Chapter 140: Things Are Different Now

Chapter One Hundred Forty
Things Are Different Now

At the end, the middle-aged man with graying temples took a sip of tea, smiled, and sighed.

“Actually, this is already much better than before. Better than many people here. For example…”

He pointed toward the vagrants curled up in a corner outside the window.

Klein and Mike looked over and saw a filthy place that could block the wind. A whole group of curled-up vagrants lay there, men and women, old and young.

In this cold late autumn, they might not wake up again.

At that moment, Klein noticed an old woman in her sixties standing by the street. Her dress was old and ragged, but comparatively neat. Her hair had also been combed meticulously.

The gray-haired old woman bore the exhaustion commonly seen on vagrants’ faces. Yet she still stubbornly refused to squeeze in with that group. Instead, she walked slowly along the roadside, from time to time staring numbly and deeply into the café.

“She’s another pitiful person.”

The former vagrant, who had finished the rest of his black bread, also noticed the old woman and sighed several times.

“I heard she used to live quite well. Her husband was a grain merchant, and she had a very spirited child. Sadly, afterward, they went bankrupt. Her husband and child died soon after as well. She’s different from us—truly. You can tell at a glance… Sigh, she probably won’t last much longer unless she can get into the workhouse every time.”

As Mike listened, his expression changed from calm to gloomy. He slowly exhaled and said, “I would like to interview her. Could you invite her over for me? She can eat or drink anything here.”

The middle-aged man did not find the request strange. He simply glanced at Klein and Mike separately, as though saying, You two truly are colleagues.

“All right. I think she will definitely be willing.”

He took a sip of tea, then rose and walked out of the greasy café.

Before long, the old woman in her old but tidy dress followed him inside. The bluish-white complexion of her face faded slightly in the café’s warmth.

She trembled constantly, as though releasing the cold inside her body bit by bit and absorbing the café’s relatively higher temperature. Even after sitting down, she still spent a full extra minute before truly recovering.

“Order anything you like. Consider it payment for the interview,” Klein said on Mike’s behalf.

After Mike nodded, the old woman reservedly ordered toast, poor-quality cream, and coffee. Then she gave a small smile.

“I heard that when a person hasn’t had food for too long, they shouldn’t eat anything greasy.”

So polite, so self-controlled. Not like a vagrant at all…

Klein silently sighed.

Before the food arrived, Mike casually asked, “Can you tell us how you became a vagrant?”

The old woman revealed a reminiscing expression and smiled bitterly.

“My husband was a grain merchant. He mainly bought all kinds of grain from farmers inside the country. Ever since the Corn Laws were repealed, we went bankrupt very quickly.

“He was already rather old. That matter struck him down, and his body collapsed swiftly. Before long, he died.

“My child was an outstanding young man. He had always followed his father in business. He could not accept the blow, so on a moonless night, he jumped into the Tussock River.

“His first suicide attempt failed, and he was sent to the magistrates’ court. The police and judges were all very impatient. They felt he had wasted their time.

“If you want to kill yourself, please kill yourself quietly and successfully. Don’t trouble us… Mm, that is probably what they wanted to say, but they also felt it was too direct.

“My child was put in prison. Before long, he attempted suicide a second time, and succeeded.”

The old woman spoke very calmly, as though those events had not happened to her.

Yet for some reason, Klein felt an intense grief.

There is no sorrow greater than a dead heart…

He suddenly remembered a phrase he had heard in his previous life.

In this world, suicide was not only an act forbidden by every major Church, but also something subject to legal punishment.

As for the reason, Klein knew it very well.

First, many suicides chose to throw themselves into rivers. If they were not discovered in time, there was a certain chance they would become water ghosts. Second, those who committed suicide were often in a terribly wrong emotional state. Ending one’s life in such a condition was equivalent to a “sacrifice,” possibly resonating with certain bizarre and terrifying existences.

As a result, their bodies after death, or certain objects around them, might carry strange curses that endangered others.

The Misfortune Puppet behind the Chanis Gate in Tingen City had very likely come from such a situation.

Therefore, all seven orthodox Churches, starting from their own doctrines, forbade believers from committing suicide, and the royal family had also pushed the corresponding legislation.

Of course, to Klein, that seemed somewhat ridiculous. Would someone who wanted to kill themselves still fear the law and punishment?

Mike wrote rapidly, about to say something, when the café owner had already brought the food over.

“Fill your stomach first. We can talk afterward.”

Mike pointed toward the toast.

“All right.”

The old woman ate the food in small bites, seeming very well-bred.

She had not ordered much and soon finished.

After drinking the last sip of coffee with visible reluctance, she rubbed her forehead and pleaded, “Could I sleep for a while before we talk? It’s too cold outside.”

“No problem,” Mike answered without the slightest hesitation.

The old woman thanked him several times in gratitude, then sat in the chair and curled up like that, falling asleep.

Mike looked toward the middle-aged man beside them.

“You seem very familiar with this area. I would like to hire you as our guide. How does three soli a day sound? Sorry, I forgot to ask your name.”

The middle-aged man hurriedly shook his head.

“No, no, no. That’s too much. At the docks, most of the time, I only earn one soli a day.”

“You can call me Old Kohler.”

“Then two soli a day. That is what you deserve,” Mike concluded decisively.

Having witnessed this strange negotiation, Klein blew his nose with a sheet of paper and planned to get another cup of coffee. But suddenly, he sensed something was wrong and turned toward the old woman curled up asleep in the chair.

Her face, which had grown much rosier after the coffee, had once again turned bluish-white. The colors of her aura and emotions had already disappeared.

“…”

Klein stood and instinctively reached out to check the old woman’s breathing.

Under Mike’s and Kohler’s astonished gazes, he said heavily, “She is dead.”

Mike opened his mouth but failed to say anything. Kohler, meanwhile, tapped his chest three times and smiled bitterly.

“I knew she would not be able to hold on much longer…

“Things like this happen in the East Borough every day.

“At least she filled her stomach and died somewhere warm. I hope—heh, I hope I can die like that someday too.”

Klein remained silent for a moment before saying, “Kohler, go find a policeman.”

“All right.”

Kohler tapped his chest three times again and ran out of the café.

The owner glanced this way but did not come over, as though this was not something that needed much concern.

After a while, a policeman wearing a black-and-white checkered uniform, carrying a short baton, and with a revolver at his belt, entered the café.

He looked at the dead old woman, casually asked Mike and Klein a few questions, then waved a hand.

“It’s fine. Wait until I find someone to take the body away, then you can leave.”

“That is all?” Mike asked in astonishment.

He was clearly not especially familiar with the East Borough.

The policeman gave a laugh.

“Things like this happen many times a day in the East Borough!”

His eyes shifted, looking toward Klein and Mike.

“You don’t look like people from around here. Names? Identities?”

Mike took out his press certificate, while Klein said he was the private detective protecting him.

The policeman’s face immediately turned stern. Looking at Klein, he said, “I suspect you of carrying a firearm illegally!”

“I need to search your belongings. Please cooperate. Otherwise, it will be treated as resisting arrest!”

Mike instantly grew worried, because he knew private detectives generally carried firearms illegally.

Expressionless, Klein spread his hands.

“All right.”

He allowed the policeman to search him. But the policeman found nothing.

Only after the old woman’s corpse was carried away did the disappointed policeman leave as well. Mike clenched a fist and struck the table.

“A living person died here, and all he cared about was checking for illegal guns!”

At that point, Mike turned to look at Klein in confusion.

“You didn’t bring a gun?”

Klein shook his head, pulled the holster and revolver out from beneath the table, and said calmly, “As a detective, I have abundant experience in this area.”

As a Magician, he could place a pistol right before someone’s eyes and still prevent them from noticing it.

Moreover, because he had not bought ordinary bullets, and his Beyonder bullets had temporarily been left above the gray fog, his revolver was currently empty. But that did not prevent him from firing it. All he had to do was imitate a “bang” with his mouth when pulling the trigger.

Seeing this, Old Kohler muttered from the side, “So you’re a detective.”

Klein pointed at Mike and casually explained, “Last time, I was also commissioned by this gentleman.”

Mike sat there and did not refute it. After a moment of silence, he said, “Although I have investigated gangs before and seen some of the tragic lives of prostitutes, I do not understand the situation in the East Borough well. Help me take a look at this investigative interview plan and see whether there are any problems.”

As he spoke, he took several sheets of paper from the inner pocket of his coat and unfolded them on the café table.

Klein glanced at them and said, “Interviews with East Borough residents of different age groups?

“That is too troublesome. I think it can be divided according to location: better apartments, apartments where five or six people squeeze into one room, street corners that block the wind, benches in the park, as well as bars and workhouses.

“In addition, you can divide it into working hours and rest hours.”

Mike listened seriously and nodded.

“A good line of thought. Kohler, what do you think?”

Old Kohler pinched his nose and said, “I don’t know words… but I think Mr. Detective is right.”

Mike thought for a while, revised the plan, then said, “Then let us first go to the nearby apartments and randomly choose one.”