Ch.47Ch.5 – The Dead City Dreams and Waits (2)

After the shocking incident at Arkham, Crafield and I had many discussions about whether we had handled things properly.

Of course, we ultimately prevented disaster, but we couldn’t deny that we had relied heavily on improvisation and luck.

“The very fact that we had to improvise is troubling in itself.”

Crafield emphasized this point repeatedly.

“Every game in the world is ultimately designed to be beatable. It’s practically a contract between the game developer and the paying player. But we’re not in the position of beating the game—we’re in the position of stopping those who are trying to beat it. We can’t last long this way, can we? So we need to change our approach. Let’s start by becoming more humble.”

Extract as much information about the protagonist as possible. Always track their whereabouts. Act one step, or even half a step ahead of the protagonist. The overall framework isn’t much different from what we’ve been doing so far.

Instead, we decided to pay more attention to the protagonist.

We put our heads together to categorize protagonist types and built our own database on how they might act.

According to our classification, James Chiddle is a kind, curious, and meticulous protagonist type.

You know the type of player who reads every dialogue text and won’t rest until they’ve opened the lid of the most obscure pot in the corner of an underground cave.

This type loves conversation. They enjoy listening to others’ stories, and they enjoy telling their own even more.

We tried to humor him while extracting meaningful information.

“So that’s why she got sick. My wife, I mean. Of course, this was before we were married. The doorbell rang, and when I opened the door, there she was wearing gloves with white lace, saying, ‘Hello, thank you for opening the door. Would you be interested in learning how to become wealthy?’ It was a typical sales pitch, but something else caught my eye. My goodness, she was sweating profusely as if she’d been caught in a downpour all by herself. When I let her in, she took just a couple of steps before collapsing, gasping for breath. I felt so sorry for her that I immediately called for a doctor…”

Crafield patiently listened to such stories, laughing as if genuinely entertained and occasionally snapping his fingers in response.

All the while, he didn’t forget to probe for information that might help our work.

Like the fact that James had served in the U.S. Marines, specifically in ship power system maintenance. Or that after various twists and turns, he had registered his marriage with Karl Böhm’s daughter.

“My father-in-law was impossible to pin down. He would send letters and telegrams to my wife, but the address was different each time. If we tried to reply, it would come back stamped ‘addressee unknown.’ At least we didn’t completely lose contact since my wife’s address was fixed.”

“What was the reason?”

“I remember him often saying he felt suffocated staying in one place. My father-in-law was a really hard worker. To the point of neglecting his family. My wife dropped out of college and started working as a door-to-door salesperson partly to pay for her mother’s hospital bills, but also because there was an emptiness in her heart. It’s like metal fatigue, you know? Even metal that looks perfectly fine will eventually break after being bent and straightened multiple times. Damage accumulates imperceptibly until—snap. My wife loved her father, but she was also thirsting for love that went unanswered.”

James pressed his fingertips together, then spread them wide.

“Well. She hasn’t openly resented him yet. From what my wife tells me, her father was quite poor at expressing himself. So I think his wanderlust might have been his own way of expressing his feelings. Anyway, he sent a telegram saying he’d found a job here. Since a position with the vigilante group wouldn’t be short-term, both my wife and I thought we could visit him often. Though we did rush the marriage registration.”

“Who suggested getting married first?”

“My wife. She has an enormous expectation for family and settling down. When she thinks someone is on her side, she lets down all her defenses. When she thinks someone is an enemy, she becomes merciless.”

“And then your father-in-law disappeared.”

James nodded glumly.

“I sent him a telegram, but the reply came from Pollard City Hall. It said he was missing and asked if he might have come to where we were. My wife said it was nonsense. A man who had lived his entire life on diligence alone—how could he abandon his post? After discussing it, we decided to report it to the police. But they wouldn’t accept our report, saying vigilante matters weren’t police business.”

Crafield scribbled something on a notepad.

“Please continue.”

“What else could I do? My wife cried every day. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look into it.’ So I came here without much of a plan. But my goodness. I’d never seen a place like Pollard Island before. It’s just like a military base. They put up signs saying ‘Visitors Welcome’ and ‘Friendly Service to Citizens,’ but they absolutely won’t let you inside the fence. In some ways, it’s even more closed off than the shipyard where I used to work. They open the doors just enough for tourists, but won’t tell you anything more unless you’re an insider. It’s an incredibly closed island.”

“So you became a vigilante? To get inside?”

Crafield exclaimed in admiration. James shrugged as if it were nothing.

“Well, if you want to attack, you have to step onto enemy territory, right? Fortunately, they were hiring to fill a vacant position. Little did I know it was my father-in-law’s position.”

“Do you have a list of people your father-in-law was close with?”

“Well, he hadn’t been here that long… but I do have information about the people who shared a room with him. There were five of them, all younger than me or about my age. Here’s a list with their names. The vigilante group’s shared lodging is in an old apartment near the eastern harbor. Six people shared one room. I’ve written down the address too.”

James handed over a note with the names and detailed address.

“They all became vigilantes on the same day as my father-in-law.”

Crafield stroked his rough chin in acknowledgment.

“Was your father-in-law the only vigilante who responded to the fire? Who supervised him? As far as I know, the Pollard City vigilante group is quite similar to a police organization. Work is distributed by team leaders, right?”

“That’s correct. The team leader is a man named Dick Perry, about forty years old. But what exactly is a ‘whaler’? The roommates referred to him by that term with contempt.”

Crafield briefly explained the history of the ‘whalers.’

Pollard Island was famous for whaling, and while the whaling ship owners were wealthy mainlanders, the crew members, except for the officers, were children from poor Pollard Island families.

The rich stayed rich and the poor stayed poor, but they had a sense of camaraderie from having once been on the same ship, and that bound Pollard Island together.

“That’s a bit grotesque. It’s like an aristocracy. Like those who even took pride in the fact that ‘We have served the nobility for generations.'”

James frowned.

“You see it clearly. The upper class had to do something for the ‘sailors’ who suddenly lost their jobs. That’s where the volunteer fire department and volunteer police force were born. The volunteer fire department was incorporated into the official firefighter organization, but the police organization remains divided between the vigilante group and the Pollard City Police.”

James sighed and rolled his heels a couple of times. Crafield asked in a subtle voice:

“Does the vigilante group know you’re Karl Böhm’s son-in-law?”

“No. I pretended not to know and asked what kind of person my predecessor was and why there was a vacancy. They all answered willingly.”

“Willingly, you say. And your shifts?”

“They vary a bit, but today I have the afternoon shift. Eight hours a day. I’ve been assigned to the eastern coast area. But I can quit anytime. As soon as I find a clue, anytime. I didn’t come here to make money.”

James raised his large fist.

“I came to find a person.”

Crafield smiled and pulled a contract from his drawer.

“I should certainly help you. Don’t worry too much about the fee. I’m not above caring about money, but I’m not so thick-skinned as to charge excessive fees to a former soldier with such a sad story. There, this should be…”

Of course, the truth was that he was in a good mood because he had easily met the player, but regardless, James completed the signature. He shook hands with both Crafield and me.

“Very good, gentlemen. Now we need to go somewhere, assistant. I’m sorry, but I’ll need to borrow your coat and hat. Mine smells a bit of sweat. You’re a clean fellow, aren’t you? Mr. James, try this on. You have very broad shoulders!”

“The shoulders are a bit tight.”

Crafield paid no attention.

“Glasses. Yes. Rimless glasses would be good. They change your appearance. Just a moment, in this cabinet…

Good, Mr. James. You’re an outsider, but you’ve understood this island very well. This really is enemy territory. And what do you do when you enter enemy territory? Disguise, disguise. The vigilantes might not stand out much, but an outsider vigilante certainly would. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

James nodded. With glasses and a coat, the young Marine now looked like a librarian or an intellectual scholar.

“But where are we going that requires such a disguise?”

“Downstairs.”

* * * * *

May 10, 1929, 11:00 AM

Graham Pharmacy, 22 Gordega Street

On the first floor of 22 Gordega Street is the pharmacy of Margaret Graham, wife of Pollard City Police Detective Chief Josh Graham.

She is as extraordinary as her husband. She still doesn’t cooperate with the mafia, and the mafia doesn’t bother her either.

During Prohibition, alcohol could be “legally” distributed as medicine, so most pharmacies had connections to the mafia, but Margaret’s pharmacy didn’t.

Of course, it wasn’t just because of her sturdy build, stronger than most men, and her powerful grip that could crush a walnut with one hand—they say it used to be two walnuts, but now she’s down to crushing just one—that wasn’t the whole reason.

She is the daughter of an active Army Major General. And thanks to her, Josh Graham is the only Pollard public official who can maintain his integrity.

“Oh, if it isn’t the great John Crafield.”

Of course, that’s no reason to treat a troublesome tenant gently.

When we went downstairs, she was speaking in a gentle voice with a kind-looking elderly woman.

“What wind blew you down here? Thank you, Mrs. Misbeth. Let’s set up next week’s prayer meeting schedule quickly.”

As the elderly woman picked up her cane and hat and left, Crafield tried to put on a friendly smile.

“Ah, the beautiful Lady Margaret.”

Instead of answering, Margaret clenched her fist. Judging by the cracking sound, there must have been a walnut in there.