Ch.46Chapter 5: The Dead City Dreams and Waits (1)

# May 10, 1929, 10:22 AM

Gorde Street No. 22, Crayfield’s Office

When the Doomsday Clock struck one and creaking sounds came from the stairs, Crayfield and I were discussing Cthulhu. More precisely, I was listening to Crayfield’s own views on steamships and Cthulhu.

No matter how long we spend with someone, we’re surprised when we realize there’s more we don’t know than what we do know about them.

At first, we only see what the other person wants to show and what we want to see. As time passes, they reveal aspects they didn’t want to show, and we end up seeing things we didn’t particularly want to see.

By that point, things usually culminate in either falling in love or disappointment, but Crayfield was a man who stood far apart from such rules.

For starters, his newspaper reading habit was unique. When he arrived at the office, six newspapers would be waiting at the door: two copies each of the Pollard Times, Arkham Times, and Boston Globe.

After the incident in Arkham, he also started buying the Massachusetts Express, claiming he needed to broaden his horizons—two copies of that as well.

The reason for buying two copies of each newspaper was for scrapbooking. Crayfield would scan through each paper from front to back, starting with the headlines. Then, scissors in hand, he’d cut out each article.

Afterward, he would rearrange the clipped articles according to his own unique criteria. In modern terms, it would be similar to sorting by tags.

“One must be diligent, Assistant. People need to be diligent.”

Finding myself bored with nothing to do, I joined in cutting out articles.

However, being unfamiliar with Crayfield’s article classification method, I left the organizing to him.

Eventually, we divided the labor so that I cut out the articles alone while Crayfield pasted them into his scrapbook. Though my workload was greater, I never complained.

This was because Crayfield would share his original interpretations of why he classified things the way he did.

Of course, most of these bordered on conspiracy theories, but isn’t the reason people fall into conspiracy theories found in the process of seemingly unrelated events being strung together on the thread of “something fishy” to form a plausible necklace?

“The world changes faster than we think. We’re just crossing an ocean of ignorance in a small boat at midnight with a single lantern.

The depths are profound and the sea vast, yet what we can see is so limited.

So think about it. If a threat is visible even within our narrow field of vision, just how enormous must that threat truly be?”

With that, he showed me a new scrapbook entry.

Under the heading “#1” was an article from the Pollard Times about Mayor Arthur Black personally negotiating with shipping companies to boost tourism.

Everyone knows the Pollard Times is essentially the mouthpiece of the city hall.

Though Pollard has a large population for an island, it’s still treated as a small city, and there aren’t daily events at the city hall. Because of this, the Pollard Times desperately reports on every move the city hall makes with pride.

For us, it serves as the ultimate watchdog. Of course, it never breathes a word about anything unfavorable to the city, but that’s a matter of tracking the blank spaces in the filled schedule.

“Quite clever. They’ve decided to deploy smaller vessels more frequently and in greater numbers rather than medium-sized cruise ships.

Quite a variety of themes too? Fishing. Sightseeing. Oh, whale-watching tours guided by descendants of whaling families. I suppose they’ll be watching wild dolphin shows?

Sailing ships. Fishing boats. Steamships? Did it say steamships?”

The follow-up article “#2” mentioned that Mayor Black had indicated his willingness to provide subsidies to shipping companies.

Of course, the city council expressed opposition to the mayor’s ambition to spend money on ventures with uncertain returns.

But the Chamber of Commerce, which had spoken with one voice just 20 days ago, is now divided, leading to predictions that things will ultimately go according to the wishes of the mayor and his “vigilante group,” which is essentially his personal guard.

“Isn’t it interesting? Mayor Black resubmitted the proposal for a whale memorial museum to the city council, and the Chamber of Commerce votes split into two factions.

It was rejected again because it couldn’t get a two-thirds majority, but it came very close.

And in my opinion, the reason the Chamber of Commerce showed a more favorable attitude after just 20 days is…”

Crayfield pasted an article from the Arkham Times’ accident and incident section and labeled it “#3.”

A major fire had broken out in Pollard City’s Mostin shopping district, completely destroying one building and damaging surrounding structures.

There was a passage stating that without the “fire department’s” active response, it could have escalated into a major conflagration, but what caught my eye was the text below.

“Five dead. Three missing. No injuries.

Police Chief Chase Pollard stated, ‘This incident was a power struggle between the Italian White Hand Mafia and the Irish Red Head O’Melligan, and it has been confirmed that no innocent people were sacrificed.’ He also expressed that ‘he would never tolerate anything that threatens the lives of ordinary citizens.’ How brave of you, Chief.”

Crayfield gave an exaggerated salute in the direction of the Pollard City Police Department, or at least where he presumed it to be.

Then he put a Camel cigarette in his mouth and lit it.

“What a farce. An absolute farce. Mostin Street is one of the central commercial areas for Irish immigrants.

It’s also a money laundering spot for Red Head O’Melligan. But not all those people are mafia.

Their relationship is closer to that of a resistance movement and its supporting forces. Passive support, you might say?

From the city hall’s perspective, they’re a thorn in their side, but what can they do? They can’t catch them red-handed.

So from their standpoint, how grateful must they be to the White Hand? Cleaning up on their behalf.”

He meant that the city hall was pleased that the White Hand was taking the lead in the cleanup.

However, Crayfield couldn’t clearly determine what kind of relationship existed between the White Hand and Mayor Black.

“They clearly have some kind of relationship, but I don’t know if it’s one side parasitizing the other or if they’re mutually exploiting each other.

But actually, this information is outdated. The nature of the White Hand itself has completely changed.

They now rival a well-organized paramilitary group.

As our dear Sister Abbasina said,

there’s no one left to take ‘Father’s’ side, and everything has fallen into the hands of Aurora Savio and her gang.”

Though she was originally a nursing officer, Aurora had experienced war. The new forces that shared her vision had too.

While training new recruits harshly and efficiently in military fashion, they were systematically crushing Red Head O’Melligan.

Meanwhile, O’Melligan, despite numerical superiority, was completely exposed to attacks without defense.

After all, the larger the area to defend, the more vulnerabilities there are.

“By the way, Assistant. Did the Sister mention when she might be released?”

I answered that she hadn’t.

Father Matteo had claimed that Vatican approval would be needed for Abbasina to be free again.

Abbasina was drinking less than before, but instead sang more songs, ate more candy, and slept more.

Visits were still only allowed through the external window.

Of course, the other nuns were working diligently. The bar was still operating. That alone had dealt a significant blow to the White Hand’s liquor business.

This is why people say that while the White Hand is winning battles, they’re only drawing in the war.

After all, even if you win fights, without money and manpower, you can’t occupy territory, and without occupation, you can’t secure victory.

“Aurora is impatient. Father doesn’t readily acknowledge her.

Perhaps he fears she’ll become complacent once recognized. Or maybe he secretly has his youngest, Michael, in mind for the successor position. It’s unclear.

But Father is wise.

The more aloof he acts, the more aggressively Aurora will move, and he’s calculated that this benefits the White Hand as a whole.”

The nuns had been sharing various information with Abbasina, allowing her to read the situation quite objectively.

“It’s true that it benefits the White Hand as a whole. And it will be a major challenge for Red Head O’Melligan.

But my concern lies elsewhere. If both mafia forces weaken, who stands to gain?”

I naturally answered that it would be the side of law and justice—the city hall and police. Abbasina smiled enigmatically and said,

“Well. Just because people are in the same classroom doesn’t mean they all think alike.”

She rarely spoke in riddles, so I was surprised, but assuming she had her reasons, I didn’t press further.

Instead, I asked if the nuns couldn’t take a more active role in mediation.

“I’d like to do that. After all, I don’t enjoy seeing anyone get hurt.

But neither I, nor my nuns, nor even Father Matteo can act freely.

We’re bound by rules.”

Then she blushed slightly.

“Of course, what I did in the sewers was… somewhat against those rules. But so what? I made my choice.

But Beast, without you, I wouldn’t have been able to make that choice at all.

Why I had to make that choice, and what came of it, are separate issues.

Just the fact that the choice was entirely mine—that’s enough for me.”

Of course, Abbasina didn’t hide that the situation forcing her to make such a choice was burdensome.

Being forced to make choices, whether by humans or by fate and circumstances, is unfair and cruel.

And before God, excuses like “I had no choice” or “that’s how things were then” probably won’t hold water.

But she said she made the choice herself and was glad it was entirely her own.

Is she able to be so strong because she was once human? Or does she say this because she still wants to be human?

“So. About this steamship.”

Thanks to Crayfield’s words, I was able to emerge from my contemplation.

“When talking about the Cthulhu mythos, steamships are an unavoidable topic.

You said you haven’t read Lovecraft’s novels, right? Not all of his stories deal with alien gods.

Some are about black magic, ghouls, zombies, or even cryogenically frozen humans that have nothing to do with gods.

But they all clearly deal with the ‘fear of the unknown.’

The alien gods are a kind of symbol for that fear of the unknown, that unfathomable malice.”

At the end of his speech, Crayfield picked up a photo of a steam tour boat.

“But it just so happens that Cthulhu, the poster child for this concept, had his head blown apart by a tiny steamship.

Of course, Cthulhu wasn’t fully summoned, he regenerated his body after the steamship passed, and the man steering the ship went insane.

But it’s clearly a downgrade, isn’t it?

A cosmic entity that views humans as less than insects, taken out by a steamship.

How is that different from a human breaking bones after being hit by an ant’s antenna? It’s remained a laughingstock.”

Crayfield put down the photo with a slight smile.

“But actually, my view is a bit different. I think I mentioned before that I read all those unbearably boring Lovecraft novels while creating an alternative ending for the previous work.

I agree there was a serious flaw in the presentation. But that’s only when you put Cthulhu at the center.

If you focus on the humans who were present at the scene, you can extract a very interesting story.

Of course, it doesn’t quite fit the theme of the fear of the unknown that Lovecraft wanted…”

Tick.

He stopped speaking as the Doomsday Clock struck one. Simultaneously, footsteps could be heard coming up the staircase.

The visitor paused at the nail-studded landing, grumbling for quite some time, apparently dissatisfied. Thanks to this, Crayfield greeted the new player with a mischievous smile.

“I was going to use this. A bit of a shame.”

What he pulled from the drawer was a spinning compass—an item that points to the direction of a hero or player.

Thanks to this, we wouldn’t have to anxiously search for “His Lordship the Hero” as we did in Arkham, but with him personally walking up the stairs, it was disappointing not to use it.

“Come in!”

Crayfield called out energetically. As the door opened, a muscular young man walked in.

He had a Marine Corps tattoo on his arm, and his golden beard connecting to his sideburns was striking.

Under his military-short golden hair, his face appeared to be in his mid-twenties. His skin was dark, and his eyes were clear.

The compass spun wildly as he entered. Undoubtedly our hero.

“How can I help you?”

“Uh, I’m looking for someone. How much would that cost?”

“You’re worried about money first? Sit down, sit. We never charge much for military veterans who’ve served their country.

That wouldn’t be proper. So, you’re looking for someone—who are you trying to find?”

The young man cleared his throat.

“My name is James Chidle. I’m currently with the city vigilante group. I’ve been a member for just two days now.

Of course, I’m with the vigilantes, not the ‘whalers.’ Um, is confidentiality guaranteed here?”

“Of course. Absolutely. Don’t worry at all, Mr. James Chidle. If you wish, I could completely erase your name from my memory. Don’t worry about security.”

Crayfield tapped the armrest of his chair. The young man closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I’m looking for my predecessor. His name is Karl Böhm. He was with the city vigilante group and disappeared from the Mostin Street scene a week ago.”

“You mean the Mostin Street fire incident? Wait, the city vigilante group? There was no mention of that in the reports.”

“I’m certain.”

Chidle emphasized.

“I heard it from those who shared quarters with him. Our elder definitely went out on a mission that day and never returned.

No one knows where he is. I came to this land to find out the truth.”

“You just said ‘elder,’ didn’t you? Is that right? What’s your relationship?”

“You’re sharp.”

Chidle’s thick lips trembled.

“He is my father-in-law. Though I’ve never met him.”