324 Which Is True and Which Is False
After a brief mention of the reason for selecting his seat, Bühler glanced up at Lumian, a self-deprecating smile on his lips.
“I didn’t expect you to open fire so quickly.”
Lumian’s hand rested casually on the revolver by his side as he offered a faint smile in return.
“It seems the folks you’ve encountered before are law-abiding citizens.”
Bühler’s instincts, honed from past experiences of being beaten, urged him to retort. But as he compared Lumian’s demeanor with those of his previous encounters, he found a strange logic in the man’s words.
Thanks to the shelter of the law, he, a columnist for Ghost Face, had managed to survive up to this point!
“Are you not afraid of attracting the police?” Bühler turned to look at the waiter, who dared not approach with the menu and drink list. “Firing a gun in a place like this isn’t a minor incident. Someone should have already alerted the authorities.”
Lumian chuckled.
“That’s why we have to hurry.”
His words punctuated by deliberate actions, Lumian picked up his revolver, rotated the cylinder, and slotted a yellow cartridge into the empty chamber, right before Bühler’s eyes.
“I want to know which courtesans have left Rue de la Muraille, this haven of extravagance, in the last two months,” Lumian inquired with a calm resolve.
Instinctively, Bühler shook his head. “They aren’t true courtesans. Those women possess their lavish residences and permanent paramours. They frequent high society, wielding influence over industries and policies with their words alone. This place merely acts as a reserve for courtesans.”
“I’m only interested in those who fit my description.” Lumian dismissed the specifics of courtesanship.
Bühler’s gaze flickered between the revolver in Lumian’s grip and said, recollecting,
“Four of them. Lil’ Jort wed a Loen merchant and relocated to Backlund. ‘White Vase’ Sophie became the lover of Member of Parliament Batis, attending high society banquets and salons. She had a chance of becoming a true courtesan. ‘Dew Rose’ Mary fell victim to mental illness and mutilated her face with scissors one morning. She’s confined to an asylum. ‘Condiment Beauty’ Paulina vanished from Rue de la Muraille without a trace, as though whisked away by someone of status.”
As Bühler recounted, he noticed the dashing figure before him, ready to fire at the slightest provocation, producing a post-it note and a fountain pen, meticulously jotting down notes.
Swallowing unease, he continued, “I encountered Paulina on Rue Vincent not long ago. She seemed well off, with a four-wheeled carriage, a maid, a valet, and even a butler.
“Sadly, I had pressing matters then and failed to determine her place of residence.”
Rue Vincent… Lumian’s memory jogged. It was one of the five streets Franca had divined. Farthest from Rue de la Muraille, it exuded a quieter, upscale aura.
Based on Bühler’s account, he suspected Paulina had become Guillaume Bénet’s paramour.
For a fugitive, a prospective courtesan proved a safer choice than frequenting Rue de la Muraille. Guillaume Bénet was intelligent and capable. His present yearnings for intimacy and his voracious hunger hadn’t rendered him a mindless imbecile. He would surely opt for a less risky strategy.
Just then, hurried footsteps resonated outside the café as three police officers neared the entrance.
Coolly, Lumian donned his dark-blue cap, stashed his note and pen, and slid 50 verl d’or notes onto the table before Bühler.
With these tasks accomplished, he reclaimed his revolver, stood up, and proceeded to the café’s rear door. Swiftly, he opened it and departed.
Bang!
The police officers burst into Hope Café through its main entrance.
…
On the elegant street of Rue Vincent, stately villa-like houses adorned both sides of the road. The road was wide and well-kept, with only occasional pedestrians and carriages passing through.
After Lumian turned into the street, he found himself at a loss.
He couldn’t infiltrate every house and search every room, could he?
Besides, he wasn’t the most suitable candidate for this kind of investigation. Franca would be better suited for it, but involving her was risky.
After a brief contemplation, Lumian allowed a smile to grace his features. He strolled toward one of the houses and pressed the doorbell.
A young valet opened the dark-brown door. His appearance suggested no trace of Southern Continent lineage, and he gazed at Lumian in bewilderment. In a clear Trierien accent, he inquired,
“Sir, how may I assist you?”
With an amiable grin, Lumian replied, “I’m here to inquire about the most splendid madam residing on this street.”
“…” The valet was momentarily speechless. This was the first instance he’d encountered someone seeking such peculiar information.
Or perhaps not. While such matters were whispered about behind closed doors and boasted about in taverns, there were occasionally individuals who exhibited curiosity about such affairs. However, who would approach a stranger’s door in the sweltering sun to inquire?
What was this person up to?
Before the valet could react, Lumian produced a 10 verl d’or note and offered it with a genial demeanor.
The valet’s eyelids twitched. He hesitated for a moment before accepting the payment.
He suspected this young man to be a counterfeit Dandyist, specialized in duping affluent ladies of their bodies and riches. The appearance and conduct matched the descriptions found in newspapers.
However, if the lady wasn’t the valet’s mistress or lady, why refuse the reward?
When the stranger acquired what he sought, a certain madam would also receive some gratification!
The valet cast a furtive glance around before lowering his voice.
“The lady in Unit 50 is exquisitely beautiful. A genuine Trierien, she married a foreigner from the southern lands. That accent…”
As the valet spoke, he shook his head with a mixture of indignation and scorn, as if he had harbored this sentiment for some time.
Lumian’s smile broadened.
Indeed, under the sway of his burgeoning impulses, the padre couldn’t resist sharing his prize with the neighbors—a stunning Trierien courtesan.
He might not host grand banquets or waltz to proclaim his conquest, nor would he escort his lover for a public appearance. Nonetheless, he would inevitably find subtle ways to make his neighbors aware that even foreigners could possess resplendent courtesans as mistresses.
At times like this, Guillaume Bénet had to exercise prudence in disguising himself. However, his mistress’s beauty wasn’t something easily concealed. She might even meticulously dress herself to exhibit her remarkable presence.
Of course, Lumian couldn’t be certain if the lady was Paulina, the presumed mistress. Yet, the gradual collection of anticipated information through bold assumptions and careful confirmation made him feel he was steadily closing in on Guillaume Bénet.
Beyond the gates of 50 Rue Vincent, Lumian glanced at the facade as an ordinary passerby might.
The three-story beige structure stood before him, surrounded by a lush green lawn and a garden vibrant with colors. A gardener tended to the greenery, offering a partial view.
Lumian promptly averted his gaze from the building’s pillar, wary that prolonged observation could arouse suspicion.
As for any possibility of being recognized by the padre, Lumian held no concern. Prior to setting out, he had employed Niese Face to alter his appearance and communicated to his companions that it was due to cosmetics.
Lumian’s striking appearance—a fusion of golden and black hair—could be anyone’s. As long as Guillaume Bénet lacked the ability to penetrate the illusion or actively employ it, it was unlikely he’d realize his pursuer had infiltrated the vicinity.
Lumian’s current plan was to leave Rue Vincent and switch places with Jenna or Franca. He would then ensconce himself in the shadows across from Unit 50, patiently observing until all suspicion around the target was dissipated.
He refrained from adopting the guise of a tramp this time, given the scarcity of such individuals on this refined street. While a rare appearance might occur, these transients were promptly shooed away by the household staff.
Just as he prepared to depart from the beige edifice, Lumian turned his head in a casual manner. His gaze alighted on a figure visible through the living room window.
The figure stood at a modest height, barely reaching 1.7 meters. Clad in a dark shirt and black trousers, the person possessed a slightly stocky build. Their nose bore a gentle curve, and their black hair fell in a mid-length cascade.
Lumian’s pupils dilated for a fleeting moment before swiftly returning to their normal state.
A wisp of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and an invisible fire seemed to ignite in his eyes.
Despite the adept disguise, Lumian would recognize him even if he were reduced to ashes!
It was Guillaume Bénet, the padre of Cordu!
Lumian wrestled to contain his surprise, his gaze steering onward.
Simultaneously, his mind raced as he evaluated the next course of action to undertake.
Before long, he reached the end of Rue Vincent.
At that very juncture, a parrot adorned with green and white feathers took flight from Rue de la Muraille and perched itself on Lumian’s shoulder. It chirped excitedly, “We’ve located the target!”
Located the target? Then who did I just see? Another padre? Lumian was momentarily flabbergasted and perplexed.
Which one was the genuine Guillaume Bénet? Had he erred in judgment, or had the Iron and Blood Cross Order and “Rat” Christo been deceived?
…
Fifteen minutes earlier, at the Dill Brothel on Rue de la Muraille.
Within the annex bar on the first floor, Albus savored his Lanti Proof while discreetly observing the attendants, laborers, and the overseer who managed the establishment.
His assessment encompassed the clientele as well, but it yielded nothing of note. Many concealed their identities by donning assorted masks, making it nearly impossible to unveil their true selves.
Having gained a preliminary insight into the inner workings of the Dill Brothel, Albus seized the chance to make his way toward the washroom. He veered onto the path leading to the kitchen when an attendant approached, carrying a collection of post-it notes.
This attendant’s responsibility encompassed recording the requirements of each room and relaying orders to the kitchen.
Albus, marked by his dark-red hair, advanced and retrieved a handful of glistening coins along with a substantial bundle of banknotes from his pocket.
The attendant’s features twisted into a blend of perplexity and intrigue.
Albus smiled and said, “I’m on the hunt for a scoundrel. Uncertain about his guise, I’m merely aware he shares your build and possesses a penchant for consorting with the most celebrated ladies. Post-exertion, he seeks sustenance to satiate his hunger immediately.
“If you’re able to furnish me with the relevant particulars, all this is yours.”
New n𝙤vel chapters are published on fre(e)webnov(l).com