Ch.6Ch.1 – Execution (5)

# March 24, 1929, 2:10 PM

# Pollard City Hospital Recovery Room

Crayfield, having finished his conversation with the attending physician, returned to Eastman’s bed. Eastman was lying uncomfortably, having been strictly warned by the nurses not to sit up until the final diagnosis was made.

“You should consider yourself fortunate, Mr. Reporter. It’s a blessing you weren’t injured. Seems like it was your mind rather than your body that got the shock. I’ve arranged for a prescription, so don’t worry.”

“I’m sorry.”

Embarrassment now joined the expression on Eastman’s face. Crayfield smiled and patted Eastman’s shoulder.

“Come now! What’s there to apologize for between comrades who’ve braved the flames together? Don’t worry, I plan to bill the Massachusetts Express for the expenses.”

“That won’t work.”

“Pardon?”

“Freelance reporters can’t claim expenses, including medical costs. We have to cover everything ourselves.”

A slight tremor entered Eastman’s voice. Crayfield snorted and disappeared somewhere, grumbling. Not long after, he returned with a metal flask and three small glass tumblers.

“Let me clarify that this is 100% medicinal brandy, properly prescribed by a doctor. It calms the nerves and reduces agitation. So have a drink. Assistant, you too. Don’t gulp it down—hold it in your mouth for a moment.”

“Ah. That’s better. Perhaps the documents… No. Never mind. I’m talking nonsense.”

“Judging by your babbling, you must be feeling better. What was that bundle of papers you were clutching, anyway?”

From outward appearances, it seemed as though Crayfield had drunk Eastman’s share of alcohol too. While Eastman’s complexion remained unchanged, Crayfield’s face had turned red all the way to his forehead.

“The original autopsy report and photographs of Lawrence Lyman.”

“Hmm. Dr. Hugh will be furious.”

“…Come to think of it, I didn’t manage to retrieve his cane either.”

“Listen.”

Eastman looked up at Crayfield’s face.

“You saved your life, and that’s what matters. What good is anything else if you don’t have your life?”

“…I’m grateful, Crayfield. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, we probably would have…”

“Been flattened while clutching those scraps of paper.”

Crayfield clicked his tongue disapprovingly. Eastman felt the inside pocket of his coat. Crayfield pulled out a ‘Massachusetts Express’ reporter’s notebook from his pants pocket and returned it.

“Couldn’t find your pen.”

“Thank you. I’m fortunate to have at least recovered this.”

“Thank my stomach. It was my weak constitution that kept me outside the building, which is why I was able to pull you out.”

“Crayfield.”

Eastman struggled to prop himself up and opened his notebook. But realizing he had no pen, he closed it again.

“Did you happen to see where the fire started? Nurse Malley said it looked like an electrical fire.”

Crayfield scratched his chin.

“Well, I don’t know. I was outside the building smoking cigarettes while waiting for you to finish. All I know is that smoke suddenly started rising, Nurse Malley shouted that you and my assistant were still inside, and I rushed in with a wet cloth over my shoulders with help from others. That’s about it—not much to tell.”

“A fire at that exact moment. What peculiar timing. Just when I found a lead… all gone to waste.”

Eastman sighed. But he didn’t refuse the 100% medicinal brandy Crayfield offered.

Crayfield filled his own glass and silently took a sip. One more glass each. Another. Until the flask was empty. Again. And again.

Brandy was that kind of drink. Like long-separated lovers, at first bitterly expressing their resentments and sorrows, but soon kissing and sharing body heat, revealing their gentle inner feelings.

Even if broken by the harsh winds and rains of the world, knowing that tomorrow morning they would have to forcibly erect the broken mast and set sail again. But for tonight, they would sleep peacefully. By my harbor. My home. Beside my love.

Such was the comfort Paul Eastman received in the middle of this strange island.

So let us step away for a moment, allowing this lonely man hungry for recognition to rest comfortably.

Even for a saint deserving of heaven, or a villain unworthy of even the edge of hell, shouldn’t there be at least a small place to rest one’s heart?

# March 24, 1929, 5:10 PM

# Inside Crayfield’s Car

Crayfield opened all the car windows. The mixture of burnt smell and sweat on their clothes was overwhelming. But Crayfield seemed apologetic.

“I’m sorry. I started the fire. And it’s my fault you were put in danger.”

The car jolted, forcing Crayfield to pause briefly.

“The best plan would have been for you and me to stay outside the morgue while Paul Eastman went in alone. Then I could have eliminated the evidence without resorting to such extreme measures.

Cutting the electricity would have stopped the freezers, causing the body to decompose. I could have stolen the autopsy report while they were in disarray.

At the very least, if Dr. Hugh hadn’t been there, or if our protagonist Eastman had failed to persuade him with his eloquence, none of us would have gained access to either the body or the report.

But Eastman overcame all those obstacles. This was unexpected. Have I mentioned that the Doomsday Clock advances when a player moves in the ‘right direction,’ closer to the truth of the case?”

The clock struck 1 when Paul Eastman, the player and protagonist of this case, appeared. It pointed to 2 when, for whatever reason, he chose to ‘go to the morgue and see the body.’

The clock reached 3 when he detected hints of something that shouldn’t exist—’implications of the bizarre that cannot be rationally accepted.’

“If Eastman had discovered something more from the autopsy report, photographs, or Lawrence Lyman’s body, he would have continued searching for the next clue, and the next, and the next.

The Doomsday Clock would have raced forward madly, and eventually, when all evidence and information fell into Eastman’s hands to grace the front page of the ‘Massachusetts Express,’ cosmic horror would have engulfed the entire state of Massachusetts, the United States, and the world.

In any case, it would have struck 12. The doors would open, and they would enter. I couldn’t allow that. Why make things so complicated? Because ‘the beings above’ haven’t given up.”

Crayfield pointed to the sky.

“They keep changing the rules of the game. Adding new elements, creating detours, introducing variables. With each new game, not only does the scenario itself change, but also the conditions for victory and defeat, the progression method, clues and events, the protagonist’s origin and background, personal missions, and so on.

The last Paul Eastman was killed by the Mafia. The one before that was a cultist of ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ disguised as a reporter, who visited everywhere else gathering clues before finally going to the morgue to resurrect Lyman. I had to dismiss my third assistant to stop him.

Once, it wasn’t Paul but Paula Eastman who came. She was a woman and a photographer, not a newspaper reporter. Hey, assistant.”

The sun slowly sinks. The Ford’s engine is rough. It races faster down the road.

“I used to work more aggressively. I’d put bullets in everyone’s heads and set fires. That was enough back then.

But I can’t do that anymore. The ‘patches’ keep coming. Now all I can do is barely hold back those who strive to be heroes. That’s it.

I pretend to help them while identifying their goals, weaknesses, and resources, then exploit and somehow interfere with them.

That’s why Eastman’s notebook popped out of my pocket. I’d slipped it from him while helping him up. Yes, it’s theft.

But I needed to know what he knew, what he was trying to do. What kind of person he was.

I need that to have something to bring to Josh Graham. I’m going to tell him about ‘information the police don’t know but Eastman might,’ and collect my payment.”

With trembling hands, he put a Camel to his lips. He awkwardly lit it with one hand.

“There are other ways. If I had left Eastman and his notebook in the morgue, everything would have been resolved easily. But I ‘don’t’ do that. Not can’t, but don’t.

Because of you. Assistant. Because of you.

【Paul Eastman, having awakened from his sleep, left Pollard Island without much to show for it. Having failed to retrieve anything meaningful, the Massachusetts Express fired him.

Amid ridicule and mockery, Eastman returned to the Arkham Times, bounced between tabloid newspapers chasing gossip, and eventually retired】

– Ch. 1 ‘Execution’ END –

Imagine being suddenly presented with this kind of ending. Would you find it acceptable?

Of course, our goal is to make Eastman feel exactly this emptiness and absurdity. But this approach clearly has its limitations. We can’t even convince ourselves.

It’s unreasonable. Absurd. We can’t quite explain it, but deep in our hearts, the question ‘why?’ remains like a hunger that will devour us.

Assistant.

There were five assistants before you. I thought I was doing the right thing and naturally assumed they would follow my cause.

They didn’t. At first, they followed instructions well, but soon developed doubts, argued with me, and then deviated from the path, plummeting off the cliff.

Only after losing my fifth assistant did I realize: I need to make my actions understandable, if not to anyone else in the world, then at least to you, my assistant.

Because we have to work together for a long time, and this job cannot be done without an assistant.

I, John Crayfield, solemnly swear: I will not take actions that even you cannot understand, even if the player remains in the dark.

You are such a precious *existence* to me. So please don’t misunderstand me.

I’m just like everyone else—a fool who makes mistakes with good intentions. That’s the end of my excuses. The choice is yours.”

The Ford slowed down and stopped by the roadside. Crayfield muttered gloomily.

“I won’t hold it against you if you leave me here. I’ll wait for your decision.”

.

..

…

….

…..

……

“Thank you.”

The Ford started moving again.

“I knew you’d understand my true intentions. You truly are a better sixth than the first. Thank you so much. Great! Now let’s get to work energetically. We have our job to do. The job of maintaining the world.

That reminds me of a movie I saw before. UN peacekeepers arrived in a conflict zone. Reporters asked if they would intervene in the current situation. The commander replied: We are Peacekeepers, not Peacemakers. I’m starting to understand that colonel’s feelings now.”

# March 26, 1929, 1:10 PM

# Corridor Outside the Pollard City Police Detective Chief’s Office

Eastman was discharged yesterday. Still clinging to the ‘Mafia connection theory,’ he seems intent on investigating the Mafia. Leaving him to his futile efforts, Crayfield requested a meeting with Detective Chief Josh Graham.

“A complaint right after lunch? Isn’t that a bit much?”

Josh Graham made no effort to hide his displeasure. Crayfield raised both arms.

“Josh, I haven’t said anything yet.”

“But you’re about to. Whatever you say, I’m going to be very uncomfortable. Just when I thought my turkey patty was perfectly cooked, good Lord.”

A short-haired Black woman typing nearby smiled.

“Shall I interrogate him?”

“How much time would you need, Officer Cathy Slade?”

“Last time I interrogated you, you didn’t last 8 minutes, did you, Crayfield? The three hours afterward were quite enjoyable. If you had been more cooperative, we could have enjoyed it longer.”

Crayfield slightly turned his chair. It was a simple movement, but it allowed him to completely turn his back on Cathy Slade.

“Go to the reception desk.”

“There’s no one at the reception desk today. It says ‘Otherwise engaged.'”

Josh Graham let out a small burp. The early signs of indigestion seemed quite uncomfortable.

“Why is that?”

“Are you genuinely asking, or pretending not to know? Every available officer, on duty or off, has rushed to the morgue.

Some are investigating the cause of the fire with the fire department, but most are piecing together puzzle pieces. Dr. Gregory Hugh threw a fit, saying he wouldn’t rest until the scattered, burnt, and torn case documents were restored. The doctor was here yesterday too.”

“The doctor came? What did he say?”

“He wanted the Lawrence Lyman autopsy report he submitted. You know, one copy is kept at the morgue and another is sent to the police station. Since the morgue copy burned, he wanted to see the police copy. But I don’t have it either. By the way, how’s reporter Eastman?”

Crayfield shrugged.

“Busy roaming the streets. You know how it is. ‘A reporter must be on the scene.’ He’s probably investigating the ‘White Hand Family’ and ‘Red-headed O’Malley.'”

“Fearless, isn’t he.”

The detective chief’s words were full of concern.

“What’s there to worry about? The White Hand are gentlemen. And O’Malley won’t mistreat an out-of-town reporter.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you know? The Mafia may talk about loyalty and honor on the surface, but they move more rationally than anyone else in the world. They never touch anything that doesn’t make money. Professors of economics at Wall Street, Harvard, Yale, Chicago, or Miskatonic should be people like them.”

“So he’ll just be turned away at the door, that’s what you’re saying.”

“He’ll leave the island in a few days. They won’t harm him, but they won’t talk to him either.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to be a cop? We have a beautiful prospective adjutant right here.”

“That’s too good for someone like me.”

Crayfield rubbed his hands together like a fly about to get caught in a spider web.

“Josh, can you send that spider woman away for a moment? I have something to discuss just between us.”

“How important is this conversation?”

“It’s about rent.”

“Private conversations during official business are strictly forbidden, but… I understand your situation. Stand up.”

Josh stood up, glancing at Cathy.

“You mean we have to leave?”

“Who’s going to organize all those documents if Cathy isn’t here? Ah, if you need some intimate time, I could bring another typewriter.”

“Let’s go. Come on, assistant, let’s go.”

# March 26, 1929, 1:33 PM

# Pollard City Police Station Parking Lot

Crayfield lit a Camel cigarette. Graham flared his nostrils but couldn’t bring himself to ask for one. The distinctive leafy smell didn’t suit his taste at all.

“I need the autopsy report. And the initial investigation report.”

“I told you I don’t have them.”

“They must be in the administrative department. Or under a trash can or shredder, or maybe half-burned in the incinerator’s waste paper pile.”

“I only have the interim report. The rest went to the chief. How am I supposed to get those?”

“To the chief?”

Graham stomped the ground with his shoe.

“Tell me why you need those damn reports.”

“I’ve seen Eastman’s notebook. Interested? Then place your bet.”

“Black’s market condition is really bad. They say he keeps having seizures.”

Crayfield stomped the ground with his heel.

“We’re talking about Police Chief Chase, why bring up Arthur Black’s market?”

“There are no meaningless moves in poker, Crayfield.”

Crayfield silently drew on his cigarette. The tip glowed like a horse’s hindquarters spurred on.

“Fine. Eastman knows nothing. The reason he wrote about harpooner Lawrence being killed by the Mafia was just to get more reader response, not because he has evidence or testimony.”

“Is that all your bet, Crayfield?”

“Raise. Eastman already knows Lawrence Lyman and Arthur Black were in conflict. Apparently it’s famous among reporters? He’s investigating the Mafia now, but he won’t find anything worthwhile.”

“And?”

“Dr. Hugh told me something interesting. That Lawrence Lyman married Black’s sister. Eastman will dig into that now. So, do you have anything to tell me?”

Graham clicked his tongue and nervously scraped the ground.

“Raise. Chief Chase had an uncle. As you know, the Black family was famous as shipowners, and the Chase family ran general stores for generations. The two families maintained close relationships, like other ‘prominent white families’ on Pollard Island. And that uncle joined the Naval ROTC at Miskatonic University.”

On an island famous for whaling, the relationship and friendship between the Black family, who owned whaling and merchant ships, and the Chase family, who supplied their equipment and provisions, was indeed strong.

“So?”

“Fold?”

“Raise. You must know he’s a freelance reporter, and he seems quite strapped for cash. It doesn’t seem like gambling or anything like that—he just doesn’t have much money. The reporter will stake his life on this case. In the worst case…”

“In the worst case what? Why do you stop mid-sentence?”

“Are you folding, Chief?”

“Raise. If you’re scared, fold. The Massachusetts Central Atlantic Naval Base had just been established, but being new, it didn’t have many vessels. This was bad news for Chase’s uncle, who had returned with a Navy Ensign’s insignia. You need to serve on ships to get promoted. He visited home often due to his base duties. Still, he had a girlfriend and was about to get married.”

Graham kicked the ground with the toe of his shoe.

“Then a superior who liked him gave him advice: ‘You don’t necessarily have to serve on a Central Atlantic base battleship. If there’s anywhere that needs a naval officer, I can arrange a deployment.’ The options were quite broad. Long-distance merchant ships. Warships from other bases. And whaling ships.”

“Whaling counted as military service?”

“Don’t be stupid. Don’t you know whaling ships circumnavigated the globe dozens of times? They routinely carried missionaries, explorers, pioneers, soldiers. Being long-distance voyages with frequent dangers, they were perfect for training.

Of course, by then the whaling fever had cooled considerably. But fortunately, or unfortunately, there was exactly one whaling ship he could board.”

Suddenly the wind blew, stirring up dust.

“And then?”

“Are you folding, Crayfield?”

“All in. In Eastman’s article for the Arkham Times, he specifically used the phrases ‘hanging upside down’ and ‘abandoned whale processing yard.’ That’s much more specific than just saying ‘died.’ And accurate too.

This means Paul Eastman has secured an informant on this island. But I don’t know who it is. Someone deliberately leaked accurate information to reporter Eastman. If this isn’t resolved, it could be quite troublesome going forward. Is that useful?”

The suggestion that someone inside was leaking information seemed to shock Josh considerably. But a deal is a deal.

“All in.”

The wind blew again, but the detective chief merely growled through his teeth and continued.

“That ship was the last whaling vessel. The pride of Pollard Island. The ship that never returned. The Unicorn.”

“My God.”

“There were plenty of laborers, but they lacked professionals like navigators. As the whaling industry entered its decline, many ships disappeared, and navigators left to find new jobs.

So that Navy Ensign took the vacant third mate position. The captain probably only expected basic navigation skills from him.”

“And…”

“Yes. The ship never returned, and his fiancée miscarried. A miscarriage before even getting married. It was a great shame for Isaiah Black, who was both the Unicorn’s owner and the fiancée’s father.”

Crayfield stared blankly at the detective chief.

“Don’t tell me that fiancée was…”

“Yes. Elizabeth Lyman. Her maiden name was Black, and she was Arthur Black’s sister and Isaiah Black’s eldest daughter. The black sheep of the family, cast out for her obsession with men.

Do you see the whole picture now? Originally, Arthur’s sister Elizabeth was supposed to marry that naval officer, the Unicorn’s third mate.

But the Unicorn sank, and Elizabeth had to marry Lawrence Lyman, the ship’s only survivor and first mate cum harpooner, instead.”