Clayton had never been acquainted with a dwarf.
Sanders was an eye-opener for him.
Wearing the silver-star badge and carrying the blunderbuss issued by the Constabulary, he invited Sanders into a nearby, unglamorous coffeehouse for a talk. Considering the dwarf's unshakable insistence, Clayton only ordered himself a piece of cake.
"I want a detailed report, but before that, can you tell me, have you really found the ticket seller?"
Clayton was confident in the competence of Burno's firm, but the Holy Grail Society was made up of Beyonders.
Besides, it had been merely half a month since his request was put forward. He had to worry about the progress of the investigation.
Nonetheless, even if the ticket seller hadn't been tracked down, it remained productive to rule out his possible locations.
But the firm had outperformed his expectations.
"Of course we have. Who do you think you have hired?! The ticket seller was in St. Alvin Parish! It was I who found him!"
The indignant Sanders leapt to his feet, his head clearing the top of the table but not that of the cake.
From the moment Clayton had led him in, Sanders hadn't taken a seat and insisted upon standing while talking.
"Who else had been working on it?"
"Three men assisted me with the job." The dwarf shot a glare at Clayton, his rugged face projecting a cold, eerie air. "Hadn't Bruno told us he knows you well, we would almost have believed that you were making fools of us!"
"What did you discover?"
"The ticket seller wasn't selling tickets at all! He accepted payment of any amount."
"Eh ---"
Clayton had never expected that Sanders would criticize this point. Anyway, the Holy Grail Society wasn't really running a business, so such things were not unexpected.
"How about those buying tickets? Have you ever tried to tail them?"
"Surely I have, and this is the fucking second point I'm going to make."
Sanders frowned, his fleshy, round nose glimmering. "Some of them bought the ticket over and over. Initially, I thought they were hired by the ticket seller, but later I discovered that the ticket seller never returned the ticket fees to them. "
"You mean they would buy the ticket every day?"
"Yes, every day they would go for it," Sanders answered. "Because of time limitations, I tailed only one of them. That man didn't work at all. Once he got the ticket, he would head for a strip club, where he would spend a whole day. When he went back home, he would only concern himself with his meal, then collapse into bed, turning a deaf ear to his wife's curses and his child's bawls. He is a sheer piece of trash."
"What about the others?"
"Same trash."
Sanders's contempt toward them had arisen from deep down.
"Yes, indeed, the shame of society....."
Clayton gave an unhelpful opinion, hoping that Sanders could realize this assignment was one beyond the secular world.
Superficially, the man Sanders had followed was scum. But if he had been influenced by Extraordinary factors, then this was nothing but a horrible event.
Back when Clayton was watching the show at Broken-Winged Angel, the rest of the audience's synchronized yet numb behavior did not escape his notice.
If a particular Extraordinary means made all this happen, then it perfectly matched the description of hypnotism as referred to in the science of psychology.
Certainly, he had only heard of this word once or twice and had no grasp on its principles.
"Outside of that, what else have you discovered?"
"How many days do you think have passed?!" Sanders asked in reply, his high pitch drawing the whole coffeehouse's eyes.
Clayton held up his palms. He was in no mood to argue with a dwarf.
"By the way, have you watched the show at the club?"
"Of course not, don't take me for a fool! You have made a point of warning against this in the contract."
However abominable Sanders's attitude, his service was impressive. Clayton offered a nod and gestured for Sanders to take his leave.
"Please pass on my regards to Bruno."
Then he dispatched the cake alone.
....
Once back home, he combed through the clues at hand all over again.
He was searching for the Arachnid Cleric, while the Holy Grail Society was hunting for Joe Mani.
He was uncertain how unwavering the Holy Grail Society's hunt for Joe was and whether their sole purpose after a journey to Sasha was to finish him off.
That was to say, Clayton was unsure whether, after failing to track Joe down, the Holy Grail Society would stay for other business or take an immediate trip back.
The information at hand did not allow him to predict the Holy Grail Society's future moves.
Even though the strip club was still running, Clayton was inclined to believe that the Arachnid Cleric had long since left it and that now it functioned as a storehouse.
Perhaps it was her base from which hypnotized people were intended to stream out on her command once a war broke out.
The club was open for business at night.
If he was about to lay that place in ruins, daytime served him best.
Should he manage that in a way that stamped out any suspicion, Rosa, the Arachnid Cleric, was certain to return to inspect and reclaim valuable items.
From memory, Clayton sketched out the rough layout surrounding the club and examined it with great care.
He was itching to burn it down, which seemed implementable beyond compare.
The club was situated amid the most backward stretch of area in St. Alvin Parish, where the combustible combination of phosphorous and kerosene was preferred over electricity for illumination. An accidental fire promised less skepticism.
But, soon afterward, he dropped the idea.
For the area was so dense with buildings, its lanes so narrow, and every local household would stockpile lamp fuel.
Once a fire flared up, it would soon rage across the club's surroundings, whereas fire trucks could hardly be expected to navigate the maze of winding alleys. All this threatened a fatality count in the hundreds.
Despite regarding it as a full-blown war, he was in no mood to manufacture a disaster, thereby casting off the notion.
With a switch in thinking, it crossed his mind that perhaps he could go spy on the club himself and snatch one of its staff on her way back home and menacingly interrogate her. This way, he might be able to find a clue as to why the Arachnid Cleric would put down roots in the club.
Clayton didn't believe that Rosa operated the venue for money.
He needed to find out how she had taken over the club and what she was using it to seize.
The werewolf had to act immediately and thwart the Holy Grail Society's vile moves.
If not....he would soon be juggling his main job and part-time work as a constable.
His productivity last month was decidedly low. He could not even spare time to personally receive and send mail.
The goods from across the country and abroad were still sitting idle in a warehouse in St. Alvin Parish.
....
In the afternoon, Clayton headed to the Broken-Winged Angel club and watched it from nearby.
During the day, the club looked deserted, since its intended customers were at work.
The neighbouring alleys felt damp and cold and reeked of a fishy stench.
Some resident in an adjacent apartment had poured into the street wastewater from washing fish, which, in deference to the law of gravity, coursed all the way down here.
Clayton, his nose wrinkled, locked his gaze on the club's entrance, wondering who would enter.
At the very moment, he caught sight of an unanticipated person.
It was Mary Eata.
A canvas bag tucked under her arm, she was clad in a camel-colored dress and a matching shirt, her feet in round-toe leather shoes.
A typical ordinary-folks dressing style.
No weapon was seen at her hip, but her stride was grand and square, her height rivaling a man's, head high and chest out. It seemed as though she were taking part in a parade ceremony. The phrase 'feminine charm' seemed a form of insult to her.
She proceeded into the alley in brisk, solid steps, betraying her familiarity with the place.
As Mary walked past Clayton, he was certain that she had failed to recognize him. She even kicked up a splash from a filthy puddle, spattering his pants.
Clayton's neck turned in sync with her movements until she marched into Broken-Winged Angel.
The entrance looked doubtless dubious, to which the shoddy posters portraying tantalizing veiled women on both sides added, thereby ruling out the possibility that Mary had taken a wrong turn.
He was already doubting his eyes.
The gal was a constable, wasn't she?
Though that was her part-time work and she had a day job, she couldn't possibly work here, right?
Or could it be that she had been working for the Holy Grail Society? That explained why she would arrive here in the daytime....
If that was the case, it seemed plausible that she had hired Bruno to follow Clayton.
After all, by then he had just killed a watcher.
However, was Gilead aware of this? For all Clayton knew, they seemed to be partners.
Against the alley's wall, both arms crossed, Clayton pondered for a while before deciding that he would take her somewhere quiet and question her.
He wished that Mary would not physically resist; otherwise, he would have to smack a woman around.
Cruel as it sounded, beating Mary up did pose little consequence.
Even if he had offended her, bumping into her at the Chief Constabulary would not trouble him.
A sudden chill crept up Clayton's spine as his mind whirred.
Since everyone in her eyes was the equivalent of Gilead, could she even recognize her family?
He planned on bringing up this question in passing later on.