Mystery: Gray Walker

Chapter 2 The Missing Files

Pushing open the heavy wooden door of the office, a wave of cold air immediately rushed in, and Green instantly snapped to attention.

The night on Oak Street was unusually deserted, with the gas streetlights casting a dim yellow glow in the thick fog, barely illuminating the cobblestones underfoot.

Occasionally, the clatter of horses' hooves on the road could be heard in the distance, or the barking of stray dogs in some alley; the sounds were distorted and deformed in the fog.

There were few pedestrians, and the few figures that did appear were wrapped tightly in their coats, heads down, hurrying along and quickly disappearing behind the wall of fog.

It takes at least fifteen minutes by carriage from Oak Street to the nearest police station.

"I hope that lady can hold on."

Green muttered to himself and quickened his pace. Just then, a carriage slowly emerged from the thick fog, a windproof lamp hanging on its roof.

Without hesitation, Green stepped forward and raised his hand to stop the carriage. The carriage slowly came to a stop, and the Sharma pulling it snorted loudly.

When Green approached and, in the dim light of the car headlights, could make out the driver's profile, he was taken aback.

The driver was a middle-aged man, wrapped in a thick, old coat, his hat pulled low. Green recognized him; he was John Durand, a taciturn but supposedly very skilled old coachman.

He was also his aunt's neighbor, and he and his sister happened to be staying there.

"Good evening, Mr. Morris," old John's voice was a little hoarse, "It's so late, are you looking for a ride?"

He clearly recognized Green as well.

"Okay." He opened the car door, climbed into the car, and said, "Mr. John, please go to the nearest police station, and be quick."

"Okay, hold on tight."

Old John didn't ask any further questions, only gave a brief reply, then gently shook the reins and gave a shout. The wheels rolled, gradually increasing in speed, rolling over the slippery stone road.

As the carriage moved forward, old John seemed to notice that Green was acting strangely, quite unlike his usual gentle demeanor.

He didn't chat or complain about the weather as usual; he just focused on driving the carriage, making sure the horses traveled as smoothly and quickly as possible through the streets with extremely low visibility.

Twelve minutes later, the carriage slowly came to a stop in front of the police station.

Police lanterns hung at the entrance of the gray stone building, emitting light.

"We're here, son," old John said, pulling on the reins and turning back to Green in the carriage.

"Thank you very much." Green took out 1 sulphur and handed it over.

Old John quickly waved his hand: "No need, you and Sura have been helping my wife tidy up the lawn for so long..."

Green shoved the coins into his hand. "Please accept this, Mr. John. Isn't today your wife's birthday? Please take a small gift for her when you go back, as a token of our appreciation."

Green's background is simple: a dead father, a missing mother, a younger sister in school, and a sensible young man. Sura, on the other hand, is the original owner's younger sister and one of his few remaining relatives in this world.

A shilling is indeed a considerable sum for this journey. But Green did this not out of politeness.

Mrs. Miller, the kind-faced woman who always wore a clean apron, would often secretly slip freshly baked, still-warm gingerbread or apple rolls to Green's young sister, Sura.

Green kept this quiet kindness between neighbors in his heart.

Old John no longer refused, his rough hands gripping the shilling tightly, his voice hoarse: "...Alright, child, thank you. I'll accept it on her behalf."

After a brief farewell, the carriage gradually drove into the thick fog.

Green turned around, took a deep breath, and pushed open the heavy wooden door of the police station. A smell of wood and cheap tobacco hit him.

The police station looked old, with long wooden benches placed along the walls. It was empty at the moment, and the old clock in the corner made a monotonous ticking sound.

Behind the reception desk, a slightly overweight young police officer in uniform was leaning back in his chair, his head tilted to one side, his hat covering most of his face, and he was snoring softly.

Clearly, late at night is not a busy time for the police station.

Green walked up to the reception desk.

The officer paused in his snoring, groggily lifted the brim of his hat, glanced around with sleepy eyes, then shifted to a more comfortable position, mumbled something indistinct in his sleep, and drifted back to sleep.

"Hello, I want to report a crime!"

The officer blinked, looked at Green blankly, and subconsciously wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

"...What is it?" he mumbled.

"Excuse me, this is a nearby investigation agency. I just received a strange phone call."

"A private investigator?" The officer looked Green up and down. "Go on."

Green leaned forward slightly and said in a deep voice:

"About fifteen minutes ago, I received a call for help from a woman whose husband, William, had been missing for three days. But during the call, I heard her husband suddenly return, followed by her screams, struggles, and... violence, before the call was abruptly ended."

"I believe this is very likely a serious crime that is currently unfolding."

He paused briefly, then continued, "She didn't give a detailed address, but his wife filed a police report yesterday. Could you please check? With that name and the date, you should be able to find a record."

The young officer's sleepiness was largely dispelled by the serious statement. He rubbed his eyes and mumbled:

"William... has been missing for three days... a police report was filed yesterday..."

He bent down and began rummaging through the heavy wooden filing cabinet beneath the counter.

After a while, he straightened up, holding a thin notebook in his hand, flipping through it casually, his brows furrowing more and more.

"no."

He shook his head, put the notebook on the table, and said, "In our records for the last three days, there are no missing persons, and certainly no one named William. Are you sure you reported this to us?"

A hint of doubt arose in Green's mind.

No record? My chance to become famous is gone?

"She only said 'went to the police station,' maybe it's another precinct? Like... Charles Street?" Green persisted, prompting again that it was another police station that might be responsible for the adjacent area.

"Charles Street? I'll make a call and ask."

The officer, seemingly eager to get rid of this disturbing trouble as soon as possible, picked up the receiver of the old-fashioned black telephone on the table, cranked the handle with difficulty, and then shouted into the receiver:

"Hey? Get me to Charles Street Police Station...yes, the duty room."

After a brief wait, the officer began repeating the information Green had provided into the microphone:

"...Yes, a man named William, missing for three days. His wife might have reported him missing to you yesterday...What? No? Are you sure?...Okay, I understand."

With a click, the officer hung up the phone, raised his eyelids, and gave Green a second look, his attitude noticeably colder.

"Sir, there are no records on Charles Street either. To be precise, according to their records, there have been no missing persons reports for a man named William in the entire western part of the city in the last three days."

"No?" Green was somewhat surprised. The woman's cries didn't sound fake; he could tell.

Although he thought it was impossible, the trail had gone cold.

The officer, seeing the incredulous look on Green's face, raised his voice slightly, laced with sarcasm:

"Sir, I now seriously suspect that you are filing a false police report, or... it's just a prank. This kind of joke isn't funny in the middle of the night."

Ten minutes later, when Green pushed open the wooden door of the police station again, he couldn't help but glance back and frown.

He subconsciously touched his pocket and found that two more sulphurs were missing, because they had gone into the officer's personal pocket.

In the United States of Byronvis, filing a false report is a serious offense, enough to completely destroy the credibility of an unwanted private detective.

He had hoped to use this opportunity to make a name for the Morris Investigation Agency with a real case, but before the name could even spread, he ended up losing two Sules!

He lost three Sules in one night, which was enough to make him feel bad for a long time. He was completely numb from losing.

It should be noted that 20 silver suls were equal to 1 gold pound, and 1 silver sul was equal to 12 copper pence.

A rye bread that can fill you up costs only 1 penny at the corner bakery, while 2 pennies can get you a beer with a rich, foamy texture and a malty aroma at the "Old Oak" pub.

Three sules were enough for him to maintain a decent life for several days, or to buy his sister Sula a beautiful scarf that she had been eyeing for a long time but couldn't bring herself to buy.

A cold night wind, carrying mist, swept over him, making him shiver. He took out his pocket watch; it was already 9:30.

"Forget it, I'll just make do at the firm tonight," Green muttered.

At least there was a reasonably comfortable old sofa in the office. Having made up his mind, Green pulled his coat tighter around himself and headed back towards Oak Street.

When the outline of his small firm finally appeared in the fog, he slowed his pace.

Not right.

He clearly remembers locking the door and closing the windows when he left.

But at that moment, through the not-so-clean glass of the window facing the street, I seemed to catch a glimpse of a blurry shadow in the office.

The landlord? Impossible. That miser would never show up at night before rent is due.

A thief broke in?!

The moment that thought crossed his mind, he was instantly furious. He had just spent three sulphurs, and now a thief had broken into his house.

He didn't rush in immediately; reason told him to stay calm. He quickly pressed himself against the wall, using the shadows to conceal himself, and reached his right hand into his waistband.

"You chose the worst time and went to the worst place you should have gone."