Chapter 96 96

Chapter 96 96
Clayton soon reached Bruno’s detective agency—so fast that he felt he might have spare time after finishing the work here to return home and prepare dinner (which he wasn't the one cooking). Bruno was not at home; after asking the neighbors, Clayton learned that he had left shortly before. Someone had set a fire in front of the agency, which Bruno had gone out to extinguish himself, and then he rushed away. He might have gone to notify the security officers, but the housewives there had not seen any law enforcement personnel arrive.

The scent at the entrance was rich, and the werewolf tracked it two streets away without effort. In an alleyway, Clayton stopped. This was a frequently used alley, and the gray, rough stones beneath his feet had been worn smooth and shiny. Who knew how many people had passed through here since the morning? In this expanse of air, the massive amount of human scent had diluted Bruno’s uniqueness.

However, the lingering smell of gunpowder was still quite distinct. Someone had fired a gun here, but whether anyone was injured was unknown; he found no blood on the ground or the walls. Since there was no blood left, even if someone had been shot, the bloody smell would have dissipated long ago. He had lost Bruno’s trail.

The lieutenant’s pause attracted the attention of some people—two men wearing gray flat caps had been leaning against the wall smoking; now, they both straightened up and leaned in. "Are you looking for someone?" one of them asked. The Gray Cap Gang was a local outfit, but Clayton didn't remember them offering such services.

"In a way. A friend of mine said he’d be waiting for me here, but now I don't know where he’s gone." As they approached, Clayton took off his hat and pressed it to his chest, squinting as if to pretend the matter wasn't serious. He had always been good at using resources, even if the person was a heinous bastard.

"Poor guy," the Gray Cap member muttered, raising his hand to touch his hat. A blade was pulled from the built-in, hard brim. The blade was coated in cheap, dark paint to prevent it from reflecting light between his fingers. His accomplice did the same.

"Bruno is also my friend; didn't he tell you that?" Clayton made a final effort to seek peace. Bruno actually had connections with the Gray Cap Gang and sometimes even offered ideas for their actions, which was why Clayton, a resident of the Saint-Morede Parish, knew of the gang in the Saint-Alvin Parish. But out of a desire not to cause trouble, he had never relied on that relationship to get to know the "friends" of the Gray Cap Gang. He regretted that now.

The two members were not swayed by his defense; instead, they seemed to have made a decision and lunged more viciously. Clayton prayed for their lives while clenching his fists to meet them. He could have easily dealt with opponents of this level before becoming a werewolf, let alone now. The lieutenant’s only worry was that these bastards would live to go back and find more bastards, eventually making a scene in the newspapers.

"Keep it down, please."

He struck like lightning. Before the thugs could see what happened, each received a punch to the head, instantly losing their balance and stumbling to the ground. Clayton pulled one up and used the same method to wake him. It was the same way of hitting, yet it could have the opposite effect on the human body; the lieutenant had to marvel at the wonder of the human body.

"What did Bruno say to you that made you hold such great hostility toward me?"

The gang member struggled, pushing hard against Clayton’s hand to try and make his neck a little more comfortable. "I don't know! Saunders told us to teach anyone looking for Bruno a lesson!"

Clayton frowned. He remembered this was the name of Bruno’s dwarf assistant. Although their meeting wasn't exactly friendly, that stubborn dwarf was also a gentleman with bottom lines. "Did he not say why?"

"We only joined the gang recently..."

"Where is your group gathering?"

"Square Bottle Street."

"I see." Clayton threw him down and pointed at him: "Find a real job, or one day you'll meet a tough guy like me, but without the good luck you had today."

The man ran away clutching his throat, naturally ignoring his companion. Seeing his actions, the lieutenant couldn't help but worry about the future of this city. For some reason, he suddenly thought of Simon—that sphinx, who was now helping Gelid. That person was rude, shortsighted, fickle, and mercenary. If he hadn't joined the Elder Council, he might have joined some other gang, perhaps the Gray Cap Gang, and the reason would just be that he couldn't find a job. Clayton suddenly felt a chill. The future described by the Elder Council seemed already at hand.

Clayton broke into the Gray Cap Gang’s stronghold on Square Bottle Street. Or rather, he "walked into" it. The gang hadn't left anyone to guard the place, and the only thing he had to deal with was the door lock. In the air filled with the smell of alcohol, he walked past those scattered card tables; bottle caps of beer and penny coins were mixed together because of the same color, ignored by their owners. But if that were all, the place would seem too peaceful; the bare posters on the walls and the scars caused by daggers on the tables certainly had a gang atmosphere.

Nothing. Poker cards, broken hats, beer bottles, ashtrays... Nothing of higher value existed here. Clayton had two guesses now. One was that Bruno sought the protection of the Gray Cap Gang after being attacked by the Hook Agency and hid in a place he thought would never be discovered. Another guess was that Bruno was shot, and the Gray Cap Gang members found him and, for some reason, thought someone was targeting their gang members, so they relocated. Perhaps there were other possibilities, but Clayton lacked clues.

The scent-tracking ability was not useful here. The gang members were local residents; there was no place in this area they hadn't walked, and their scent was everywhere. Here, the clues left by Bruno were completely severed. Clayton was unwilling to admit this, so he searched again.

This decision was not in vain. When he walked past a table full of leftovers again, his peripheral vision suddenly swept over an unusual object. Under a plate full of meat bones, a corner of white paper was exposed. In a violent gang, literate people were also indispensable, and they also had places to use paper. This might record something. He walked over and pulled the paper out; it wasn't a narrative style like an article, but a series of numerical calculation drafts.

Their meaning had nothing to do with the ledger's income and expenditure, but they were indeed calculating the content of certain things. It used some formulas almost never used in real life, which made Clayton feel familiar. He had seen similar calculation methods—in the notebook of an artillery commander who often slipped out of the barracks to drink with him.