Ch.41Ch.4 – The Perfect Human Ideal (7)

1929. 4. 30. PM 7:19

Cathedral Courtyard, Southern Polard City

Four days ago, I called Crayfield and asked for his help.

At first, he was surprised, confused, and expressed reluctance about helping the mafia.

But when he heard about their unusual method—deliberately mislabeling cargo information to gather them in unclaimed warehouses—he found it interesting.

Similarly, I told the weasel-faced man about what I had realized.

Information gathered quickly. Crayfield harassed officials, including Detective Chief Josh Graham, while the White Hand kept a sharp eye on the streets, from the highest ranks to the lowest lackeys.

Even the “Red-haired O’Malley,” more unruly than a rebellious teenager, was somewhat cautious.

And for good reason, as even police officers connected to the White Hand were mobilized for the search.

It’s difficult to say we’ve gathered all the puzzle pieces. There are still many gaps. Nevertheless, after tracking them, I was able to narrow down the scale and main areas of operation of our adversaries.

Technological advancement was a blessing for some and nothing short of a curse for others.

The development of automobiles and trucks opened an era of land transportation, but for small vessel maritime transporters, it was the signal flare of their downfall.

Above all, shipping hub cities like New Bedford and Kingsport were critically hit.

With no other choice, they put their warehouses up for rent. And most of those warehouses were purchased by the mafia.

From illegal immigrants, money laundering, and disposing of traitors to secret security, weapons, and liquor smuggling.

No matter how developed land routes had become, maritime shipping was still the mainstream for transporting large quantities at once.

The mafia was only interested in dividing the profits of the shipping business, not in how to move the goods.

It was more rational to exploit people at a cheap price than to transport items themselves.

For such people, unclaimed cargo was a troublesome item.

It was worthless yet unnecessarily heavy, taking up space, but they couldn’t just throw it into the sea—a burden like a chicken that’s too precious to throw away but too cheap to keep.

In this situation, Arthur Black’s market on Polard Island stepped forward.

The reason they could willingly hand over the southern port to the mafia was that the northern, western, and eastern ports were still owned by the city.

Especially the northern port, having been used as a whaling reserve dock, had sufficient capacity to accommodate large cargo ships.

Thanks to this, it became the lost and found warehouse hub for the eastern coast logistics of Massachusetts.

Officials didn’t bother to open and check each box.

Whether the spelling was wrong or whether it was impossible to distinguish between numbers and letters, they simply made a list of the contents from the item declaration forms and sent them to the ports of each region.

In many cases, the cargo found its rightful owner. Most often, the sender’s identity was clear, but the recipient’s address or name was incorrect, making tracking easy.

In such cases, it was simply a matter of verifying the identities of the sender and recipient before handing over the items.

In cases like the coffin in question, where both sender and recipient were false, they were placed in a separate warehouse.

The most secluded place in the northern reserve warehouse. It was named “Long-term Unclaimed Cargo Storage.”

For the past three months, that warehouse had been bustling. This was due to a surge in cargo with nonsensical addresses.

The types varied. Coffins. Large wooden boxes. While the types varied, everyone agreed they were all large enough to comfortably fit a person.

The day after a storm and thunder, the outer wall of the warehouse was found breached and the wooden boxes were discovered smashed.

The number of destroyed boxes was fifteen in total. The city showed little enthusiasm for repairing the warehouse but great enthusiasm for sewer maintenance.

“About five people went down there. The northern port manager was worried they might have been poisoned by gas because they didn’t come up for so long.

Fortunately, they did come up, but their movements were somehow unnatural, and their gazes were erratic.

They muttered something about inhaling toxic gas, then disappeared in a truck and collectively took sick leave.

The city hall quickly filled the positions with new employees.

By the way, those slum people, didn’t the city hall waterworks employees ‘growl’?

Like they couldn’t roll their tongues properly, making sounds from their throats.”

It was just as Crayfield said. This confirmed that those who blocked the waterworks warehouse in the slum had some connection to the wax dolls.

Having reached a tentative conclusion, I gave Joe Torio my answer.

The things related to Antonio Salvatore’s death were more than ten wax dolls, possessing monstrous strength capable of tearing human throats and presumed to have enough intelligence to write letters on walls.

And five of them were already disguised as waterworks employees, with the closest entrance appearing to be the waterworks warehouse on Main Street.

Therefore, it would be better to track the waterworks department trucks as much as possible.

And finally, today that truck was found in the ruins of the burned city hall in the old town.

Torio considers all means except violence. But this opponent is not one that can be negotiated with by any means other than violence.

“Left Hand” Aurora Savio decided on the highest level of response, and “Father” gave his approval.

The most seasoned members of the organization. Excellent torturers and human hunters who had survived in the organization for 10 to 15 years.

Old veterans, outraged by Salvatore’s death and vowing bloody revenge, rose with heavy weapons.

This afternoon, the weasel-faced man visited the cathedral. It was four hours after I had organized and passed on the information from Crayfield and the White Hand.

He expressed deep gratitude to Abascina and me.

“Mr. Torio plans to settle all debts tonight.”

There was a hint of regret, determination, and anger on the weasel-faced man’s face.

“Thank you for your efforts. But from now on, we will handle this ourselves.

Antonio Salieri’s blood has stained the white gloves and cannot be erased, so it must rightfully be washed away with the enemy’s blood.

It is unthinkable to rely on others for this.”

Before I could say anything, Abascina stepped forward.

“Be careful.”

And she gave a blessing prayer. The weasel seemed a bit embarrassed by such a ritual but soon closed his eyes and bowed his head.

As soon as the weasel moved away from the cathedral, Abascina walked to the garage and brought out an Indian motorcycle.

Monster driving away monster. That is her sacred vow and the mission bestowed upon her by the Vatican.

“Mafia might be good at catching people, but I’m not so sure about mannequins. I need to check. So you stay here. I’ll be back.”

I refused. The request from the southern cathedral was not just a simple investigation. It included hunting as well.

So, I needed to see it through to the end. Abascina tried to express her refusal again but stopped when I held out a silver cross.

I had stopped by a jewelry store in my spare time and replaced the broken leather strap with a sturdy alloy chain.

Abascina’s lips quivered, and eventually, she twisted up her flowing hair. Then she moved closer to me.

I tried to move behind her, but she playfully blocked my way, pushing her chest forward, making it impossible for me to go.

I had no choice but to awkwardly extend my arm behind her neck to hook the chain clasp.

It didn’t work on the first try and took quite some time, but Abascina waited with her eyes closed.

Finally, the clasp hooked. Abascina caressed the cross that gleamed over her nun’s habit.

With her hands lightly clasped behind her back, Abascina whispered to me.

“I promise. I won’t overdo it. If things get unfavorable, I’ll run away. Then I’ll take you with me.”

She even held out her pinky finger, looking just like an innocent child. After hooking fingers and making the promise, Abascina jumped up and started the motorcycle. The engine sound announcing our march roared loudly.

“Hold tight.”

* * * * *

Same day, PM 9:20

Main Street, Polard City

3rd floor of the destroyed post office building

After hiding the motorcycle well, we climbed to the third floor. From here, we had a clear view of the warehouse in question.

The mafia hadn’t arrived yet. We discussed going down before them, but concluded it would be better to enter after them rather than risk friendly fire.

After all, they would be very angry.

Dark clouds rolled in as if it was about to rain. Only children would bother climbing up to a building with a collapsed ceiling.

When Abascina took out candy from her pocket, the children fell into sweet silence, smiling among themselves as they went down.

“Let’s play a game with Sister. If you don’t come up for three hours, I’ll give you each an extra candy this weekend. How about that?”

The children agreed and went down. The street was noisy, but the building where Abascina and I were hiding was quiet.

Thanks to this, I could quietly observe the surrounding streets.

Main Street. Main Street. A crumbling street.

A place where rats brush past the feet of old women sleeping on the street. Where makeshift roofs collapse when a downpour hits.

Where trash-burning cans light the streets instead of lanterns and streetlights, and more than twenty people depend on a single water tap.

The only things that go around to everyone without shortage are sunlight and poverty.

What everyone wishes for is to leave this street somehow.

A place overflowing with people who can’t even write their own names in English, even if they want to walk around wearing sandwich boards looking for work.

Main Street. Main Street.

Once a place where dignified men paraded down the street with gleaming harpoons on their shoulders, escorted by military bands.

A street where gentlemen in silk hats as high as their pride and ladies in skirts that could amply accommodate two gentlemen fluttered their hems.

Now, boys and girls who haven’t even learned shame walk around naked,

Women and men willingly offer their bodies for not even a single coin but a corner of rotting bread,

A place where obscene circuses that even aged brothel owners are reluctant to mention take place.

On such a street tonight, in such a place, three black sedans and a Lincoln L model arrived in a row.

Fourteen men in white fedoras with black bands and suits disembarked in unison.

Residents who looked at them out of curiosity noticed that these middle-aged gentlemen, who seemed to have come to the wrong time and place, were wearing white gloves.

The residents held their breath as if they had seen a nightmare they shouldn’t have. Even the moon pulled clouds to cover its eyes.

The relatively young and robust organization members grabbed sledgehammers. Other members checked their respective weapons.

Submachine guns. Shotguns. From hunting rifles to automatic pistols, the variety was diverse.

After ammunition was distributed and loading was completed, everyone put a cigarette in their mouth.

As the red lights went out one by one, the sedan trunks opened, and thin, round red sticks were distributed. Dynamite.

Even from the third floor, Torio’s massive, rock-like body was clearly visible. The weasel-faced man was watching in all directions with sharp eyes.

A Springfield rifle was stationed on his back. Suddenly, he looked up in my direction, causing me to hastily retreat to the side of the window.

A clear signal fell from Torio’s mouth. The elite mafia of the White Hand walked toward the warehouse.

The waterworks department-owned warehouse where self-proclaimed city employees had warned people not to approach.

With an access prohibited notice posted, and where a wax doll with its head turned 180 degrees backward had used a telephone.

The sledgehammer struck the door. With a crack, the doorknob shattered in a single blow.

Next were the hinges. Even a wooden door reinforced with boards couldn’t withstand such brute destruction.

Not long after the men went inside, the sound of hammers was heard again. The mafia had no hesitation.

5 minutes. Maybe 10 minutes. Abascina pointed down. She meant we should go down.

Inside the warehouse, there were not only telephones, desks, and shelves but also stairs leading down to a basement.

According to what Crayfield had confirmed, the warehouse was built to manage the underground sewers and was abandoned along with the decline of Main Street.

Abascina took out a shortened Thompson and attached a pre-loaded 30-round drum magazine.

I also checked my revolver. Smiling, Abascina carefully moved her steps, sticking to the stairwell wall.

The sewer was very high and wide. It was spacious enough for a train to pass through comfortably.

On both sides of the sewer, there were blocks and fences for people to walk on, and sewage flowed through the waterway in between.

It was almost dried up, but the smell was terrible.

A flash occurred.

Someone’s shout. Gunshots. Screams and wails were heard.

From the right corner ahead.

Abascina walked in front, and I guarded the rear.

The corner was getting closer.