Garden Club

Could Morey be the 'The Fog Killer'?

When this question crossed Goethe's mind, he began to consider its possibility.

As long as there was a clever use of information gaps, achieving this wouldn't be impossible in Goethe's eyes.

Moreover, the behavior of people like Swart made things even easier.

Therefore, Goethe had to be cautious.

After all, he was meeting with the other party later that night.

He certainly didn't want the 'Night of Answers' to turn into the 'Night of Death.'

"I'll go send a telegram," Swart said after a brief thought, rising immediately.

The sheriff didn't elaborate further. Clearly, this needed to remain confidential, or perhaps he was deliberately being mysterious, hoping to gain more leverage in future cooperation.

Goethe didn't mind. All he needed was a definite answer.

If Morey really was the 'The Fog Killer,' it wouldn't be such a bad thing.

At least the truth would be exposed.

After all, after so many days in Lustre, appearing at the police station, there would be plenty of clues left behind for true official Supernatural figures to trace him. Goethe could easily step back and stay out of it.

If not, he would stick to the original plan, meeting the person to learn more, and then figuring out the next step.

Either way, it would benefit him.

So, Goethe patiently waited.

An hour later, Swart returned with two blankets and two sleeping bags.

Seeing this, Goethe immediately understood the answer.

Morey was in the clear.

If Morey had been a problem, Swart wouldn't have been so 'leisurely.'

In fact, that was indeed the case.

"Lord Morey is fine."

Swart entered the office and spoke directly.

Then, with a hint of flattery, the sheriff handed a blanket and sleeping bag to Goethe.

"Though you could sleep at the desk, I prefer to lie down," Swart added. "The woolen blanket will protect you from the dampness of the floor."

"The sleeping bag gives you the illusion of lying on a bed."

With that, the sheriff spread out the blanket and crawled into the sleeping bag. "Of course, it's just an illusion. It's not a real bed, but it's better than lying in one of those 'copper-cornered coffins.'"

"I don't know how those bastards came up with it, renting out warehouses full of coffin-shaped beds to homeless people for a copper coin each. If someone dies, they just close the lid and call it a day."

"Of course, it's still better than the half-copper ones, where people have to sleep with their upper bodies dangling from a rope. I saw it once, just at dawn. All the snoring people were abruptly dropped to the floor when the rope was cut. The feeling…" He shook his head.

"But even that is better than the people who pay a quarter copper, who are only allowed to sit on the floor or lean against a wall, not even allowed to lie down, and are constantly monitored."

"Still, the truly unfortunate are those who can't even get into these 'shelters.' Winter in Lustre is colder than you'd think…"

As the sheriff spoke, his voice gradually trailed off, and the sound of snoring filled the air.

Goethe glanced at him and then unrolled his own blanket, crawling into his sleeping bag but leaving it open. June weather wasn't cold.

This would be enough.

Goethe half-lay, half-reclined, keeping both revolvers close.

He even positioned himself toward the inner side.

He didn't know if danger would arrive, so he had to prepare in advance.

Just like Swart.

Why had he chosen to sleep with Goethe in the police station office?

It was obvious that he too sensed the danger.

After all, who would choose to sleep in an office if it was more comfortable than a bed?

Becoming a sheriff in this world might have its flaws, but stupidity wasn't one of them.

And the small talk before bed?

It was probably meant to emphasize how hard it was to get the blanket and sleeping bag, closing the gap between them further.

Was it a test or sympathy for the poor?

The former was possible.

The latter?

Goethe smiled and closed his eyes.

Before long, light snoring began.

When Goethe woke again, it was already six in the evening.

The ticking of the clock in the police station lobby allowed Goethe to make an accurate guess.

He crawled out of the sleeping bag, put on his shoes, and headed to the washroom.

Five minutes later, he was done.

When Goethe returned to the office, Swart had also woken up.

"Are we going to the Garden Club tonight?"

Goethe asked directly, noticing Swart was still half-asleep.

Swart might not have the skills, but his status was useful, especially when dealing with routine problems.

"Of course!"

As soon as Swart heard Goethe mention the Garden Club, he perked up, rushing to wash up and ordering a carriage.

"I haven't been to the Garden Club in ages."

"I wonder if Miss Sheila will perform tonight. Have you heard her sing?"

"She really has a beautiful voice."

Once in the carriage, the sheriff was all excited.

Sheila?

Tall, a beautiful voice, a mole by her mouth.

Upon hearing the name, Goethe immediately pictured a woman in a white dress standing beside a piano, the club's 'star,' renowned in Lustre.

She didn't dance with people, only sang occasionally.

And listening to Sheila sing required an extra fee.

One gold crown.

A fortune for the poor.

Yet, it was highly sought after by the middle class.

It seemed that spending 1 gold crown would make them different from the poor, granting them a unique status.

Goethe had spent it before.

And that's when he truly remembered Ms. Sheila.

At least, from the memories Goethe had, Ms. Sheila was quite the dazzling figure.

Men...

They were always like this.

Habitually fixating on what caught their attention.

It was like when a beautiful female athlete steps out, instantly attracting all the men's attention. But if you asked them for her jersey number, the chances are they'd be unable to answer.

They only focused on the main point.

Without a doubt, the previous Goethe was like that.

And Swart, who kept bringing up Sheila's name?

He was already infatuated.

But Goethe didn't care.

It wasn't that he was immune, it was that he had seen better.

After going through makeup, beautification, and filters, Goethe's immunity had risen substantially.

"If Ms. Sheila isn't singing, we could find two lovely ladies to dance three dances, and then... heh heh heh."

Swart gave a smile that every man would understand.

The Garden Club did offer some special services, but these services had thresholds.

First, you had to dance three dances. Only if the lady you danced with wasn't offended would there be further steps.

Money?

Of course, it was essential.

Or rather, money was the most important thing.

"We're here! We're here!"

Without waiting for the coachman to open the door, Swart jumped out of the carriage.

Goethe followed him and got out of the carriage as well.

As they arrived, the attendants at the Garden Club's entrance immediately approached.

To be a front-door attendant at the Garden Club, one had to have a good eye.

They recognized Swart.

And they recognized Goethe.

The former because of his status.

The latter because of his frequent visits to the Garden Club... and some matters involving his family.

"Good evening, Sheriff Swart, Young Master Goethe."

The attendant smiled and bowed, though internally, they were very curious about why these two would come together. But on the surface, there was not the slightest hint of doubt.

Swart handed over two silver coins, the ticket fees for both of them.

Goethe handed over another two silver coins for their tea table fees.

The two of them didn't need any guidance from the attendants. They walked straight into the Garden Club with ease.

The neon lights made the place look especially unique.

White walls, columns with distinct stripes, and clean steps all under the colorful glow that made everything sparkle, as if you were stepping up to a stage and seeing the legs and busts inside.

Ladies, all heavily made up, gathered in the main hall. Crystal chandeliers hung from above, lighting up the room in luxury, creating a clear separation from the barren world outside.

Chairs scattered along the walls, each next to a small table with a pot of tea and a plate of snacks.

But, aside from Goethe, no one was paying attention to these things.

Even Swart wasn't.

The sheriff was looking for a target.

This moment, during the pause between dances, was the best time to find a partner.

Everyone in the hall was doing the same.

Men did it, and women did it too.

So, when Goethe sat alone, sipping his tea and eating snacks, he became the center of attention.

The tea was bitter.

The snacks, slightly sweet.

But they were worth 1 silver coin? Goethe was certain of that.

But they were bearable, after all, the people here didn't mind these details.

As long as the tea quenched their thirst, and the snacks eased their hunger, that was enough.

Goethe took another snack, and just then, a young girl dressed as a maid walked toward him.

If before Goethe's actions had drawn attention, now he was the focus of the entire room.

Because she was Sheila's maid.

"Goethe! Goethe!"

"Look, it's Ms. Sheila's maid, Susan!"

"She's walking right toward me!"

"Did I catch Ms. Sheila's attention?!"

As the maid drew closer, Swart grew excited, while Goethe glanced at her, placed the snack in his mouth, and sipped his tea, moistening the snack to swallow it more easily.

She was undoubtedly coming for him.

And this was, of course, part of Morey's plan.

Just as Goethe was about to stand up, the maid didn't stop in front of him. Instead, she walked past him and stood in front of Swart.

"Is this Sheriff Swart?"

"Ms. Sheila wishes to see you."

The maid whispered softly.

Swart was overjoyed.

Goethe froze for a moment.