1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

Chapter 89 The Vanished Railway Tracks

Michael watched Michelle carry that heavy lead plate, his expression complex.

"Are you really planning to use this as a brick and smash it in that liar's face?"

"This is physical evidence," Michelle replied succinctly.

"And that Vincent really deserves to die."

The two walked out of the dark alley and returned to the crowds on Fleet Street.

"Where to next?" Michael asked.

"Go check out that so-called London office."

The flyer had an address printed on it, located on the edge of the City of London.

A truly capable company would never set up its office in such a place.

But Michelle decided to go and see anyway.

The two hailed a carriage and bumped through the crowded streets of London.

It finally stopped at the end of a narrow street.

This so-called "office" doesn't even have a separate storefront.

It was just an entrance to the basement, with a crooked wooden sign hanging at the door that read "Mississippi Western Railroad Company Receiving and Dispatch Office" in rough paint.

The paint wasn't completely dry when an unfortunate fly got stuck.

Michelle and Michael exchanged a glance and both saw the disgust on each other's faces.

Michael went down first, while Michelle leaned the heavy lead plate against the wall for the time being.

The basement was dimly lit, with only a few rays of sunlight filtering in through a tall window.

A disheveled old man, reeking of alcohol, was dozing off on the table, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth, forming a small wet patch on the dusty surface.

Hearing footsteps, he suddenly woke up, wiped his mouth, and groggily raised his head.

"You—you're here to invest?"

His voice was muffled and had a heavy accent.

"We're here to inquire about profit sharing."

Michelle spoke calmly.

"Dividends?"

The old man paused for a moment, seemingly trying to understand the meaning of the word.

He couldn't figure it out after a long time, so he simply stopped thinking about it.

He scratched his greasy hair and pulled a wooden box out from under the table.

"All the letters are here; find them yourselves."

The box contained a jumble of letters, most of which were unopened.

Michael picked up a letter at random; the address was Wilkesworth, Derbyshire.

He even saw the LeBron family name on another letter, presumably sent by a distant relative who also had the same surname.

Are you all alone here?

Michael looked around the empty basement, which contained nothing but tables, chairs, and wooden crates.

"There are also two temporary workers who are responsible for delivering the collected money to the designated place."

The old man yawned.

"But they went out to have some fun today."

"Where are the ledgers? Let me see the company's accounts."

Michelle continued to exert pressure.

"Ledger?"

The old man thought he had heard the biggest joke in the world.

"Sir, I can't even recognize my own name, how would I understand that thing?"

Everything went as Michelle had predicted, or even worse.

This is not an office at all; it's just a temporary mail transfer station and money collection point.

It was simple, rough, and full of the feeling of being ready to run away at any time.

The two stepped out of the basement and breathed in the fresh, though polluted, air.

"Unbelievable..." Michael shook his head.

"Such a simple scam could drive an entire town crazy."

"There might be more..."

'

"Because it accurately captures people's fantasies and despair."

Michelle's tone was heavy.

"London is too far away for country folk, so far away that they can't imagine what it's really like here."

"They believed the flowery language on the leaflets, and the well-dressed officer, but they didn't believe that the swindler's hideout would be such a moldy basement."

Next, Michelle took Michael to the Trade Commission.

The Trade Committee, officially the Privy Council's Committee on Trade and Overseas Plantations, was the core economic and trade center of Britain and one of the most important government departments in the early days of the dynasty.

In the archives where registration information was publicly available, Michelle spent half an afternoon going through the list of all the newly registered companies in recent years.

The result was as expected.

There is absolutely no record of the "Mississippi Western Railway Company".

This is a complete shell company, a false illusion that exists only on promotional leaflets.

"Just one last step."

Michelle closed the heavy file.

"Who exactly is this Vincent LeBron?"

"Leave this to me," Michael said, patting his chest.

"I have some connections in the Ministry of the Army, so it's not difficult for me to investigate the background of a retired officer."

Michael was very efficient, leveraging his journalistic background and connections.

The following evening, he arrived at Michel's apartment with a copy of the file.

You would never guess where this guy comes from.

Michael handed the document to Michelle with an absurd expression on his face.

The file clearly states:

Vincent LeBlanc, former Army Corporal.

He was stationed with the army in the Canadian colony and was arrested for forging officers' signatures and stealing military pay.

He escaped during transport and has been missing ever since.

The gleaming medals he wore on his chest were all fakes bought from the black market.

"A deserter, a thief."

Michelle put the file down; all the evidence was now complete.

"Let's go to Scotland Yard and call the police right now!"

Michael seemed a little excited.

"It's no use," Michelle shook her head.

Why?

"Michael, you know better than I do. The main responsibility of the police department now is to maintain street order and deal with petty theft."

"They have neither experience in investigating such cross-regional, meticulously planned financial frauds, nor do they have the experience to file a case."

"By the time they finished going through that complicated process, Vincent would have already run away with the villagers' money."

In 1837, Britain was in a financial regulatory vacuum.

Various types of fraud are emerging one after another, but the relevant laws are seriously lagging behind.

Relying on official power is undoubtedly a case of trying to quench a thirst with water from afar...

Michael slumped down.

"What can we do? Are we just going to stand by and watch him swindle everyone's money?"

Michelle walked to the desk and spread out a sheet of paper.

The anger and repression that had been on his face were gone, replaced by an extremely calm and focused expression.

He picked up a dip pen and wrote a title on the paper.

"The police are unreliable, and the law is often delayed."

"But I have weapons that are faster than theirs."

Michelle turned her head and looked at Michael, who looked completely bewildered.

"I want to use my pen to sound the alarm for him, and for all those who have been deceived by this scam."

"Moreover, once this story becomes popular in London, I think Scotland Yard's efficiency will reach its peak..."

'

As the sun set, the only sound in Michelle's apartment was the scratching of a pen on paper.

Anna's anxiety in her letter, her father Charlie's stubbornness, the villagers' fanatical and blind gazes, and that filthy basement, that drunken doorman...

Everything intertwined in his mind, eventually transforming into the flowing words under his pen.

He did not choose to write a dry and boring news report or editorial.

Such things may state the facts, but they cannot truly touch people's hearts.

What he wanted to write was a story.

A story that will resonate deeply with everyone who reads it, sending chills down their spine.

This story doesn't have much profound meaning; Michelle was entirely using techniques from later online novels to create it.

The story is called "The Vanishing Railroad".

The protagonist of the story is a conman named "Victor".

He was impeccably dressed and spoke with great eloquence, claiming to be a retired officer of the British Army who had returned triumphantly from the rich North American continent.

He returned to his remote hometown and claimed he would lead his fellow villagers to invest in a "golden railway" that would traverse the Americas.

They were promised amazing dividends and lands flowing with milk and honey along the railway line.

To gain trust, he distributed eggs and bread for free at the church entrance.

He forged sophisticated company documents and elaborate seals.

He even won over a highly respected pastor to his side.

Michelle almost verbatim replicated Vincent LeBlanc's actions in Wilkesworth in her own story.

Even the highly inflammatory words Victor spoke on stage were exactly the same as those Anna described in her letter.

"The land of America is rich and vast, the moon is much rounder than in England! And the air smells sweet!"

This is a kind of provocative "close-range attack".

He wanted to make that conman, and all potential victims, feel a profound sense of reality when they read this story.

Michelle finally stopped writing in the early hours of the morning.

He blew the ink off the last page of the manuscript and rubbed his aching wrist.

Michael was waiting to the side, already asleep.

Michelle gently woke Michael.

Michael couldn't help but let out a big yawn.

"I've finished writing," Michelle said, handing over the manuscript.

So fast! Michael was also stunned by Michelle's efficiency.

For a moment, he admitted he really wanted to lock Michelle in a dark room and make her write day and night...

Michael took the manuscript, and after reading less than two pages, the sleepiness on his face completely disappeared.

His brow furrowed more and more, and his breathing became rapid.

Although he already knew what had happened, he was still deeply captivated by the story.

When he read about the villagers in the story, eagerly handing over their life savings to the conman named "Victor," Michael couldn't help but slam his fist on the table.

"My God! You've practically magnified that fraudster's actions and shown them to everyone!"

"This isn't just an implication; you're directly insulting him by name!"

"I want him to feel the pain," Michelle said calmly.

"Let the villagers see the true face of this swindler..."

'

The story was short, and Michael finished reading it quickly.

"The Vanishing Railroad... What a wonderful 'Vanishing Railroad'!"

He slammed the manuscript down on the table, but his face showed undisguised admiration.

"Michelle, your story is even greater than Sherlock Holmes'!"

"Sherlock Holmes only catches murderers in his stories, but your story is saving thousands of families from being torn apart!"

As a top journalist, Michael sensed the immense news and social value hidden behind this story.

"Every year, there are countless scams involving overseas investment. The victims are mostly residents of remote rural areas with limited access to information, or even some middle-class people in London. They are swindled out of their savings, but because of the long distance and lack of recourse, the matter is ultimately left unresolved."

"Your story has exposed a cancer in our society!"

Michael made a decisive decision.

He returned to the newspaper office with Michel as quickly as possible.

Michael immediately got busy.

"Remove today's planned front page! Clear all the space on the page!"

"We're going to serialize this story! Starting today!"

The newspaper's printing workshop immediately became bustling with unprecedented activity.

The typesetters were frantically adjusting the layout, while old Vinci personally supervised the ink mixing, and the enormous printing press roared at an unprecedented speed.

Michelle did not leave.

He stood in the workshop, listening to the rhythmic roar of the machines and smelling the familiar scent of ink.

This time, these smells no longer represent lies and deception.

They are forging a weapon.

A weapon powerful enough to pierce through lies and defend the truth.

When the first copy of the London Express, still smelling of ink, was printed, it was already broad daylight.

The front page of the newspaper featured the eye-catching headline, "The Vanishing Railroad Tracks," printed in large font.

Thousands of newspapers were packed and sent to various parts of London by carriage.

Michel stood at the newspaper office entrance, watching the carriages carrying his words disappear into the morning mist.

The battle horn has sounded.

Now, all he needs to do is wait.

Waiting for the thunderous outpouring of public opinion to awaken those who have been slumbering in the illusion of being deceived.