1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

Chapter 88 I'm going to smash these in his face!

Michelle no longer hesitated.

He carefully put the flyers and Anna's letter into his inner bag, grabbed his coat and top hat hanging on the hanger, and strode out of the apartment building.

New stories can wait, but this matter cannot be delayed.

Michelle found Michael in the offices of the London Express.

Since the London Express's sales took off, the editor-in-chief's life hasn't been so comfortable.

Although he no longer needs to write titles, Michael is overwhelmed by a pile of manuscripts and layouts.

Upon seeing Michelle's appearance, a smile finally appeared on his tired face.

"Hey Michelle, what brings you here today? Bringing you a new manuscript? Another new story?"

"That's more urgent, Michael, I need your help."

Michelle spoke seriously as he handed over Anna's letter and the flyer.

Michael took it and quickly started browsing.

When he saw "railway investment" and "high dividends", he only raised an eyebrow.

But when he read about Charlie LeBlanc's stubbornness and the town's frenzy, his expression turned serious.

"This...this is a blatant scam!" Michael slammed his fist on the table, filled with righteous indignation.

"Every year, there are scammers like this who use the guise of overseas investment to swindle the last penny from poor people in rural areas! I never thought they'd target your family this time!"

"Luckily, your family didn't fall for it."

"I need evidence, Michael. Evidence that will completely convince the stubborn villagers."

Michelle pointed to the flyer.

"I'd like to ask the experienced technicians at your printing factory to take a look at this."

Michael immediately understood Michelle's intention.

"No problem! Follow me! Old Finch from our factory can smell the ink from every printing press in London with his eyes closed!"

The two left the noisy editorial department and went to the newspaper's printing workshop.

A strong smell of ink and metal hit me.

The huge printing presses were roaring, and workers were busy moving between the machines. The whole workshop was filled with a sense of order and rhythm.

In a corner of the workshop, an elderly man with gray hair and reading glasses was hunched over, carefully examining a newly printed newspaper.

His fingers were stained black with ink, but his movements were unusually steady.

"Master Finch!" Michael shouted.

The old man raised his head, adjusted his glasses, and looked at them with his cloudy eyes.

"What is it, Michael? Is the ink on today's front page too thin again?"

"No, Master Finch, I have a personal matter I'd like to ask for your help with."

Michael carefully handed over the flyer that Michelle had brought.

"My friend would like you to take a look at this thing and see where it came from."

Old Finch took the flyer but didn't look at its contents immediately.

He first held the paper up to the light, squinting as he examined its texture and thickness.

Then, he brought the flyer to his nose and took a deep breath, like a gentleman savoring a fine vintage wine.

"snort."

He let out a disdainful snort.

Goods from the "Fleet Street Bedbug" workshop.

"A bedbug workshop?" Michelle pressed.

"An underground workshop without even a signboard."

Old Finch handed the flyer back to Michael with a look of disgust on his face.

"They specialize in taking on shady jobs."

He picked up a rag from the side and wiped his hands, as if he had just touched something dirty.

"This paper is called threepence dung paper." As for why it's called that...

"6

"Because it's made from coarse materials like straw and wheat stalks, the texture is like dried horse manure. A ream of paper (500 sheets) sells for less than three pence. Only toilet paper and this kind of fraudulent stuff would use it..."

"7

Is it that powerful?

Michelle and Michael exchanged a glance, both seeing shock in each other's reactions.

"And this ink," old Finch said, pointing to the ornate lettering on the flyer.

"Smell this pungent pine scent. This is the lowest quality rosin ink; to save money, they didn't even bother to use tung oil."

"The printed items will fade after a month, and if they get wet, they will turn into a blurry mess of trash in less than half a day."

"As for this seal..."

'

He scratched at the complicated-looking company logo with his fingernail.

"It's not even copperplate engraving..."

...This mold was cast using the cheapest lead blocks; the edges are rough, and the lines are blurry.

"I bet they even use kitchen soot mixed with oil for their inkpads!"

Old Finch's words stripped away the layers of this seemingly exquisite brochure, revealing its cheap and filthy nature.

Michael was stunned.

"Master Finch, how...do you know so much?"

Old Finch rolled his eyes at him.

"I've dealt with these papers and inks my whole life. I know them better than their own fathers."

He turned to Michelle.

"Young man, the person with this thing is definitely up to no good. Stay away from him."

Michelle thanked old Finch solemnly.

"Thank you, Master Finch. You've been a great help to me."

He now not only knows it's a scam, but also how ridiculously low the material costs are.

More importantly, he obtained a crucial clue—the "bedbug" workshop.

"Michael, do you know where that bug's workshop is?" Michelle's tone was urgent.

Michael frowned and pondered for a moment.

"There are too many underground workshops on Fleet Street, but... since Master Finch could smell it, it means that the pine scent of that workshop must be particularly strong. I think I know which one it is."

He lowered his voice.

"It's in a small alley behind the church, run by a drunkard named Derek. That guy'll take any job for money."

The target has been identified!

Michelle thanked Michael, but Michael patted him on the shoulder instead.

"Don't be shy, Michelle. It's my duty to deal with these kinds of con artists! I'll go with you!"

Without further delay, the two left the noisy printing workshop and headed towards the dark alley behind Fleet Street.

The alley behind the church was dark and damp, and the air was filled with an unpleasant odor.

Michael covered his nose and led Michelle through the maze-like alleyways, finally stopping at the door of an inconspicuous basement.

There was no sign hanging at the entrance; only a strong, pungent smell of pine resin and ink wafted from under the door.

Michelle took a sniff; it smelled exactly like the one on the flyer.

Old Finch's nose was right!

Michael knocked on the flimsy wooden door.

"Derrick! Open the door! We have a customer!"

After a long while, a series of dragging footsteps and indistinct curses came from inside the door.

The door was pulled open a crack, and a man with an oily face, sunken eyes, and the smell of alcohol peeked out, eyeing them warily.

"Who is it? I'm not doing business today."

"We're not here to print anything." Michelle pulled a gleaming gold pound from her pocket and waved it in front of him.

Upon seeing the pounds, the man named Derek's eyes lit up.

He glanced at Michelle and Michael's attire; they didn't look like police officers, nor did they seem to be there to cause trouble.

After hesitating for a moment, I finally opened the door.

"Come in."

The basement was dimly lit and cramped, with an old hand-cranked printing press taking up most of the space.

The corner was piled with all sorts of inferior paper and ink cans, and the smell was even worse than outside.

"Speak, what do you want from me?"

Derek rubbed his hands together, his gaze never leaving the gold coins in Michelle's hand.

"We want to ask you about someone," Michelle said bluntly.

"Didn't a Mr. Vincent LeBlanc print a batch of flyers with you last month?"

Derek's expression changed slightly, but he quickly regained his dejected look.

"I don't remember. There are just too many people coming and going here every day."

Michelle didn't say anything, but simply took out two more pounds from her pocket.

Three gleaming British pounds shone alluringly in the dimly lit basement.

This amount of money is enough for this drunkard to live comfortably for half a year.

Derek's breathing became rapid, he swallowed hard, and the wariness on his face was completely replaced by greed.

"Oh... Mr. Vincent! I remember now! A very generous gentleman!"

He snatched the gold coin from Michelle's hand, stuffed it into his dirty pocket like a precious treasure, and his smile became incredibly fawning.

"What do you gentlemen want to know? I promise I'll answer everything I know!"

"How many did he print? How much did it cost?"

"Well..." Derek walked to a dilapidated wooden box in the corner, rummaged through it, and quickly pulled out an account book covered in grease.

He flipped through a few pages of the ledger and pointed to one line.

"Found it! This is it! The Mississippi flyer."

One thousand sheets! That's... one pound and eighteen shillings!

Michelle gasped.

A thousand fraudulent flyers cost less than two pounds to produce!

The cost of this scam is so low it's outrageous!

"Did he print anything else?" Michelle pressed.

"They printed it! They even printed this!"

Derek proudly pulled another stack of papers out of the box.

This is a certificate of slightly better quality than the flyer, still bearing the same complicated company logo and the words "Shareholder Certificate".

"He said these are tickets for the circus to use as props," Derek chuckled.

"I was wondering at the time why circus tickets would be made to look like bank notes."

Michelle picked up a receipt.

This is precisely the so-called "certificate" that the scammers gave to investors, and it is also the most direct physical evidence that exposed the entire scam.

"Are the original printed copies of these certificates still available?"

"Yes, yes, of course!" Derek hurriedly nodded and bowed, pulling a heavy lead-cast printing plate from under the printing press.

On the printing plate, the ornate fonts and complex logos are clearly visible.

However, Derek did not give the lead plate to Michelle, but only hinted at it with his eyes.

Got it, I need to pay more.

Michelle pulled out two more pounds.

"Is this enough?"

""

"That's enough, that's enough."

At this moment, the entire chain of evidence was perfectly closed.

Michelle carefully put away the voucher and the lead plate.

He looked at the drunkard who would sell everything for five pounds, and at the filthy underground workshop that reeked of lies.

There was no joy in my heart, but rather a heavy sense of oppression.

It was from here that a lie, powerful enough to destroy countless families in a small town, was born.

And that swindler named Vincent is using worthless paper that costs less than two pounds to swindle the hard-earned money that his fellow villagers have saved up their whole lives.

"Let's go, Michael."

Michelle turned and walked toward the door.

"Where are we going? Scotland Yard?" Michael followed.

"No."

Michelle stopped to rest for a moment before continuing to move the heavy lead plate.

"It's better to believe in God than to believe in them."

'

"Before they finish going through all the complicated procedures, the villagers' money may have already been swindled away."

"I'm going to meet Mr. Vincent."

"I want to personally smash these things in his face!"

Did you smash it in his face...?

Michael glanced at the heavy lead plate and began to mourn for Mr. Vincent.