Jorgen knocked on the door.
"Who is it?"
"My name is Jorgen. I heard that Tunnadus lives here, and I'd like to speak with him."
The small iron window in the door opened. A pair of eyes appeared behind the door.
"I don't know you."
"It was Elro who told me about this place."
There was a brief silence.
"Jorgen? The guy from Military Intelligence Seven?"
"Yes."
"You'll have to prove it."
Jorgen showed him the silver badge.
"First time I've seen one of these. Heard about them, though... Come on in."
Although he said this aloud, after opening the door, the man only stepped back a little, as if allowing Jorgen to cross the threshold. Jorgen entered the room, and only then did the man step back further and close the door.
An unpleasant, mixed odor filled the room, like stepping into an abandoned apothecary that had been unused for years. Shelves against the walls held various small tools and bottles containing liquids of different colors. On the front wall, a roughly skinned taxidermy of a worgen head hung. As for Tunnadus himself, he looked like a drunk who had stumbled into the chamber of a secret cultist.
"Is it just you?" he asked.
"Yes. Relax, I'm here just to ask you some questions. Your business doesn't concern me."
"Business is tough," Tunnadus staggered into an adjacent room. "Come in and let's talk. Have a seat."
Jorgen entered and took a seat on a short couch near the window. Tunnadus said, "I don't have tea or coffee or anything like that. Would you like some of this?"
He pinched up a small tin tray on the table and shook it, revealing the "Dinner" powder inside.
"No, thanks. Your hospitality is quite something."
"You won't arrest me for having this stuff, will you? I've heard this is what the Seven made first... but never mind." He chuckled as if unconcerned, then sat in a rocking chair, placing the tin tray back and shoving half a piece of bread into his mouth. "So, what do you want to talk about? I have plenty of time. As I said, business is tough, and I've got nothing to do."
"You've probably heard about the blacksmith, Bower."
"Oh, of course. Everyone knows. I'm really curious about the look on his wife's face when she saw him. Ten years ago, I actually had a chance with her, but I backed off, believe it or not. If it were today... well, I shouldn't mess with widows. It brings bad luck, you know. Nobody ever told me, but I understand these things. Do you?"
Tunnadus nervously laughed again, wiped crumbs from his mouth with a finger, and continued, "Tell me, how did you do it? I mean... picking up Bower's severed leg or whatever. You must have seen a lot of corpses. I can't stand it myself, to be honest. The sight of blood makes me queasy... By the way, did they cut off that thing of Bower's? Hahaha."
"We believe it was done by an outsider," Jorgen replied. Considering that straightforward questions might not be effective with this severely disordered mind, he began to think of alternative approaches.
"Oh, alright... so, what does this have to do with me? I don't wholesale souvenir trinkets to tourists."
"I know you mostly do business with outsiders because the local townsfolk mostly don't need these strange things. They're too honest, too easily satisfied, and don't need your drugs, hallucinogens, gambling cheating tools, bootlegging ingredients, and those peculiar little toys. In fact, you've got quite a reputation."
"Of course, of course. While I may not make as much money as Bower, when it comes to connections..."
Jorgen interrupted him. "So, I need to know who you've been trading with in the past month."
"That's a business secret. Besides," he leaned forward and pointed at his temple, "they're all in my brai—head."
"Such businesses rely heavily on regular customers, understanding their changing interests is crucial. I'm sure you understand that your head can't possibly hold all that complexity. There must be another way to keep records. If there really isn't, then I might have to spend more time here."
"Are you planning to crack open my head?" Tunnadus pulled out a shotgun from behind the rocking chair, pointing it at Jorgen. "Alright, you want to spend more time here. How long? Forever enough for you? No, an hour will do. I have a highly popular product that can dissolve you into nothing but bones within an hour. Convincing someone that I killed a Seven agent might be harder than I thought..."
"Your gun isn't loaded."
"Really? How could you possibly know..."
He actually checked the magazine. Jorgen was certain that Tunnadus himself was one of the biggest consumers and victims of his assorted hallucinogens. As an underground illicit goods dealer, this was one of his least prudent actions. However, it would be unnecessary trouble to let such a person accidentally harm himself, so Jorgen took the gun away from him.
"Give it back to me," Tunnadus demanded.
Jorgen removed the bullets, placed them on the windowsill behind him, and handed the gun back. "I often wonder... what would it feel like?" Tunnadus said, sticking the barrel into his own mouth, pulling the trigger with an exaggerated shiver, then taking the gun out. "Probably not a pretty sight. But still better than Bower."
"Alright, back to business. I need access to your customer list and what they've purchased. If you refuse, I'll come back with my men and a search warrant. There's enough in this room to put you away for twenty years."
"Don't bluff me. You guys never go after merchants like me because there would be... what's that word?... repercussions. Someone's gotta do what I do."
"Since you understand our operational details so well, have you ever considered cooperating with us? If your regulars knew you had connections with the Seven, they might feel more secure coming here for their supplies."
"Really? Hi, give me more details..." Tunnadus stopped. He understood Jorgen's true intention. "...Alright, I get it. The customer list and transaction records, right? I'll give them to you, just don't do anything extra to me. But I have been keeping track of it all in my head. Let me find some pen and paper first... Damn, where did I put them?"
Tunnadus placed a pad of paper on the armrest of the chair and started writing, without pausing, occasionally gnawing on the dead skin of his thumb. Half an hour later, he handed four densely packed pages to Jorgen, not only listing the traders and their goods but also recording transaction times, prices, down to the exact number of copper coins.
"I have to clarify beforehand," Tunnadus said, "not many people in there are using real names."
"That's expected, but this is still quite useful," Jorgen replied, briefly scanning the pages. "You did well. However, I have one more thing to ask you."
"Ask away. It's not like this afternoon can get any worse." He hoisted one leg onto the chair.
"I initially heard about your name from Abercrombie, the old man. He said he wanted to buy some narcotics from you..."
"What did that old man tell you? That I took the payment and didn't deliver, right? Mister Jorgen, that's an absolute lie. In this line of work, dishonesty only ruins your reputation. He used to get a lot from me earlier, and I extended him credit as a local old-timer, but he got too cheeky. I just wanted to square the outstanding accounts."
"What was he primarily buying from you?"
"A whole bunch of stuff I don't even know the uses for. It includes junk that, to my eye, is absolutely worthless. But I don't think it's necessary to know everything about your goods to be a successful merchant..."
"And what about that so-called narcotic?"
"It's for medical purposes, really potent, and cheaper than the legit stuff. It's not like narcotics where you need to follow proper procedures and inject it with a needle. Those who buy this are mostly underground doctors, doing skull surgeries for gang leaders who can't go to the hospital. Abercrombie came by yesterday with a few gold coins, but I still didn't sell to him. That little money won't cover the credit he owes me."
"Put the term you have for it on your list."
"Just 'narcotic.' I only sell this one variety."
"Very well," Jorgen stood up. "You've been a big help. Go about your business, Tunnadus."
"Hey, wait. You don't have anything to compensate me with? Like... help me find some customers? I've got a bunch of psychedelic mushrooms I can't move; I grow them myself... Oh, forget it. I should've known it would turn out like this. Next time you come, bring your men and a search warrant! Goodbye."
Jorgen left the concealed shack. He had initially thought about buying some narcotics but changed his mind. In Darkshire, there was no one capable of analyzing such substances, let alone testing whether they were present in Bower's body.
He scanned the four pages, roughly estimating around fifty different names. The reason he sought out Tunnadus was that the brutal methods of the killer pointed to someone accustomed to a criminal underworld lifestyle. In reality, the likelihood of the killer being on this list was low, perhaps less than ten percent.
He was well aware that his investigation was both labor-intensive and might yield little result. He didn't have to get involved in this case, but he had decided to go this far because of what Joseph had said about not tolerating a violent murderer lurking in the town.
However, he wasn't doing it just for the town. If that threat letter mentioning the MI7 was indeed connected to the murder case, then the people he was protecting would undoubtedly become targets.
At half-past five in the morning, the administrator of the town hall woke up. To make his work easier, he and his family lived in the dormitory on the ground floor of the town hall.
He sat up in bed, and his wife, lying next to him, turned over but didn't wake up.
This wasn't a job he liked. A cousin in another town was waiting for him to save up the capital to start a furniture business together. He had almost enough savings for that, just two more months, but he was beginning to hesitate because he wasn't familiar with the trade.
He tried to avoid making any noise while washing up. Afterward, he left the room, closed the door, and walked down the corridor toward the front of the town hall. The heels of his shoes made a tired sound on the creaky floor.
Before opening the main door, he had some cleaning to do inside the building. This took him about fifteen minutes. Then, he took out his keys and inserted them into the large lock on the door. The keyhole seemed a bit rusty, and he had to jiggle it a few times before hearing the distinct mechanical sliding sound from inside the lock.
He opened the door, and before him was darkness. In the first half of the year, he had visited a town called Shanjintown, where in the morning, upon opening the door, he'd be greeted by sunlight. He liked that feeling and had thought about moving there or maybe to some other place.
But now, he noticed an envelope on the ground. He picked it up. There was nothing written on the outside.
Suddenly, he realized what might be inside.
He wanted to open the envelope, but his hands were trembling so much that he couldn't. He looked forward, then left and right outside the door, but all he saw were the night watchmen changing shifts not far away.