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There’s no hope for this guy. The more I talk to him, the more foolish I feel for ever having doubts about him. A spy? Wickedness in his heart? The worst he could do is jump in front of a train and screw up the rail schedule. At any rate, if Dazai does end up being nothing more than an incompetent fool, then the solution is simple. I just have to get rid of him, which I would be more than happy to do. But—
“Dazai, you remember our mission, right?”
“Exterminating the purple elephant beetles.”
“…You know, I kind of get the feeling you’re doing this on purpose.”
“Ah-ha-ha. I kid. We’re going to investigate a haunted mansion, right?”
His smiling face and casual demeanor cause me to scowl.
Yesterday, I received an e-mail with a request from a client. The message said the following:
Dear Sir,
I hope everyone at the Armed Detective Agency is doing well. I am contacting you in hopes of asking you a favor. I understand that you are very busy. However, I was left with no other choice.
To tell the truth, I would like you to investigate a certain building. It should be completely uninhabited, yet night after night, I hear eerie groaning and whispering coming from within, and I see a faint light flickering through the window. The other neighboring residents and I are so terribly frightened, we can hardly sleep.
I understand that this is not a small request, but I would be forever in your debt if you could check to see whether this is some sort of prank. Moreover, if this does happen to be a prank, then I would appreciate it if you could explain how and why it is occurring.
While it is not much, I sent you a retainer fee for your services, so please have a look at your earliest convenience. Furthermore, I ask that this request remain a secret between us. Thank you for your understanding.
I wish everyone good health and the best of luck.
Yours sincerely.
It’s a rather long-winded request, but its sender is essentially asking us to check out a building in their neighborhood to see what all the strange noises are. Almost immediately after this e-mail arrived, the agency received a letter in the mail containing the retainer fee. I verified the amount to find that it was twice the market rate even after subtracting the planned expenses, which gave us no reason to refuse. We will conduct our business as per usual.
There is one thing I’m worried about, though: The client didn’t leave a name. It is not clear who they are, where they live, or even how to get in touch with them. Perhaps that was intentional, but we won’t be able to report our findings if we cannot contact them. Thus, we have no choice but to search for the client first.
“What if the client’s some kind of vengeful spirit? Perhaps they’ve tricked us into coming to this haunted mansion to eat us, and—”
“You fool. What kind of ghost story involves vengeful spirits writing e-mails?”
And I wouldn’t be afraid if it ended up being a ghost anyway.
As we continue our idle banter, we end up heading to the warehouses at the port. The moonlight reflects off the brick warehouses, dimly illuminating the cluster of buildings under the blanket of night. We step foot into an old warehouse that’s a size smaller than the rest. The ceiling is high, and the plaster on the walls is peeling due to the ocean breeze. My nose is tickled by the smell of iron machine parts and oil along with the old scent of dust and the passage of time. I ring the office doorbell. There’s a creaking sound as if iron is sliding against iron,
and the electronic lock clicks open.
“C’mon in.”
Sure enough, a high-pitched voice welcomes us inside. We pass through a few heavy birch doors that have been unlocked remotely before arriving at our destination.
The room is just shy of 380 square feet. Machinery and electronics run across the floor and up the walls, the blinking diodes illuminating the dusky room. In the center stands a collection of computers with fans whirring like growling wolves. There are four LCD panels on the desk, each emitting a pale-blue light.
“Heya, Four-Eyes. Still religiously following that little notebook of yours?”
“Is that really the tone you want to take with me, informant? If we hand over the evidence we have on you, like we should, you’d be looking at ten years in prison. And that would break your late father’s heart.”
“Don’t you dare bring my dad into this.”
The informant, a fourteen-year-old boy, stacks his legs on the desk before leaning back in his chair. Cropped hair, big eyes, always wears the same white sweater no matter the season. He may be small, but his vision is sharp enough to cut glass.
“Anyway, it’s not like you to be late. What, were you on a ‘date’ or somethin’?”
He makes a circle with one hand and shoves a finger in it with the other.
