Ch.7Ch.1 – Execution (6)

Graham wiggled his fingers. Crayfield handed him a Camel cigarette and lit it for him. The supervisor, who had been looking at him disapprovingly, took a drag.

“This is our secret from my wife. You know? She’s nagging me to quit smoking while not even letting me have a drink.”

Despite everything, the supervisor is an excellent tobacco enthusiast. At least when it comes to cigarettes, he’s a fair man who recognizes and embraces personal preferences as individuality.

“Those times were too strict. America was like that in the last century, but this island was especially so. Of course, I don’t intend to tell you that long, long story. I’m not here to give a history lesson on Pollard Island.

I’ll just say that in a black and white era, Elizabeth Black was a red rose that bloomed far too early. Everyone, regardless of age or gender, wanted to cut off her head with pruning shears and hang it on their door.”

“Whoa. That’s poetic, boss. Can I tell your wife about this?”

“Do as you please. The person who told me that was my wife. About once a month, Elizabeth’s nurse visits my wife’s pharmacy to buy things like syringes and sedatives. They’ve become quite friendly after seeing each other for so long and apparently share various stories.”

“They say it’s darkest under the lamp, but it turns out there was a gold mine right below my office.”

Crayfield sighed. Small puffs of smoke rose whenever the supervisor snickered.

“That’s why I told you. Go to church. Meet some decent people! Connections, man. Expand your connections! Stop hanging around with those back-alley rats all the time. It pains me to think about your soul.

*Cough, cough!* Oh my, this is why I hate Camels. I really can’t stand this grassy smell. Anyway, have you ever seen Isaiah Black? Elizabeth and Mayor Arthur Black’s father.”

“No.”

“I saw him a couple of times when I was a constable. He looked just like a pastor. If you asked, ‘Hello, how are you?’ he seemed like he’d answer, ‘Fine, I just burned three witches at the stake.’

On the surface, he was the owner of numerous whaling fleets and the head of Pollard’s prestigious family, but inside, he was a man armed with bizarre fanaticism. Even his strictness seemed part of his madness. Yet despite that, scandals never ceased.”

“Doesn’t sound like he was a very good father.”

“Among the servants, rumors circulated that Isaiah visited his daughter’s room every night.”

Graham tossed away his finished cigarette. Then he carefully crushed it with his shoe. Not to bury and conceal it, but as if to grind it into fine powder. As if determined to leave nothing behind.

“Elizabeth apparently tried desperately to escape her father’s shadow. She even planned an escape, but it was impossible since the entire dock was in Isaiah’s grip. Then a handsome naval lieutenant about her age appeared before her.

Since his family, the Chase family, was both a long-time partner of the Black family and a prestigious family in Pollard, Isaiah had neither reason nor justification to oppose this marriage. It could easily turn into an emotional battle between the families.

Think about it. The Navy. Once married, she could follow her husband’s posting inland. Arkham. Portsmouth. How full of dreams she must have been.”

“But she married Lawrence Lyman instead.”

“Yes. A drifter. A harpooner. A whale slaughterer. Lyman was nearly forty. Elizabeth was around twenty. They say it was hard to tell whether it was a wedding or a funeral.

The bride cried so much she fainted. And soon after, she went mad. Can you blame her? Still living under her father’s surveillance, her fiancé never returned, the child in her womb died, and she was forced into an unwanted marriage.”

A wind blew from the eastern beach. A putrid smell rode on the characteristic moisture and salt of the seaside. Graham turned his back to the wind.

“Damn whale calves. They say coastal whales are extinct, but apparently not. How can two or three dead whale calves wash up on the beach every day? Baby ones at that.”

“How did she end up marrying Lyman?”

“That’s what I can’t understand the most. Why? Of course, Isaiah did value Lawrence. Lawrence was competent, diligent, and also brutal and vile. A hardworking son of a bitch, you might say.

He knew how to drive people and had a talent for stealing others’ credit. If you asked me to pick someone who’d be great as a subordinate but terrible as a boss, I’d recommend Lawrence Lyman.”

Crayfield lit another Camel cigarette. Graham declined.

“So are you saying I can get the report or not? You’ve told me everything except that.”

Crayfield folded his arms. Graham shook his head slightly.

“My friend, the autopsy report and initial investigation report went directly to the police chief. Isn’t that highly unusual? The officer who wrote the first report was sent on assignment to the Massachusetts State Police in Boston. What I got was a single page of an extremely summarized interim report.”

Crayfield openly displayed his disappointment. Graham reluctantly waved his hand.

“Just a pen and a piece of paper. Now, let’s say this is the center of town. I know I’m not good at drawing, so stop laughing, Crayfield! Now, if you go straight north, you’ll see a large elm tree, and if you go straight left from there, you’ll see an abandoned lighthouse. There’s a farm in front of it.”

Looking at the map that seemed drawn by an elementary school student, Crayfield touched his cheek.

“The northern pastures? There’s nothing but cows and sheep there.”

“There’s also a steep valley and people. It’s Elizabeth Lyman’s convalescent home, they say. She lives there with a maid who has cared for her for a very long time, along with employees of the Black family. Mayor Arthur Black seems to care quite a bit for his sister. Well, with a ten-year age gap, she was almost like an aunt or mother to him.”

Crayfield tucked his notebook into his pocket.

“How did you find out about this address?”

“Chief Chase ordered regular patrols since the day Lawrence was found hanging upside down. The rookies from each department ride motorcycles around every day, and boy, do those young bastards complain. Well, I can’t say I don’t understand.”

“Why is the headquarters patrolling all the way out there when there’s a northern police station? It’s almost an hour away.”

“How should I know? When they say do it, you do it.”

Graham cleared his throat and straightened his back. He looked like he needed rest after rummaging through too many unpleasant memories in the attic.

“Go visit with that journalist. People’s hearts are strange things; sometimes they open up to someone they think they’ll never see again. Who knows? If you talk to the maid there, you might learn about the relationship between Arthur Black and Chase.

Of course, this doesn’t apply to a rogue like you, Crayfield. It has to be a gentlemanly and neat person like your friend Eastman. Though his short stature is a bit of a flaw.”

“Isn’t that a bit harsh?”

“Truth is always persecuted. Lord, have mercy.”

The detective supervisor waved his hand and went into the building. Crayfield headed to the parking lot. The clock still showed 3.

“Assistant. Get in for now.”

Crayfield didn’t start driving immediately. Instead, he opened a pouch attached to the driver’s door and took out a leather baton about the size of a small sausage. It was just long enough to be covered by outstretched fingers.

“Take this. It’s a blackjack. It’s not too heavy, so keep it handy.”

[You have acquired Weapon: Blackjack. You can feel a heavy steel core tightly wrapped in leather. Perfect for hitting someone on the back of the head!]

“And this too.”

This time it was a revolver. It was small enough to be covered by a palm and very light. The drum, about the size of a wristwatch, could hold 12 bullets. There wasn’t a single bullet loaded.

[You have acquired Weapon: Revolver, “Chekhov.” It is a masterpiece by the blind German Imperial technician “von Herder.” Von Herder’s famous works include the silent sniper rifle used by Colonel Sebastian Moran of England. Although it failed to assassinate Sherlock Holmes, it is still a powerful weapon.]

“It’s a gun that uses very special ammunition. I’ll teach you how to load it later.”

Crayfield looked at his “real” wristwatch. Two in the afternoon. The time he was supposed to meet Paul Eastman. He wasn’t visible yet.

“That’s because we’re not the protagonists, Assistant. But if we pass on the information we’ve heard to the protagonist, and if the protagonist becomes aware of the absurdities of this world, the count will go up. Ah, here comes our journalist. I should give him one.”

Fortunately, Paul Eastman appeared at the entrance of the police station. Judging by his intact collar, he doesn’t seem to have had a rough time.

“There’s a reason I’m giving you these weapons. As the level increases, you’ll see harmful things. From 1 to 4 o’clock is fine. 4 to 8 o’clock is not so good, and past 8 o’clock is very bad. That’s all you need to know for now. Ah, Eastman! Let’s have a look. Fortunately, you weren’t hit anywhere? Get in. Get in.”

“Nothing happened.”

Eastman’s voice from the backseat was deeply depressed.

“So what’s the problem?”

“I told you. Nothing happened. I didn’t get anything.”

“Let’s talk as we go.”

Crayfield started the engine and drove off.

* * * * *

1929. 3. 26. PM 2:20

Road to the Northern Pastures

In the moving car, Crayfield and Eastman shared information.

Eastman’s information was meager. It was a handful of sand, and even that was trivial enough to slip through his fingers.

Crayfield recounted what he had heard in a tone as objective and calm as possible. With a click, the count increased.

As soon as it reached 4, the sky didn’t darken or anything like that. It was the opposite. The sunlight was too bright.

It was so bright that sunlight seemed to pierce through the steel roof.

Crayfield in the driver’s seat frowned slightly, but Eastman in the backseat didn’t seem to notice any change.

He was looking out the window.

With a vrooom sound, the standard Ford charged down the road. The road sizzled as if entering a hell of fire, and now even the soles of their feet were slightly hot.

“The weather is quite hot.”

“I hate days like this.”

Eastman himself seemed more surprised by his declaration-like answer. Soon he continued, as if making an excuse.

“Because there’s nowhere to hide.”

“Nowhere to hide?”

Eastman frowned.

“It’s a clear day without a single cloud. It’s definitely two in the afternoon, but the sun is shining down from above. Somewhere on the plain, there’s a sniper. And I have to walk down that road.”

“All cowboys are like that.”

“I was an officer. With my gestures, my decisions, others lived or died.”

Crayfield waited silently.

“Can I have a Camel?”

“Light one for him, Assistant. It should be in the pouch on your side of the door.”

“Thank you.”

*Cough, cough.* Eastman’s hands were trembling slightly. He smoked one, then another, before throwing it out the window.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no. That can happen when you smoke after a long time. I heard you quit. You definitely said so at the café.”

“There was no sign at all.”

“Pardon?”

“On the battlefield. Our company was marching across a field. It was a clear day without a breeze, no clouds, no birds. We thought it was a rear area, so we weren’t even on alert. Then I faintly heard the sound of artillery. It was the old, worn-out German cannons making a long whistle sound.”

Eastman was leaning his arm against the car window.

“Everyone grumbled while lying down. ‘Wasn’t this the rear? The front line is far away. Or have the Germans developed some ultra-long-range artillery?’ Everyone chuckled. So did I. And then something dropped onto the road with a thud.

It hissed and yellow-brown gas spewed out. It was poison gas. Thud, hiss. On a clear day without a breeze, an entire company was hit directly by a gas shell. We barely managed to put on gas masks and gather the remaining subordinates. Including me, there were only four of us. Nicol. Bill. Johnson.”

The wind thoroughly tousled Eastman’s hair.