With just a sidelong glance, the ferret-like man bowed his head and stood back against the door.

“I’ve grown old.”

He smiled like a lion with prey in sight.

“Mr. Crayfield. I won’t make excuses. Believe it or not, this person kneels in church once a week, praying and remembering the dead.”

“And then you spend the remaining six days shooting people with a clear conscience. Like you did to my second assistant.”

“I have never acted without justification and reason.”

“I admit I shot him. But they started the trouble first. You know that’s a nauseating logic, don’t you, Joe Torrio? I don’t know what face you have to show up here with, but please leave.”

The rock let out a storm-like sigh.

“Antonio Salvatore was torn to death.”

Crayfield’s eyes narrowed. Torrio took out the handkerchief from his breast pocket, showed it, and then tore it like paper. The ferret-like man received the torn pieces.

“Forgive this person’s limited vocabulary. I have not forgotten our past grievances either. However, this person is compelled, this bear… bear… paw? Like a paw?”

It seems Torrio hadn’t read any books describing this kind of situation. He clearly wanted to express something.

It would have been easier if he had spoken in Italian, but he insisted on using English.

His face was turning purple like a bruise as the blood couldn’t flow down, but he still tried to say something. It wouldn’t have been surprising if he had collapsed while grabbing the back of his neck.

Both Crayfield and I were focused on what the man was so desperately trying to say.

Because of this,

Knock knock.

“What the hell!”

We only belatedly noticed the footsteps and knocking sound. Crayfield, who had reflexively raised his right hand, screamed. The ferret-like man was startled and flung open the office door.

It was two nuns. The nun in front was very short. Still, her jet-black hair, blue eyes, and distinct features were impressive. She held a neatly wrapped box in one hand.

“You have visitors, Mother Superior.”

The nun in front spoke in a clear, youthful voice. The nun behind stepped forward with a bright smile. Silver long hair. Eyes covered with black cloth. It was Mother Superior Abassina.

“Come in!”

Crayfield, clutching his right arm, shouted harshly.

“Excuse me then.”

Fortunately, Joe Torrio was a man with the virtue of giving up his seat to someone with covered eyes. The trampled floor groaned.

While the black-haired nun took her place next to the ferret, Abassina sat in the chair.

As she crossed her legs slightly, her side-slit skirt parted, revealing bare skin and a small holster.

“Thank you, Sister Beatrix. Hmm. It seems there’s someone else in the room. Who else is here?”

“Pleased to meet you, Sister.”

The rock man’s neck creaked.

“This person is Joe Torrio. I have come with my servant.”

Abassina turned her head toward Torrio and smiled.

“Ah! The one who comes to mass every week? I know you. I know you. You always give cookies to the children when you visit.

Don’t worry too much about Sister Maria’s scolding. She’s just a bit obsessive about nutrition.”

Crayfield looked up at Torrio with an incredulous expression.

“He really has gotten old. What’s the deal with cookies?”

Abassina raised her index finger and wagged it from side to side.

“Use nice words, Crayfield, nice words!”

“This is my office, Sister.”

Abassina pouted and glared at Crayfield.

“What does that matter? I didn’t come to see you anyway. I came to see our beast.”

“Beast?”

Torrio widened his eyes again and scanned everyone in the room.

“Why do you keep calling my assistant a beast?”

Ignoring Crayfield’s protest, Abassina removed her eye patch and tossed it aside. Her pale moon-like silver-gray eyes remained the same. Abassina, who had been looking at me happily, covered her mouth.

“Oh my?”

Then she stood up abruptly. The chair fell backward. Torrio, despite his size, nimbly moved his legs to avoid it.

There was a thud, but no one looked in that direction.

As if conducting an examination, Abassina placed her hand on my forehead, pulled at both my cheeks, and began to roll my eyes.

Soon, Abassina turned toward Crayfield and became angry.

“You’ve been taking him around in this condition?”

Crayfield pointed to the bandage on his right arm with his left hand, looking wronged.

“I’m the one who’s injured!”

“Don’t make a fuss over a slightly torn arm! Is that what you say in front of a ‘soul-patched being’?”

“Mother Superior?”

The black-haired nun tilted her head quizzically.

“The point. The point.”

Abassina’s cheeks turned bright red. As if intending to cover her face, she bent down forcefully and picked up the chair.

Then she dusted off her nun’s habit and sat down gracefully. Crossing her legs slightly and folding her hands on her lap.

“Well. I’m sorry, Crayfield. I was just happy to see you after so long. How did you get hurt?”

“Earlier it was just my arm that hurt, but now my stomach and head hurt too. What brings you here, Sister?”

Crayfield seems quite exhausted. Abassina turned toward Torrio.

“For the same reason as our church member. About the warehouse, right?”

Torrio looked at the ferret, then down at Abassina.

“You already know that much?”

“The Lord’s eyes see everything.”

“Yet He does nothing while the world is in this state.”

Crayfield grumbled.

“That’s why He sent me to this earth. Hey, injured detective. I’d like to borrow our beast. Will you lend him to me?”

“Did you just say ‘our’ beast? That friend is not a beast but a person, and ‘my assistant.’

And look here, see this license? He’s a detective. A proper detective. You need to pay a fee.”

Crayfield pointed to the detective license next to the clock.

“And I don’t take mafia cases. Neither does my assistant.”

“Is that so? Then let’s consider it a request from the Southern Church.”

“‘Consider it’?”

Poor Torrio was now rolling his eyes. He might not have understood the meaning, but he could tell it wasn’t the kind of refined expression a Mother Superior would typically use.

“Let’s hear it. What is it?”

“Monster hunting. Hunting a monster that blows off heads like bottle caps and drinks blood from bodies like a trumpet. Interested?”

Crayfield sat up straight. Torrio recited something quickly and quietly in Italian, as if relieved. Whatever it meant, it sounded much better.

“I think the same. But it was wrong not to tell anyone. If you tried to resolve it within the White Hand, that was a very misguided decision.”

“Why is the church concerned with mafia business?”

“Antonio Salvatore was a church member. He had ninety-nine vices, but he also had one virtue—he loved flowers and children.”

Crayfield looked thoroughly displeased. Abassina’s expression became somewhat stern.

“I know. You want to call them criminals, right? Yes. I don’t deny it. But before being criminals, they were humans. And they died at the hands of a monster before receiving the Lord’s judgment.”

Torrio quickly made the sign of the cross.

“He died without knowing what his sins were. He wasn’t judged, wasn’t punished, and didn’t even have a chance to be reformed.

Mr. Crayfield. No matter how evil and wicked a human is, there’s no reason they should die at the hands of a monster.

No matter how much you hate them, even if they’re the one sheep that strayed from the ninety-nine.

If you believe in and follow the Lord, the shepherd must naturally set out.”

“Even for the worst of villains?”

“Judgment is rendered by the Lord. I merely make requests.”

“If you’re so brave, why don’t you try solving it hand in hand with the mafia?”

“I don’t trust the mafia.”

Crayfield stared blankly at Abassina, at a loss for words. Abassina’s expression was truly innocent.

“No, Mr. Crayfield. What’s the problem? If a sheep is caught by a wolf, you need to bring a dog, not another sheep. I came to hire a dog.”

“Did you just call my assistant a dog?”

“The two people being treated as sheep are staying quiet, so why are you making a fuss about being called a dog?”

Despite her words, Crayfield pulled open a drawer. He must have already made up his mind when the monster story came up.

That way, he could take preemptive measures if a similar quest came up later.

“I can’t do it because of my injured arm. My assistant has received a proper license, but he’s still inexperienced in many ways, so I’ll give you a discount. How much were you thinking of paying?”

Sister Beatrix placed the box on the desk. Crayfield shook the box slightly. There was a clear, splashing sound.

“It’s French Burgundy communion wine, used only for Easter Mass. You know that according to church law, no additives can be added to communion wine, right?”

Crayfield had already signed for my share as well.