Italian Connection (1)

Coffee Tea is black as an Asura, hot as the Scorching Hell, yet pure as a saint, and sweet as romance.
-Count Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, the infamous French diplomatic Kung-Fu master-

An hour later.

Watson and I, together with Sir Fawcett, were leisurely enjoying coffee in a dim Italian local restaurant near Millwall Docks on the Isle Of Dogs.

Thankfully, we had rented out the entire shop for the whole day.

It was all thanks to Sir Fawcett’s consideration, saying he was grateful we had shown him an enjoyable spectacle.

“I’m worried that rooting out an underworld element inside the Central Post Office may have harmed the working atmosphere.”
“Don’t say such a thing. That sort is the kind we loathe most. That someone who serves in office would cooperate with a crime for money, I still can’t believe it.”
“Even ordinary underworld organizations claim, outwardly at least, that kindness must be repaid twice over, yet this man Rossetti used your goodwill to satisfy his private greed and used his post to commit crime. He is surely the sort of riffraff I least wish to share a table with, even among underworld men.”
“It’s truly fortunate we could cut it off at the bud early. I’m sorry that I always end up owing you.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself. I merely did what ought to be done.”

At first, I felt, only a little, that perhaps I had needlessly damaged the minister’s dignity in front of his subordinates.

But Sir Fawcett was purely delighted that we had expelled an underworld man who had been hiding in the Central Post Office.

As we rode here in the carriage, I recalled what Sir Fawcett had told me.

‘As you know, the British Intelligence Butler Agency is not an old organization. It was only a few years ago, shortly before I took the post of Postmaster General.’
‘Until they took up counterintelligence, we postmen were watchmen, ferreting out foreign spies and underworld men.’
‘They were wretched days. Under the pretext of keeping the peace of the martial world, we had to watch someone. Even our colleagues at the post office were no exception.’
‘We lived watching each other, hiding our true hearts, with the belief that we must trust no one.’
‘That is why I did not want the boxers, those who have only now cast off that burden, to be made to recall the past.’

It was a short story, yet I could understand why Sir Fawcett had not, until now, exposed the underworld man hiding in the Central Post Office.

When I imagined the anguish of the blind Kung-Fuist who once roamed London as a watchman, I could only grow solemn without realizing it.

It also made me curious.

Why my master had been in contact with Sir Fawcett since the days when the post office bore that dark past.

Did Phileas Fogg, the Heavenly Demon Red Dragon, have something he wished to seek through his ties with Sir Fawcett, as I did?

-Slurrrp.

The three of us, as if by appointment, took a sip of coffee.

I am one who usually enjoys black tea, but at times I find myself missing this drink, intense like a Heavenly Demon, black like hell.

Mrs. Hudson, too, would sometimes brew coffee at the boarding house as well as tea, and besides steeping tea she had talent in hand-drip as well, so the aroma and taste were not bad at all.

“Mrs. Hudson, your skill is excellent today as well.”
“It’s all thanks to the beans being good. More than that, Mr. Holmes, how is it you say only such pleasant things?”
“It may be presumptuous meddling, but I do not think I say it to sound pleasant—I believe it is a sincere impression. The deep aroma puts mind and body at ease.”
“Now you say that, I hardly know what to do with myself…… To think I would ever serve Coffee Tea to the minister. I never dreamed of it. If chances like this came often, it would be lovely, wouldn’t it. Should I go around following Mr. Holmes in my daily life as well?”
“There’s no need for that, ma’am.”

In truth, there were two more people in the shop besides us.

One was Mrs. Hudson, who had prepared the food at my request and come along to the East End.

“Mmph!!”

The other was Rossetti, a Sicilian delivery boxer, bound to a chair with his acupoints sealed and a gag in his mouth.

No. Should I call him a former delivery boxer now?

For the crime of participating in an underworld organization’s offenses, he was immediately expelled from the Central Post Office, and soon he would be escorted to the Santiago Kunlun Cathedral, where his elixir field would be destroyed.

Naturally, after being punished by his affiliated clan, he would have to return to Britain and stand trial.

I had already summoned Lestrade and completed all the necessary procedures over the past hour, so this was a fixed future.

Unless the underworld faction he joined, either before he worked at the Central Post Office as a delivery boxer, or after becoming one attempted a desperate rescue, he would not be able to flee from his sins.

Well, what else he may have done besides being involved in this kidnapping case is none of my concern.

But if Rossetti could not defend himself with full zeal and sincerity here, Scotland Yard—starved for results—might press him for other offenses and even point to him as the culprit of unsolved cases.

“…That is what I think, at any rate.”
“Mmph!!”
“My. I didn’t know you would like it that much.”

After I told him, in moderation, what he would face in the future, the short Sicilian underworld man turned his face red as a tomato and showed his delight.

“Have you ever heard of the pilgrimage of atonement?”

Watching the scene quietly, Sir Fawcett cut in with a voice that gave off a chill.

“A disciple of the Santiago Kunlun Cathedral who has sinned must crawl the long pilgrimage road once more on his knees before receiving judgment. The rule is that the moment you use internal energy, be it lightness skill or a trick, you return to the starting point.”
“Mmgh!! Mmph! Mmph!!”

Was he thrilled at imagining a pilgrimage of five hundred miles with the Lord?

Rossetti was even shedding tears, stamping his feet.

“Indeed, it is conduct befitting the great Santiago Kunlun Cathedral, with its long history even among Christianism Clan. One can feel the foundation in its strict rules.”
“Mm. You may hate the sin, but you must not hate the person. Before breaking the elixir field, we give him a chance to regret his sin and repent of it himself. Even if he tries to flee, once he enters the pilgrimage road he is trapped in a formation and cannot escape, so he will surely face his own sin and realize its weight.”

We were merely sipping coffee and chatting, yet for some reason Rossetti’s face was gradually turning purple.

It seemed he could no longer hide his excitement as he pictured Santiago, the hometown of every Kunlun Kung-Fuist’s heart.

Judging by the Direct Message that flew in earlier, it seemed Lestrade and the constables had finished preparing as well.

Perhaps it was about time to begin a proper Interview.

-Whak!

I removed the gag from Rossetti’s mouth.

“Huff… huff…!!”

Rossetti couldn’t even shout. He was struggling just to catch his breath.

The only external injury he had suffered was being struck on the top of the foot by Fingertips, but after his points were sealed he had also ingested the Pursuit Powder I carried, leaving him unable to circulate his power.

“By now you must understand: if you do not provide information about the ringleader, Scotland Yard, being hungry for results, will try to pin the blame on you. The Santiago Kunlun Cathedral’s judgment will also grow harsher. Still, I am a rational man, so I do not think riffraff like you could have caused this case.”
“……”
“Will you not, at last, tell me who entrusted you with the letter? There is not much time, so cooperate. If you refuse, I will have no choice but to give up on defending you. Persuading Inspector Lestrade, who is short on brains, is not an easy matter.”
“I can’t.”
“Hm……”

Rossetti squeezed out the words with difficulty, but it was not the answer I wanted.

He looked as though he dearly wished to spill it, and it was not as though some mental prohibition bound him—so what was the cause?

“The righteous Italian underworld is not so easy that it would forgive a member who fails to keep the Omertๅ! Kill me now instead!!”

The “uidaeri” used when Italian underworld men call themselves the “uidaeri underworld” is a phonetic rendering of Italy and a shorthand for ‘義大于利’, righteousness is greater than profit.”

And 義大于利, righteousness is greater than profit, is a four-character idiom meaning that faith and great cause are more important than profit before one’s eyes.

To think the ones who chant that phrase all day long would kidnap their own compatriot and demand ransom.

It seemed the faith they spoke of had been exported far away along with Sicilian lemons.

“Hm. If you come at me like that, then I cannot keep mercy in my hands.”

‘Righteousness is greater than profit’ was nothing but a pretext for purging whistleblowers and traitors.

Rossetti, too, could not open his mouth only because he feared the Italian underworld’s Vendetta, said to be more painful than death.

So to pry open that tightly shut mouth, there was only one choice: make him taste a fear even more dreadful than Vendetta.

Naturally, I had anticipated the possibility that Rossetti would refuse to speak out of fear of the code of silence.

The reason I had brought ‘her’ was because I was confident she could make Rossetti betray his organization and spit out its secrets.

“…Mrs. Hudson?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

-Sseogeok.

With her reply, a large slab of rabbit meat split cleanly in two.

When I turned my head, I saw Mrs. Hudson in the open kitchen, trimming ingredients, smiling faintly at me as she raised a kitchen knife wrapped in a gleaming sword aura.

“Shall I start, then?”
“Yes. Please.”
“N-No matter what you do, it’s useless! I will never betray my clan!”
“Well. We shall have to see.”

I lifted the chair Rossetti was bound to with rope and set it down before Mrs. Hudson, who wore an apron and was preparing a special menu to celebrate my realm’s rise.

Besides the ingredients stocked at the rented restaurant, Mrs. Hudson had laid out various things she bought at the market across the counter, and Rossetti’s reaction upon seeing the arranged ingredients was truly interesting.

“M… Mamma mia….”

At the sight of Heinz Tomato Ketchup, a newfangled thing first launched in the United States five years ago and said to be wildly popular, the underworld man’s pupils trembled as if an earthquake had struck.

“Why does such a cursed thing exist…!! (Italian) Do you English have no human heart…!! (Italian)”

Rossetti foamed at the mouth and poured out curses in Italian, but Mrs. Hudson, who could speak nothing besides English and a little Chinese, paid it no mind and continued cooking.

“Today I made up my mind for once and bought a whole lot of expensive imported ingredients. You said we were renting the entire kitchen of an Italian restaurant, so I worked twice as hard as usual!”
“Splendid, ma’am. What menu are you preparing today?”
“That is a se, cret. Ohoho.”

That was when Mrs. Hudson took out a bucket filled to the brim with ice crystal and ice.

“My goodness, look at me.”

A wine bottle, white with frost, was set into the bucket.

“I chilled the wine with North Sea ice crystal I bought earlier. It should be cool enough by now, so have a glass, everyone.”
“Kraaaah!!”

-Kulkeok.

A mouthful of blood spilled from Rossetti’s mouth.

“Oh my. Is this gentleman unwell…?”
“You needn’t worry. It seems he’s had a chronic illness for a long time.”
“My, the poor thing.”
“Chilled wine is better than I expected…!”
“Right! I knew you’d like it, Ms. Watson!”

Her worry over Rossetti lasted only a moment.

Seeing Watson’s eyes sparkle as she drank the cold wine, Mrs. Hudson happily returned to cooking.

“Drinks are fine, but there’s still plenty of coffee left. Wet your throats slowly before the meal.”
“Perhaps because the Vermilion Phoenix came through, it’s hot. How about putting ice crystal or ice into the coffee as well?”
“O, no…! How could you do something so dreadful to such fine beans, something even an Americani wouldn’t do!!”
“Mr. Holmes, it seems you’ve become quite versed in gourmet tastes?”
“It’s all thanks to you, Mrs. Hudson.”

-Kulkeok!

Hemoptysis, second round.

“Today’s menu is pizza and pasta! I read recipe books and studied hard! Assassin’s… pasta? Spaghetti All’Assassina, was it? Anyway, it’s a southern Italian local method. They say you fry the spaghetti in oil, then pour in broth?”
“Oh, what an unusual method.”
“Hm? The pan is smaller than the dry spaghetti, so it won’t all go in…? Ah, I see. Should I break the noodles in half?”
“Noooooon!! Corioni!! Nooon!!”

-Woodeudeuk.

“Kheok!!”
“Hm… Did I mix up the recipe? Now I think I just add yolk and cream here…”
“Kulkeok!”
“Mantecare? Does that mean to put curry in…? Mr. Holmes, do you happen to know Italian well?”
“I believe it means to mix oil and moisture to create an emulsion.”
“Ah-ha, then I should put in butter and curry? Like butter chicken curry? So it was a curry pasta recipe?”
“No!!! It’s not curry pasta, you bastards!!! Stop!! Please stop!!”

-Ching!

“I think the pizza I put in the oven is baked already. Now if I slice pineapple thin and put it on—”
“Heavenly Father, why must I suffer such trials—oh mio Dio…”

Rossetti’s hoarse shouting did not reach Mrs. Hudson.

She set pineapple atop the well-baked pizza, then hummed O Sole Mio and poured on Heinz tomato ketchup in abundance.

“I’ll talk, so stop it, you sons of bitches…!!!”

With the power of rage, Rossetti snapped every rope binding him, but that was all.

“Ugh.”

For a while the Sicilian man sniffled as he watched Italian cuisine thoroughly humiliated in British hands, and then—

-Gulp.

He ended up fainting on his feet.