Many thoughts flashed through Klein’s mind, but on the surface, he revealed a smile.
“Alright.”
He boarded Isengard Stanton’s rented carriage and saw a young man with brown hair inside.
“This is my assistant,” Isengard, who had a thin and angular face, introduced. “Please, have a seat.”
He didn’t close the carriage’s door, nor did he let the carriage driver drive the horse forward to show that he meant no harm.
Klein deliberately sat down uneasily and asked worriedly, “What would you like to talk about, Mr. Stanton?”
Isengard took out a dark pipe and said, “I want to know what you’ve learned from following Ma’am. Lopez. Did you hear or discover anything?”
“This… I’m also a detective, and you should know that we have confidentiality agreements in this business,” Klein deliberately replied as though he was in a dilemma.
“I’m asking you on behalf of Sivellaus Yard. This has nothing to do with a confidentiality agreement.” Isengard rubbed the pipe with his thumb. “A pound, um… How about two pounds?”
Having learned a lesson from the previous incident with Meursault, together with the fact that there was no need to keep it a secret, Klein replied without hesitation, “Sure.”
“Alright.” Isengard smiled and took out two one-pound notes from his pocket.
Klein acted as though he was recalling something before frankly saying, “We only heard one sentence. Ma’am. Lopez attempted to order her subordinates to tell Capim that he’s not to send anyone over in the next few days.”
“Capim?” Isengard nodded, seemingly enlightened. “Got it.”
“You know Capim?” Klein didn’t hide his surprise.
Isengard handed the notes over and said with a faint smile, “He’s one of the most controversial magnates in Cherwood Borough.”
“In Backlund, innocent girls often go missing along deserted streets, and after a long time, they might be chanced upon in all sorts of legal or illegal brothels. A lot of rumors point to Capim as the criminal honcho filled with blood and filth on his hands, but due to a lack of evidence, he remains free to this date. Furthermore, he knows a lot of important people.”
“Thank you for your cooperation.” Isengard got up midway as a polite gesture to send him off. “By the way, your fighting skills are excellent. Maybe we’ll have a chance to work together in the future. How should I address you?”
“Sherlock Moriarty,” Klein answered briefly and got off the carriage.
Only when he boarded a newly arrived tracked carriage did Isengard Stanton instruct his assistant to close the door and order the carriage driver to head towards Hillston Borough.
Turning his head to the side, he looked out of the window. The gray-haired elderly gentleman had put away his dark pipe, pulled out a brass ornament from his pocket, slowly stroking it in his hand.
The brass ornament was a pocket-sized open book with a vertical eye in the center.
“The appearance and getup of Mr. Moriarty from just now were a bit out of place. He wore very cultured gold-rimmed glasses, but he had deliberately grown a beard around his mouth, making him look crude and barbaric. This is not quite in line with the norm. In this day and age, people who wear gold-rimmed glasses tend to care a lot about their image, the image of having knowledge and bearing. Maybe he’s trying to hide something… Of course, it’s also possible that he’s a gentleman with an unusual aesthetic sense…” Isengard seemed to be talking to himself, but he also seemed to be teaching his assistant.
The tracked public carriage had two floors as it ferried more than forty passengers towards the Backlund Bridge area. Klein gradually reined in his thoughts and cast his gaze out the window and admired the two to three-story buildings on the other side of the road.
Occasionally he could see brown houses five or six stories high, a sign of Backlund’s latest trend and of the kingdom’s most advanced construction technology.
After a transfer, Klein arrived at Iron Gate Street and got off the carriage opposite the Bravehearts Bar.
As it wasn’t the peak period at the bar yet, the moment he entered, he saw Kaspars drinking at the bar.
The old man with the brandy nose had requested for a glass of Langsky Proof, his eyes narrowed in satisfaction as he savored the fragrance of the malt and the burning sensation in his throat.
Klein moved closer, rapped the counter, and asked with a smile, “Is Maric here?”
At the same time, he had one hand in his pocket as he gripped Azik’s copper whistle, using his spirituality to shield its negative effects.
Before he finished his sentence, he felt gazes sweep past him. It was evident that they were observing him.
By the time he finished asking his question, the gazes moved away from him and focused on Kaspars.
The old man with the huge scar on his face opened his eyes, and when he saw that it was Klein, he said in a bad mood, “He didn’t come. He didn’t come yesterday either.”
Combined with an original doubt of his, he felt that the question now had a general answer to it.
After some thought, Klein said with regret, “Is that so. I was planning on playing cards with him.”
Upon hearing something that didn’t match Klein’s usual manner of speech, Kaspars was alarmed. He didn’t look around either, but chortled and said, “I’ll be having a card game tonight. Texas, do you want to join in?”
“No, I just want to play till dinner. Sigh, I think I’ll just head home.” Klein sighed and left the Bravehearts Bar without even ordering anything to drink.
He had intended to ask Kaspars about other Beyonder gatherings, but in that situation, he carefully abandoned the idea.
In fact, he could’ve gone to a card room or some relatively sealed area to talk with Kaspars, but just to be safe, he decided to wait until next time.
Klein was in no hurry to return home. Instead, he went to the one-bedroom apartment he rented in East Borough and started divining above the gray fog to confirm that no one was following him.
After easing his mind, he reached Minsk Street before it was completely dark and found all sorts of subscribed newspapers crammed into his mailbox.
He brought the newspapers into the living room and sat on the sofa. He lit the wall lamp and started reading.
Klein first read through the Backlund Morning Post and immediately flipped to the fifth page and saw an advertisement. It was an advertisement for the Ernst Firm’s purchase of goods!
The prices were 7 pence per liter of flour, 1 soli of butter, 6 pence per pound of lard, 1 soli 3 pence per pound of cream, 8 soli per pound of marquis black tea…
He wanted to sell some formulas to see if he could buy the corresponding ingredients or items!
