Mystery: From the Shadow World

Chapter 134 Meursault

The next morning.

Klein scooped up a small piece of softened oatmeal bread with a spoon and put it in his mouth. The sweet taste made him feel better and he began to look forward to today.

Mr. Leppard of Sage Street in St. George's District. No matter what, Klein planned to go and take a look first. It wouldn't take too much time anyway. If the other party's transportation was not worth investing in, there would be no need to go there again.

Before that, I need to divine whether there will be any commissions this morning.
Boom!Boom!Boom!
The loud knock on the door, like a hammer, echoed, disrupting Klein's thoughts. Philip, who was sitting on the sofa, was distressed by the cold white skin facing him, and frowned slightly. He lost his good impression of the person outside the door.

Who is it? No one rang the doorbell. Klein's eyelids twitched, and the good mood he had been brewing in the morning was affected. However, after finishing a few bites of the bread in his hand, he got up and opened the door.

What caught Klein's eye was a familiar face, but one he had never seen in person. He had dark skin and deep eye sockets. He was a thin and sturdy man from the plateau, his eyes filled with indifference.

Meursault, the "executioner" of the Zmanger Party.

"Are you Sherlock Moriarty?" Before Klein could speak, he couldn't help but ask in Loenese with a strong plateau accent.

"Yes."

"I'm asking you to find a man named Ian Wright. You've met him." Meursault lowered his flamboyant silk hat to cover his forehead, leaving only his ferocious eyes staring at him.
"If you were half as observant as the detective in Sherlock Holmes and had a bit of common sense, you would know what your choice was."

"50 pounds, that's definitely more than you'll get from that brat, and all you have to do is find him!"

"Oh, what a coincidence."

Klein raised his eyebrows slightly, his eyes drifting for two seconds before he shook his head. He was about to express his refusal, but at this moment, a cold voice rang out from behind him:
"It's not your place to judge what kind of person Sherlock Holmes is in front of me."

Meursault turned his head, looking through Klein to the young lady walking towards him. He narrowed his eyes slightly, as if he was thinking about who this person he had ignored was.

But Philip didn't give him a chance. He pulled Klein behind him. Facing this man who was more than a head taller than him and emanated a dangerous aura, he said mercilessly:

"Sherlock Holmes is a character in a novel. Everyone can picture the real him in their mind, the complete him. I have no objection, and I cannot interfere. But this detective will never violate the most basic principles of a detective, and will never pursue money, even if you offer me 500 pounds right now."

"For someone like you who arbitrarily imposes your thoughts and judgments on others, whose answers disgust me, there will only be one answer you'll ever get."

"roll!"

boom--!
The door was slammed shut.

Meursault clenched his fists tightly, resisting the urge to attack immediately, but the anger in his eyes was as strong as magma about to erupt, and even the whites of his eyes were stained with a little red.

His only remaining rationality allowed him to restrain himself, and from the force with which the damn lady had just closed the door, he judged that the force and body shape of the other party's closing the door were somewhat unreasonable.

Combined with the pale skin.

Corpse collector?
Ah.

"what happened?"

Seeing that Philip seemed genuinely angry for some reason, Klein, thinking of the desire and madness inherent in the "Prisoner" path, couldn't help but ask as the other party sat back on the sofa.

"Nothing." Philip shook his head, forcing a smile with a somewhat stiff expression. "After becoming a zombie, the troubles were a little easier than I expected, but it's still a bit troublesome. I was just acting just now, to see if this would make me feel better."

"How can I help?"

Klein frowned. It was obvious that anything that could be considered troublesome for Philip would not be simple. Although the result might be that he could not help, he still asked the question.

"Uh" Philip pinched his chin and pondered for a few seconds, then said with a strange expression:

"Regarding madness and desire, I can find a way, but there is indeed one thing that is quite troublesome. But, um, are you good at makeup, or do you have any experience in buying cosmetics?"

"Huh?" Klein opened his mouth and said subconsciously.

But when he saw the pale skin on Philip's body, he understood it instantly, pinched his chin, and finally did not force himself, and said awkwardly: "I have no chance and no motivation to get in touch with these things."

"Um"

Philip nodded and exhaled. Although he felt helpless, there was nothing he could do. After all, they were both grown men. Even though he was disguised as a woman, he didn't know much about cosmetics.

But to put it another way, if you don't have enough skills, trying to disguise this corpse-like pale skin into a skin color no different from that of an ordinary person will only be a pipe dream no matter how beautiful the cosmetics are.

Unless it has extraordinary effects, the pharmacist at the Brave Bar party can't be relied upon for the time being. Then my only option is Philip tapping his head lightly and then speaking:

"It's not convenient for me to go out now. If you have time later, please find someone to help me."

"Who?"

"Emlyn White, from 48 Riverbend Avenue, is a vampire. We have an average relationship, but if you praise his race, we'll have something to talk about." Philip thought for a moment and continued,
"Then ask him if he can concoct a potion to restore my skin to its original state. Paying him is inevitable, but as long as he doesn't treat you like a fool, I'll accept it. I'll pay you back when I get back."

Just by listening to these words, I actually had a rough idea of who Emlyn White was. Klein picked up the half-high silk hat and put it on his head, steadying it with his hand. Then he said:

"Where's that fellow called Meursault?"

"He doesn't know my previous skin color, and he doesn't bother to know it, so don't worry." Philip sat on the sofa, clasped his hands, and murmured:

"Besides, the urge to kill someone can't be hidden, and I don't mind killing him. I'll let him sleep more during the day. I don't think he'll be able to hold back. Even if he doesn't attack tonight, he'll attack in the next two days."

"Wait, that's not the case."

After realizing that what was originally just an ordinary threat had been directly assumed by Philip to have reached the level of murder, Klein was somewhat confused. "The boy named Ian Wright's involvement shouldn't be this serious, right? We're not deeply involved in this."

"So I said."

Philip anticipated Klein's doubts and calmly explained, "You can't hide your murderous intentions. Even if he covered his face with that hat, I could sense it. He was planning to kill us."

"That's perfect. The profits can be used for investment, or we can split it 50-50."

(End of this chapter)