Chapter 320: Chapter 320

Chocolate, flicking his tail, played the part of a lookout, pretending to watch both ends of the corridor for Jenkins. The moment the lock clicked open, he darted through the gap in the door.

Jenkins slipped inside, closed the door behind him, and began a swift search of the room.

The script for "Mr. Potter's Eternal 31st" was easy to find, lying right by the pillow on the bed. It was clear the slim sheaf of papers had been read often. Jenkins scanned the contents—no doubt about it, this was the script.

He flipped back to the cover. Moonlight illuminated the author's name: Mason Pisco.

The name was strikingly familiar. Just last week, a playwright living in Nolan City had visited Pops Antique Shop. He'd bought an antique that came with a story and had asked Jenkins to deliver it to his home on the thirty-first of the month. That was how Jenkins knew his address.

"There's no such thing as that many coincidences."

He gave a helpless laugh. If the odds of the script being connected to this whole affair were one in ten before seeing that name, they were now nine in ten.

Scooping the cat off the bed, he glanced down from the window. After confirming no one was around, he used his abilities to scale down the insulation-wrapped heating pipe and dropped into the courtyard below.

The weather was dreadful, but the streets were still being patrolled by policemen and combat squads from the Orthodox Church disguised as officers. During his trek across half the city, Jenkins had to do his best to avoid them.

He had planned to take a carriage, but for some reason, there wasn't a single one free tonight.

The temperature was already low, so the snow, which had been falling since before midnight, had completely blanketed the ground in silver. A trail of footprints stretched out behind him, and a careful observer could easily trace his path. But Jenkins knew the snow would continue for a long time; his tracks would be covered again before dawn.

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He stood at a street corner, gazing from a distance at a three-story apartment building. Through the heavy snowfall, he could see a gilded doorplate reflecting the bright moonlight, the number 21-A clearly visible. Mr. Pisco didn't own his own place; like most people in the city, he rented an apartment.

Nobles and landed gentry acquired their properties through inheritance, but due to exorbitant housing prices and vast income disparities, most other people didn't own their homes. The house and land Jenkins had bought were only so cheap because of the haunting rumors; at a normal price, it would have cost him several times more. For comparison, even men like Dr. John Watson and his friend Sherlock Holmes, before the former became a famous author and the latter’s detective career truly flourished, had to share a flat in an apartment building to live in London.

Therefore, aside from a few lucky individuals who could inherit a house (like Mr. Goodman), most of Nolan's middle class lived in rented accommodations with leases of three, five, or seven years. And in a metropolis where land was expensive, housing was often cramped and multi-storied, which meant a single building was typically shared by several families.

Flurries of snow drifted past the window on the second floor facing the street—Jenkins's target. If the snow were rain, the scene would be identical to the stormy night he'd broken into an apartment and shot the art student.

He blew a warm breath onto his hands, then cupped his ears, trying to warm them up a little. The night was far colder than he had anticipated. While his body was warmed by an inner fire, his exposed ears were stinging with the frost.

"After this is over, I really need to get some proper winter clothes."

He told himself, patting the bulge in his coat. The cat shifted inside, signaling that it was doing fine. He ducked back behind a mailbox and continued to watch the apartment building.

A layer of snow had already collected on top of the mailbox, covering its rusty surface. Jenkins reached out, plunged his hand into the frigid powder to flatten it for a better view, but at that exact moment, he was surprised to see someone standing in the second-floor window.

It wasn't a trick of the light. A gas lamp flickered on in the second-floor apartment, and Mr. Pisco—clad in pajamas, a heavy coat thrown over them, a teacup in hand—shrank his head into his shoulders, pushed open his window, shivered, and then waved directly at Jenkins.

Jenkins froze, glancing around. He was definitely the only person nearby.

Before he could decide whether to flee immediately or boldly charge in, the building's front door swung open. Mr. Pisco and a very impatient-looking middle-aged landlady were standing in the entryway. The gas lamp, having just been lit, was still flickering unsteadily.

"Mr. Williams, hurry in! This damned weather is freezing!"

The middle-aged man, wearing slippers, stepped out onto the stone stoop and waved quickly at Jenkins before immediately ducking back inside. Though there was an awning overhead, the wind had still dusted the steps with a layer of snow.

Seeing Jenkins hesitate as if to retreat, he called out loudly, "Sir, I know why you've come, and I know what you want to find out. You're free to turn and leave, but I promise you, the answers you're looking for can only be found here with me."

It seemed he'd found the right person after all. Seeing no other choice, Jenkins walked out boldly from the street corner, one hand in his pocket, gripping his pistol. He brushed the snow from his clothes before entering the hall, then offered the landlady an apologetic smile.

The landlady completely ignored him. Dressed in her pajamas with her hair in a net, she was loudly complaining to Mr. Pisco about having visitors at such a late hour.

Jenkins followed Mr. Pisco up the stairs with an awkward smile as the landlady shut the wind and snow out behind them.

He watched Pisco's back with suspicion. The man had clearly been waiting for him. And upon entering the apartment, the sight of a tea set already laid out on the table further confirmed his theory.

Compared to Jenkins's house, Pisco's apartment was rather small. But surprisingly, the living room had its own fireplace. After closing the door, Pisco bent down and stoked the embers with a poker, coaxing the flames higher before settling into the armchair opposite Jenkins.