"Are you sure it is wise for us to meet here, even though the police already suspect you?" asked Rook, raising his eyebrows.
"Relax yourself, Rook," assured Blight, raising his mug and taking another sip of the strong alcohol, "When Mr Sigerson came by to visit, he was the one asking questions, meaning that they lack evidence to convict me of any crime. He came looking for answers, and I sent him away empty-handed, so don't look so worried; they can suspect, but they will never be able to prove anything at the moment."
"At the moment?"
"In the highly unlikely event that our classified information leaks out, then yes, the police would certainly have sufficient evidence to prosecute us. All we have to do at the present is cut off the weak links and focus our efforts into isolating that man."
Rook seemed to understand, so he lowered his voice and, staring into his empty mug, muttered, "Understood."
There was something else he seemed to want to ask but hesitated.
"The detective's suicide… Was that you as well?"
Blight replied calmly, "Yes, that was my doing."
"What happened?"
"He was merely in my way. I removed him as if he were a piece on the board. No one can understand what truly happened except for himself; I just allowed him to do what was hidden in his heart the entire time."
Not entirely satisfied with this, Rook said nothing but remained uncomfortably unconscious of Blight's motives.
"He is certainly secretive," he thought, taking another long draught from his mug.
—
The card pyramid was nearly complete; only a pair of aces remained missing from the top. His hand trembling slightly, Sigerson slowly brought the two cards down to the vertex. With a crash, the door flew open, which sent a gust of wind at the card at the card pyramid. Cards littered the table and floor, as the pyramid tumbled down, leaving Sigerson sitting in front of a mess of scattered cards. A freckled young boy strode into the room, leaving the door ajar. After rubbing her face forcefully and making sure the makeup was completely removed, Evelyn slid the wig off and blinked at the scattered cards.
"Sorry about that," she said apologetically, glancing at the cards.
"It's alright," returned Sigerson, walking over to the door and shutting it firmly. "Anyways, have you gotten any information today?"
"Nothing that can help," Evelyn replied sadly, pulling out a small bundle of papers. "There's not much public information about him; the only thing I could find was this old newspaper article."
"You mean this?" asked Sigerson, flipping through the papers. The papers were yellow and musty, with the print almost completely faded.
"The date of this… It was published fifteen years ago…" muttered Sigerson. "That means Blight is now thirty nine years old? He certainly doesn't look his age… By the way, did you find this in the newspaper archives?"
"Yes, hence the disguise. They would be awfully suspicious if I wanted to have a look around. I found this paper among thousands of others."
There was a hint of pride in her voice, as if she expected her cousin to praise her for this achievement. Sigerson, understanding her motive said, "I will admit that you've done well in showing me this, but as you said, this doesn't really help me in my investigation. Was this the only one?"
"This is the only one I've found mentioning Blight," said Evelyn a little irritably.
"Yes, yes, of course," replied Sigerson hastily.
A sharp knock on the door cut them both off. Sigerson strode over and wrenched the door open, revealing a distraught Inspector Branch behind it.
"We need you to come immediately," he explained breathlessly, "We've just uncovered a small crate of explosives in the theatre."
"Explosives in the theatre?"
"That's right. Since you warned us that the theatre might be targeted today, I went with a couple of other officers and checked the surrounding area and found the crate stashed away in a storage room."
For a brief moment, the detective sunk into deep thought, then closed his eyes and asked, "I suppose there were no traces left behind?"
"None that we could find."
What could the reason be, that the mastermind would need to destroy it?
"We'd better leave as soon as we can."
"I'll go and get a cab then," said the inspector before hurriedly leaving.
Picking up his grey travelling cloak, Sigerson glanced back and said, "Don't worry about me; if I'm not back before seven, do save some of that pie for me later."
—
As they were travelling in the cab, the inspector suddenly said, "I forgot to tell you, but did you bring your revolver? It could get messy."
"I have it here," answered Sigerson, patting his pocket.
The cab turned a corner and in front of it stood an enormous building, the National Theatre of Performing Arts.
It was in the shape of a dome, with Corinthian pillars stuck in place, holding the roof up. Dazzling lightbulbs shone and illuminated the giant letters of the theatre's name. Polished marble and wood covered the theatre, giving it an elegant, rich appearance, pleasing to the eyes and a marvel to behold.
"Ah, we're here," observed Branch.
Normally filled with lively chatter and much smoke, the atmosphere was clearly more drab and gloomier than usual, with dozens of policemen patrolling the area like busy ants. As the two of them walked past the lobby and into the auditorium, Sigerson removed his cloak and glanced around him. There were two floors, each one containing rows and rows of seats. The stage was hidden behind a pair of purple curtains, shielding everything behind it from sight.
"It certainly wouldn't be difficult to conceal explosives among all these seats," thought Sigerson.
"May I see the crate of explosives, Inspector? There may be some small clues which you might have missed."
"Of course. Right this way, Sigerson."
"We left everything untouched," explained Branch, while they hurried down a deserted corridor fitted with crimson carpet. "I had a feeling you would want to investigate the scene yourself."
A constable standing next to the door pulled it open for them as they approached.
"In here."
Musty air rushed up to Sigerson's face, smothering him uneasily. Nevertheless, without hesitation, he marched up to the open crate, eyeing it with great interest and showed a keen expression on his face, not unlike a wolf on its prey's trail. Many sticks of dynamite were tucked neatly inside the crate. Picking one of them up, he examined it carefully, turning it over and observing it from every angle.
"This is a standard explosive used in the mining industry," he remarked curiously. "What—"
A sudden change swept over him; his jaw clenched slightly as he removed the sticks one by one, revealing a message on the inside of the crate. Although he had expected this, it nonetheless filled him with slight agitation.
STOP ME IF YOU CAN
"I'm almost certain that the real attempt has not been made yet," said Sigerson, striding back to the auditorium, Branch jogging to keep up with his fast strides. "The dust around the crate had settled with only our footprints and the constable's; that proves no one had gone near it after it was planted there. If the crate had no missing sticks of dynamite and no one had gone near it, this proves that the crate is merely a decoy."
I still can't understand; was the warning from the fragment of paper trying to taunt me or divert my attention from something else?
"Inspector," he said, halting to a stop. "Can you position your men around on the upper and lower floors? Tell them to be watching for suspicious packages or bulges in people's clothes; the explosive, which will most likely be the same dynamite we've seen, will be concealed somewhere."
Inspector Branch nodded and turned back to the constables, ordering them where to go, while Sigerson continued his way to the upper floor.
Countless seats lined up symmetrically across the overhead platform with many of them occupied with people. Strolling around the seats casually, he found an excellent vantage point of the entire auditorium and settled down. Peering at the crowd below, he could see everything clearly like an eagle in its nest.
The crate was placed in the storage room; only staff could access that room, so the culprit or accomplice must be among one of them. If I were the culprit, putting the decoy in the storage room would lead others there, but I would set off the bomb in a different position, far enough from the storage room to avoid attention from the police… Where could that be? In this building, the only places that match the description would be the auditorium and the dressing rooms…
The dressing rooms would be filled with people by now, making it much harder to smuggle anything in unless it were small enough or concealed in an innocent object, but police have guarded those rooms as well as searched everything that was brought in… After seeing that, the culprit would pick the auditorium, where it would be a lot easier blending in with the crowd… The question is where and who the culprit is among us… Wait…
Sigerson shut his eyes to help him picture the crate in his mind as clearly as he could.
There were a number of cracks around the edges of the crate, not from impact but by mishandling. Since the culprit knew what was inside and used the crate as a decoy, it's highly unlikely that they would treat the crate in such an offhand manner… It must have been by accident, but the crate isn't particularly heavy; whoever handled it must have less strength than the average adult…
Realising at last who the culprit may be, he jumped to his feet, upsetting the smartly dressed audience sitting in front of him. Running all the way to the staff room, he asked the manager, who was busily directing actors and actresses to their allotted roles, "Has a young child come here with a crate, by any chance?"
The manager turned to him in surprise and replied, "Let me think… I suppose there might have been… Yes, there was a child who came to me today with a small crate— a young boy, I think. His appearance? Well, if I remember correctly, he had dark black hair, not unlike yours, and a dusty tweed jacket."
Without listening to the rest of the manager's words, Sigerson sprinted back out, now with his mind focused on finding the young boy described.
There was a smudge of gunpowder on that crate… If the boy hasn't taken off his jacket, which is quite likely, then it should show marks of the dark powder…
Not far off was a tiny boy dressed plainly; his black hair and jacket matching the description perfectly. He fiddled around with his jacket then checking that no one was watching, slowly drew out a red stick of dynamite, exposing only the fuse. From the moment Sigerson had a glimpse of the wire, he jumped down the stairs; none of the police on the lower floor had caught on yet, so he drew his revolver and pointed it carefully at his target while sneaking closer.
"Drop it."
Everyone in the vicinity scrambled to get away, and Inspector Branch, who heard the commotion from inside the corridor, also rushed out, his revolver ready in his hand.
"I said leave it," repeated Sigerson. "Or I'll be forced to shoot."
With the explosive halfway out from his jacket and a match in his hand, fear shot through the child like a bullet. His quick eyes darted up briefly, then came back down to the armed men in front of him.
Although his hand wielding the revolver was quite steady, sweat began to pour out and his heartbeat quickened like a drum.
Drop it… Just drop it…
In a blur, the matchstick swung around, ignited and aimed for the fuse, which openly embraced the presence of the flame. There was nothing to do if the two met now…
The inspector's revolver fired a shot, hitting the boy squarely in the chest; then as if in slow motion, his eyes grew big with shock, and his arms and legs, knowing that his life was now over, collapsed in a limp mess. The stick of dynamite dropped and rolled away, while the matchstick was extinguished by the blood of the young boy, pooling up in a puddle.
Among the shrieks and cries of the spectators around them, who the rest of the police present were working to keep under control, stood Sigerson staring down at the body. His shoes were soaked crimson by the river of gore flowing out of the body as he stood paralysed on the spot. The child… Still. Lifeless. Inspector Branch shook his head sadly, muttering to himself.
"Who would have guessed this boy was carrying an explosive strong enough to kill hundreds of people?"
Sigerson snapped back to reality.
"Someone must have supplied him with it."
And they were still in here. The moment the boy looked up, a person in the stands of the upper floors nodded. The boy was unsure of what to do next, so he sought instructions— and received them.
"I'm going to have to write a report on this later, Sigerson; I'm returning to the station."
After they had calmed the crowd and carried off the body, the two of them made their way back out of the theatre with Inspector Branch leading the way. Countless questions sprang into the detective's mind; there were too many theories to be tested.
I'll start by searching for any background information on that boy… There may be some connection I can find and use to my advantage…
However, nothing could be found on the elusive boy, who was portrayed in the newspaper as a 'dangerous criminal'. No records, no witnesses, no photos; it was dead end after dead end. The strangest part to it was the lack of information on Blight himself as well. In every archive and library he searched in, no mention of the name Blight had ever been noted down. Finally, accepting the fact grudgingly that the culprit had covered their tracks exceptionally well, Sigerson gave up on trying to find the boy's history and instead, turned to a more direct approach: arresting key figures of the organisation.
After a full day of unsuccessful searching. He arrived back home, sighed dejectedly, and began to devour his cold pie half-heartedly.
"No luck finding anything?'
"Absolutely not. They've erased all records of the boy's existence, but now I've got my priorities set on Blight; I'm sure he's the one."
"How can you be sure with no proof?"
"That's the thing: it's too clean. There are no records of his history at all in the city town hall, even though he's a prominent citizen in the country with a large business. All the documents of his past business dealings are also far too innocent; he wouldn't be able to amass the amount of wealth he has now if the documents are true."
Evelyn peered out of the open window, frowning at something below.
"Are you aware of that man standing outside of our home?"
"Who?" asked Sigerson, jumping up and rushing over to the window. As soon as the stranger saw Sigerson's face, he dashed away instantly.
"Go to the back door, Evie. I might have been followed."
Evelyn left puzzled, but without delay. There was a soft clattering sound as Sigerson picked up his revolver and stole stealthily to the door, pushing it wide enough to see the staircase winding down. A harsh scratching noise floated up to his ears.
"Somebody's trying to pick the lock… Should I wait around or not? They could be Blight's henchmen after all…" muttered Sigerson to himself.
BANG!
Several armed men stormed into the building with knives and pistols, as the door flew open. Sigerson fired a shot through the small gap, hitting one of the attackers in the leg. The assailant yelled in pain and collapsed on the ground, while his comrades swiftly closed in. Quickly realising he was heavily outnumbered, he cut out all the sources of light in the building, leaving it in complete darkness and rushed to the back door, which led to an emergency staircase to the streets. Evelyn was standing there in the dark, unsure of what to do, when Sigerson raced down the stairs, making her jump in surprise at his sudden appearance.
"This way," he gestured to her, and together, they secretly left the building and made it out onto the streets.