The Bizarre Detective Agency

Chapter 439: The Last Lesson

The casino hall was a clamor of noise and motion. People thronged around the gaming tables, their voices rising in a chorus of shouted bets.

Everyone carefully skirted the puddle of blood near the entrance, a long, dark streak on the floor. But the moment one of the casino’s bouncers wiped it clean with a mop and bucket, the spot was once again swallowed by the shuffle of feet.

A stranger walked into the casino. There had been a lot of new faces lately, so the bouncer at the door gave him only a cursory glance, confirmed he wasn’t a patrolman, and immediately lost interest.

Like any other gambler, the grim-faced man exchanged his money for chips, though he only bought a few shillings’ worth. He approached one of the tables and placed a single shilling on "high."

Neither his appearance nor his modest bet drew any attention; he was just like most of the other players at the table.

A moment later, the croupier lifted the cup. The three dice showed "low."

The stranger lost his shilling.

Just then, from a dark corner of the casino, a voice rumbled near the glowing cherry of a pipe. It belonged to a bald bruiser. "Too many simpletons like that showing up lately... It’s going to hurt the casino’s reputation with the slum folk..."

The bald man was speaking to the owner of the pipe, but the other man’s reply was lost in the general din.

But just then, a brief, sudden hush fell over the casino, and the pipe-smoker’s words cut through the quiet with perfect clarity: "The poor always come back. It isn’t death they fear, but poverty."The moment he finished speaking, a familiar chorus of excited shouts erupted from a table across the room.

"Go see what that's about..."

The noise swelled once more, drowning out everything else.

The bald bruiser emerged from the shadows. He knew what had happened from his men before he even reached the table.

Another outsider had hit the jackpot.

One of the underlings reported the news, shooting a gloating look at the bouncer by the door. Looked like he’d be mopping the floor again.

Then again, maybe this lucky winner wouldn’t be as foolish as the last one... Maybe.

The lucky winner, now several thousand shillings richer, was surprisingly calm. If it weren't for his simple, coarse-spun clothes and healthy complexion, you might have mistaken him for some wealthy man or aristocrat looking for a bit of fun.

After the initial cries of surprise, the crowd parted, watching in silence as the man walked over to cash in his chips.

Everyone there knew what would happen next.

But most of them said nothing.

He had taken the slums’ money, after all—everyone’s money.

As if on cue, the bald bruiser and his men moved to block the man’s path to the exit.

"A customer said they saw you steal some chips. We'd like to check," the bald man drawled.

It was all playing out just as it had fifteen minutes before.

"What client?" the man asked, his voice laced with confusion.

The bald man grinned. "I don’t think you’ll get the chance to find out. Now, let us search you, and we’ll clear this whole thing up."

"Of course," the man agreed with a nod.

"Uncle Claire, your lunch!" a child’s voice piped up from the crowd near the door. An unshaven, middle-aged man startled, then grumbled as he took the proffered bundle of food.

The boy looked up at the man timidly.

The man waved him off. "No tip today. Those two damned outsiders nearly cleaned us out!"

"Fine," the boy pouted. Suddenly, a rough voice came from inside the circle of men. "Maybe he swallowed them."

What was happening?

The boy tried to stand on his tiptoes to see, but he was too small and could only see a wall of legs. He noticed a large hole in one man’s trousers.

Finally, the boy found a solution: he crouched down and peered through the forest of legs to see what was going on.

"Do you want to follow me to the latrine to check?" he heard the man ask. For some reason, the man gave him an unsettling feeling.

He also thought he saw himself, but how could that be? He was right here, crouched behind everyone’s backs.

"I've got a better idea," the bald bruiser said. "We’ll just cut your belly open."

The boy blinked, and suddenly a rough hand seized him by the ear. "Why aren’t you in school? What are you doing loitering around here?!"

The boy tried to pull away, but he recognized the voice and quickly stammered, "Aunt Susan! I was just bringing Uncle Claire his lunch!"

"I don’t care! Let’s get out of here!" The sturdy woman dragged the boy away from the casino by his ear.

A voice drifted out from inside. "I have a better idea, too..."

The boy neither saw nor heard what happened next.

Susan dragged him a few dozen yards before her grip loosened for a moment. Seizing the opportunity, the boy wrenched free, grabbed his satchel, and bolted toward the nearby school.

As he neared the school, the boy slowed to a walk, smoothing his clothes and hair to make himself presentable. He entered an unremarkable wooden building, indistinguishable from the houses on either side of it.

The boy was a little late. His classmates were already seated at their battered desks, their backs straight and attentive.

As he took his seat, the boy saw the words written on the blackboard: "The Last Lesson"

"What does that mean?" he whispered to the boy at the next desk, a small kid named John.

"Mr. Fadven said this is our last lesson... The school is closing down."

"Why?!" the boy cried out, the word escaping him before he could stop it, shattering the classroom’s silence.

John didn’t have a chance to answer. Just then, their teacher, Mr. Fadven, walked into the room. He wore the same faded shirt and linen trousers as always.

"So, you all know already," Mr. Fadven said, his gaze sweeping over the unusually quiet students. He sighed. "All establishments not related to manufacturing or commerce are to be closed by tomorrow. This is our last lesson."

Whispers and stifled sobs rippled through the students.

Mr. Fadven opened his mouth to say something more, but a few men appeared in the doorway and called for him.

Fragments of their conversation drifted back into the classroom. "Can’t I just... Is it really that serious? No, I can’t leave them, my students are in here... But I haven’t even said goodbye... Alright. Thank you."

A few minutes later, Mr. Fadven came back inside. He looked as though he had aged ten years.

"Sir, are you leaving?" the boy asked, unable to stop himself from standing up.

The teacher averted his clouded blue eyes. "I’m sorry," he said. "The lesson is over. The school is closed. Go home and tell your parents."

Suddenly, the distant peal of church bells sounded from outside. The last of the color drained from Mr. Fadven’s face. He turned toward the blackboard and, without looking back at them, waved a hand dismissively at the children. "Class is dismissed. You may go."