A gruff male voice, thick with curses, reverberated through the interrogation room on the third floor of the Florence Rose District police sub-station. “You damned traitor, Old Diller! Have you forgotten who helped you join the Black Hawk Gang in the first place?”
Stubbing his cigarette into a tin bucket beside his feet, Mr. Diller, seated beside Valo-Ramsey, glared furiously at the handcuffed man recently apprehended across from them. “If it weren’t for you scoundrels turning my house into a murder house and provoking those you shouldn’t have, I would never have stooped to such methods.”
Billy-Doyle, one of the Black Hawk Gang’s core members, appeared to be in his forties, with short brown hair, faint, thin eyebrows, and a neatly trimmed, stiff beard. The dark blue-black eagle tattoo on his arm served as an undeniable symbol of his identity.
This morning, before taking Konehl-Ghervil to the sanctuary, Valo-Ramsey had discreetly asked Mr. Diller to lure Doyle out, subsequently dispatching his subordinates to ambush and apprehend him.
“What does someone dying in your house have to do with me?” the man retorted, his voice dripping with contempt. “What proof is there that they were members of the Black Hawk Gang? Are you relying solely on the word of this yellow-haired private detective?”
The man writhed in his seat, his handcuffs clanking loudly as they struck each other. “I demand that you release me from this wretched place immediately!” he roared. “Otherwise, I will make you pay!”
The black-trench-coated detective, squeezed at the corner of the table, diligently recorded the interrogation, his fountain pen scratching faintly across his notepad. He was on the verge of interjecting to silence the man, yet their chief—the “yellow-haired private detective” scorned by the man—remained utterly silent, observing with a quiet intensity.
In the very next moment, the conversation shifted to him. “I see you police officers are nothing but freeloaders,” the man scoffed. “To think you’d let a mere detective conduct an interrogation! It’s enough to make people burst out laughing, ha ha ha.” When anger proved ineffective, the man changed tactics, erupting into boisterous laughter and mockery.
“Calm down, Billy,” Old Diller interjected, sighing helplessly and offering the detective a way to save face. “Mr. Valo-Ramsey is more than just a private detective, and this isn’t just an ordinary police officer. I’m doing this for your own good; I’m trying to save you all. The trouble the Black Hawk Gang has stirred up is more serious than anything before. No matter who is pulling your strings, they cannot possibly stand against this.”
“Stop trying to scare me, Valo-Ramsey, you bastard from 31 Tour Street, who’s never home,” the man sneered. “Because you cooperate with the authorities, you’ve arrested many of our brothers over the years. Instead of us coming for revenge, you’ve come knocking on our door.”
“Billy-Doyle,” Valo-Ramsey began, offering no explanation of his own identity, but calmly stating the man’s name. “You joined a gang at twelve, initially dealing in illicit alcoholic beverages, loaning money at exorbitant rates, and working as a bouncer in underground casinos and boxing rings. At twenty-five, you served time for robbery. After your release, you became more discreet, abandoning your old trades to open a distillery. A batch of privately distilled rum earned you recognition and promotion from above, allowing you to gradually rise to become a high-ranking member of the local largest gang—the Black Hawk Gang. Now, you hold a position as a mechanical repairman at a cast iron factory. Your ‘career’ has been remarkably smooth, seeing you escape unscathed even during the harshest crackdowns on gangs.”
“Glad you know, detective,” Doyle retorted, crossing his legs with a smirk. “It’s not too late to let me go now. While I can’t guarantee anything else, turning 31 Tour Street into another murder house is certainly within my capabilities.”
“Are you insane, Billy!” Old Diller exclaimed, rising to his feet and gritting his teeth. If this weren’t a police station, and if it weren’t for the past few years, he would have genuinely charged forward to beat the man senseless. Provoking the Epidemic Prevention Bureau would spell the end for every gang in the entire city; unlike the regular police, the Bureau reported directly to the Royal Family, and at that point, labeling them as rebels wouldn’t even be an exaggeration.
“He’s doing this deliberately to provoke us,” Valo-Ramsey stated, raising a hand to stop Old Diller and motioning for him to sit. He pulled his pipe from his pocket, habitually bringing it to his lips, but a quick glance around the interrogation room reminded him where he was, and he returned the pipe to his pocket. Though had he chosen to smoke, no one here would have dared to object.
“Allow me to guess your motives, Mr. Doyle,” Valo-Ramsey said, his fingers tapping lightly on the cover of his pocket watch. “To buy time, that’s your most immediate objective.”
“Whatever you say, detective,” the man replied with a cunning smile. “I won’t refute a single word.”
“Judging by the unconscious, slight twitching of your leg, I believe I’ve guessed correctly.”
“Or perhaps my leg is simply tired from sitting too long, and I wish to relax it.”
“Yes, relax,” Valo-Ramsey said, narrowing his eyes as a faint smile played on his lips. “Your first reaction upon hearing my conclusion was one of relaxation, which indicates that events are unfolding precisely according to your plan.”
“And then…?”
“Your true objective is for us to waste as much time on you as possible, isn’t it?” Valo-Ramsey pressed. “In reality, you know nothing, not even about last night’s case. You willingly came out to be captured by us, didn’t you?”
The man visibly paused, the smile slowly fading from his face as he frowned, offering no response.
Valo-Ramsey continued, “Your superiors simply tasked you with delaying the Epidemic Prevention Bureau agent—that is to say, me. Perhaps by using threats, or by promising you a considerable fortune once the deed is done.”
“The people from the Epidemic Prevention Bureau are all monsters,” the man clicked his tongue, a hint of awe in his voice. “No wonder my superiors refused to say anything.”
Old Diller, standing nearby, almost nodded in agreement, while the detective recording the minutes was quite accustomed to such remarks.
“To resort to such a flawed plan, I surmise that the person pulling your strings has grown impatient,” Valo-Ramsey mused. “They are likely planning the next murder, intending to resolve the matter completely before the arrival of the chief from the Hospital Department.”
Valo-Ramsey glanced at the time on his pocket watch and instructed the detective, “Divide into two groups: one to Glenny Medical Center, and one to accompany me to the manor.” In truth, the medical center might not require their presence, but he was uncertain of the Hospital Department’s chief’s current whereabouts or whether they would offer assistance. Therefore, dispatching a group to rendezvous there was a safer precaution.
“Yes, Chief!” The detective capped his pen, stood, and looked at the man. “What about him?”
“Do you have any cigarettes?”
“Yes, I do.” Assuming his captain wanted a smoke, the detective produced a pack and offered it with both hands. Drawing only a single cigarette, Valo-Ramsey tossed it to the man whose forehead was glistening with sweat. “Take Mr. Doyle downstairs to rest properly,” he instructed. “Releasing him now would only alert the enemy.”
****
Three minutes later, the two remaining in the interrogation room stepped out into the hallway for air.
“Just what is your friend’s true identity,” Old Diller inquired cautiously, “that makes her worth such a high-risk pursuit by the gangs?”
He was rather curious about the two tenants. One appeared sickly and utterly harmless, yet, based on his years of experience with gangs, such individuals often concealed a great deal. Her posture, her gaze—one wouldn’t doubt if told she had served in the military. The other possessed an extraordinary appearance and demeanor, and the pet perched on her shoulder was clearly the kind only nobility would keep. Such a pair would undoubtedly spark whispers and curiosity wherever they went.
If the other party chose not to answer, he would simply dismiss his curiosity.
Valo-Ramsey stood by the window, observing the bustling street below. “It’s not necessarily the gangs who want her dead.”
“Then it’s not for me to know,” Old Diller said, leaning back against the wall and rubbing his temple.
“We’ve been old friends for many years, so there’s no harm in telling you a little,” Valo-Ramsey smiled. “For now, she is merely a remarkably courageous Blood Rose expert.”