Chapter 237 - 237 Concealment
237 Concealment
“So? Do you know him?” Franca glanced at Lumian, seeking his insight.
Lumian shifted his gaze away from the mirror, its reflection gradually fading, and spoke with a deep voice, “He’s one of Hugues Artois’s men. I spotted him during the campaign.”
Franca furrowed her brow, closing her makeup mirror and inquiring, “What happened?”
Lumian recounted the encounter between Ruhr and Michel, concluding, “There’s something suspicious about this man.”
Franca sighed, remarking, “They’re already in such dire straits as scavengers, and yet they still have to face such a situation…”
She scoffed, adding, “Considering Lady Moon’s endorsement of Hugues Artois as an open-minded individual, it wouldn’t surprise me if he surrounds himself with peculiar characters.”
Pausing to look at Lumian, Franca continued, “Hugues Artois is now a member of parliament. He’ll have both visible and covert protection. If we make a move against him or his associates, we’ll easily be tracked down. The consequences would be severe.”
“Let’s entrust this matter to the official Beyonders for further investigation. I can’t guarantee much else. At the very least, the Inquisition’s Purifiers and members of the Machinery Hivemind won’t turn a blind eye to such affairs. They will find a way to uncover the truth and assess the situation,” Franca suggested.
Lumian nodded slowly and inquired, “Then which Sequence or pathway could it be? Can phlegm transmit such a deadly disease?”
As he made his way from Auberge du Coq Doré to Rue des Blouses Blanches, Lumian diligently recalled the twenty-two paths of the divine detailed in Aurore’s grimoires but found no match for the current circumstances.
Franca pondered deeply and said, “My understanding of the twenty-two paths of the divine is similar to your sister’s, but I have a more comprehensive knowledge of certain aspects. I can only think of one pathway that fits the criteria, but it’s of a higher level and exclusive to women. It doesn’t align with the target’s situation.”
“Hmm… Considering we’ve encountered the Great Mother and the Blessed of the Mother Tree of Desire, could our target be someone blessed by another evil deity?”
“Heh heh, if it truly involves the faith of an evil god, the Beyonders from both Churches will undoubtedly intensify their efforts.”
“Yes, Ruhr’s death is peculiar indeed. As long as the investigating police aren’t blind, they’ll swiftly report it to their superiors, who will assign someone capable to handle the case.”
Lumian acknowledged her words briefly, his expression softening.
After bidding farewell to Franca, he made his way back to Auberge du Coq Doré.
As he walked past the reception desk, Madame Fels rose to her feet, a mix of fear and flattery evident in her voice as she greeted, “Good morning, Monsieur Ciel.”
A few days ago, the police had informed her that Monsieur Ive was believed to be involved in a cult and had become a wanted criminal. They had requested her to use the rental income to cover expenses and ensure the motel’s smooth operation during this period. Additionally, they wanted her to keep a record of the accounts. Once the elections were over, they would settle the matter of Auberge du Coq Doré’s ownership promptly.
Madame Fels felt uneasy, fearing that the new boss would dismiss her. Subconsciously, she tried to win Ciel’s favor, hoping that a leader of the Savoie Mob would stand up for her when the time came. Whoever took control of Auberge du Coq Doré would not want to offend the corresponding mob, unless they had influential connections.
“Good morning,” Lumian replied simply. He walked along the wall, covered in newspapers and pink paper to conceal stains, cracks, and bedbugs, making his way up to the third floor.
He had locked the door to Room 302 before the other tenants on the third floor had awakened, so as of yet, no one had discovered the lifeless bodies of Ruhr and Michel.
Madame Michel’s singing before she took her own life had failed to disturb the neighbors. To those residing on Rue Anarchie, various noises during the night were commonplace. Singing, gunshots, brawls, shouting, and sporting activities were nothing worth paying attention to.
Lumian returned the silk handkerchief to its hidden spot in the washroom before pausing in front of Room 302. Extending his left hand clad in a black glove, he turned the handle and opened the creaking wooden door.
Madame Michel’s lifeless form hung silently in the room. The aroma of food mingled with the surrounding stench of garbage, filling the space as the light grew brighter.
Lumian gazed at the scene for over ten seconds before slowly turning away, preparing to leave.
…
It was nearly eight o’clock when the two police officers arrived at Auberge du Coq Doré. They spotted Lumian, who had disguised himself using the Mystery Prying Glasses.
“Why is there another death?” grumbled the officer who had previously interrogated Lumian.
His face was rugged, lacking in handsome features, and bore the marks of age.
Lumian responded calmly, “One died of illness. I’m no doctor, unable to save him.”
“And the other one?” the officer pressed for more information.
Lumian replied honestly, “She took her own life after the blow.”
The older-looking policeman furrowed his brow and entered Room 302, accompanied by his partner.
The first sight that greeted them was Madame Michel’s lifeless body hanging from the window frame. The officer instinctively covered his nose.
The place was far too filthy and foul-smelling!
Next, his gaze fell upon Ruhr’s decaying corpse, observing the putrefying flesh and spilled blood.
“Son of a bitch, you call this an illness?” he couldn’t help but turn to Lumian, his eyes filled with shock and fear.
Lumian briefly recounted the events of the previous night, omitting the fact that Ruhr’s condition had worsened while he was at Roblin Clinic and had been revived by half a bottle of Healing Agent. Lumian attributed the credit to The Fool Pharmaceuticals’ fever-reducing medicine.
He also mentioned his suspicion that the Ruhrs had encountered an infectious source within the pile of garbage they had collected the previous night, causing them to sleep in Room 307. Lumian brought up Madame Michel’s mention of a silk handkerchief in the washroom as well.
The more the two officers listened, the quieter they became, their expressions slightly off.
After Lumian finished speaking, they hurried to the washroom to confirm the presence of the silk handkerchief.
The older-looking officer glanced at Ciel outside and whispered to his partner, “Another mysticism incident. Stay here and guard the scene. I’ll report the situation.”
The other officer nodded.
“No problem.”
Lumian observed as they divided the tasks, patiently awaiting the arrival of the official Beyonders.
In less than half an hour, the older-looking policeman returned to Auberge du Coq Doré, alone.
Where are the official Beyonders? Lumian’s eyes widened in surprise.
The older-looking policeman avoided Lumian’s gaze and pulled his partner to the end of the corridor, engaging in a hushed conversation.
Lumian stood at a distance, straining his ears to catch their words, but they remained unintelligible.
After a while, the older-looking officer approached Lumian, his expression grave.
“We’ve preliminarily determined it as death due to illness and suicide.”
No further investigation? Lumian’s eyebrows twitched in disbelief.
The officer repeated what he had said when they had taken Flameng’s body away. He donned gloves, carefully placed the silk handkerchief into a cloth bag, and secured it tightly.
Lumian silently observed as they removed the corpses, wrapped Ruhr’s body, and placed him in a body bag. Numerous thoughts raced through his mind.
Even though he died in such a manner, the official Beyonders don’t find it suspicious? No need for further investigation?
Or perhaps the police officer didn’t report the matter, and the official Beyonders remain unaware?
Could someone have intervened and persuaded them to treat this as an ordinary death case, not involving any criminal offense?
“…”
With these thoughts swirling in his mind, Lumian quietly followed the officer carrying the two bodies to the carriage.
From a distance, he trailed them, detecting the lingering odor emanating from Ruhr’s and Michel’s bodies. He tracked them all the way to the entrance of the police headquarters in the market district.
Lumian furrowed his brow as he observed uniformed police officers entering and exiting the building.
His initial suspicion was that an officer from the police headquarters had halted the investigation, but he couldn’t confirm the identity.
Even if he were to enter the police headquarters, given the circumstances and his own status, it would be impossible for him to trace their steps all the way to the relevant office. If he observed from outside, he wouldn’t be able to discern who might be involved from the people coming out.
Lumian pondered the direction of his investigation once more.
Get Franca to use divination?
But there’s no medium available…
Alternatively… Why did the officer stop the investigation? Was he aware that someone would be implicated, or had someone already alerted him to such matters beforehand?
If it’s the latter, there’s a high chance that he holds considerable influence within the parliamentarian’s office…
Lumian’s heart stirred as he left the entrance of the police headquarters and swiftly arrived outside the four-story khaki-colored building that housed the parliamentarian’s office in the market district.
Taking cover in an alley across the street, he found himself in the company of a group of vagrants.
Before long, his eyes landed on an officer.
The officer was plump, in his early forties, with brown hair and blue eyes. Three-petaled silver-white sweet irises adorned his black epaulets.
This indicated that he was a chief inspector, one rank lower than a superintendent.
As Lumian watched the chief inspector enter the parliamentarian’s office, a smile curled upon his lips.
…
In the khaki-colored four-story building, on the second floor…
Tybalt, his face pale and his hair curly and yellow, entered the office of the member of parliament’s secretary.
The secretary, a man in his thirties with neatly combed back black hair and blue eyes hidden behind gold-rimmed glasses, possessed refined features and an air of sophistication.
He glanced at Tybalt, who was coughing, and tossed a cloth bag on the table. With a cold expression, he spoke, “We’ve recovered your handkerchief.”
Tybalt, his dark-yellow hair curly, was attired in a black suit. He smiled and replied, “That was quick.”
“You bastard!” the member of parliament’s secretary cursed. “Do you not realize that your phlegm can spread diseases to others? Aren’t you afraid of attracting the attention of the two Churches?”
Tybalt’s brown eyes remained indifferent as he nonchalantly remarked, “At most, two or three commoners might die. No one would care about them. I’ve been sick for far too long without receiving a new boon. It frustrates me, and it makes me want to kill someone.”
The member of parliament’s secretary stared at him for a few seconds before admonishing in a deep voice, “If I hadn’t taken precautions in advance, the Purifiers would have come looking for you. Your life is inconsequential. Don’t jeopardize us! Tybalt, there will be no next time.”
Tybalt shrugged, accepting the reprimand.