Chapter 38
Josée and the others left Fourth Avenue and returned to the brothel.
The moment they stepped inside, Lisette collapsed onto the sofa with a sigh. Brian called over one of the men in black and promptly ordered drinks.
Josée glanced at Lisette with concern.
"Are you all right? You don't look so good."
Lisette offered a tired smile.
"I was just talking with Brian earlier... It's really depressing that the unpublished manuscript burned."
Josée tilted her head, not quite following.
"A manuscript is a writer’s life. Their very soul," Brian chimed in solemnly.
"That’s why this feels less like murder—and more like watching a life’s work die. There were stories only Professor Florent could tell. And now, we’ll never get to read them."
Beside him, Madame Mélias nodded gravely.
Josée, surprised by their reaction, found herself thinking about how fragile paper truly was.
"Manuscripts are just paper, after all... Even without a fire, they eventually wither away," she murmured.
"For a writer, losing an unpublished work to fire might be more painful than death itself," Brian said, his voice low. "Our bodies will die and vanish one day, but a good story—if it's published—can live on in someone's heart. To have that chance die before it's even seen the light of day... Florent must have found that unbearable."
"......"
"Come to think of it," Madame Mélias mused, "Professor Florent hadn’t published anything recently. I wonder why."
Josée fell silent. Clearly, Madame Mélias didn’t know he’d been making money as an informant. Brian didn’t say anything either, his expression unreadable.
Just as they each took their drinks and began sipping in contemplative silence, a knock came at the door.
The door opened immediately, and the one who peeked in—was Serge.
"...Oh my. So Serge finally decided to visit the brothel?" Josée said with a cold smile as she stood.
Serge pushed open the heavy door with one arm, looking flustered.
"No! I’m not here as a customer... Um, that fire on Fourth Avenue today—"
"Yes?"
"Someone from the Party stormed into our office insisting it wasn’t an accident, and now I’m not sure what to do."
"What!?"
"Come on, get in."
A ripple of unease passed through the room. The person Serge brought in was a small, timid-looking young man.
"...Don’t tell me you started the fire?" Josée asked.
The young man vigorously shook his head, his face pale.
"No! I didn’t start it! I was just among the crowd of onlookers when I overheard someone say the fire started because Professor Florent fell asleep smoking in bed. I rushed over because... something felt wrong. I thought the Party should be informed."
"......?"
"Actually... Professor Florent didn’t smoke."
Josée’s eyes narrowed. That changed everything. Their previous theory no longer held water.
Statements like this—unexpected and precise—often meant they were getting closer to the truth. Regaining her composure, she asked,
"...What’s your name?"
"Ah! I’m terribly sorry for not introducing myself sooner. I’m Brice. I work at a bank and belong to the Radical Party, but I’m also an aspiring writer."
That last part made everyone in the room frown.
"Aspiring writer..."
"Yes! Professor Florent helped me a lot because of that."
"......"
"He taught me how to write, how to win awards, how to interact with other authors, how to connect with editors—even gave me insider info on publishers. Thanks to him, I recently won a regional literary prize. At the celebration, he gave me some premium cigarettes. These are the butts—see?" Brice held out an empty tin filled with used cigarette ends, as if presenting evidence. "Apparently, they were handed out at a literary salon hosted by some noble families, right?"
"Why would Florent keep cigarettes he couldn’t smoke?" Josée asked.
"Maybe for guests. Even that day, he said, ‘I don’t need them, so anyone who visits can have as many as they want’..."
Brice’s voice suddenly cracked, and tears welled in his eyes. He burst into sobs. Josée blinked, caught off guard, but her mind was already drifting back to something Brian had said earlier.
*Just between us, I think the police can’t narrow it down because there are just too many suspects.*
Exactly. Because Florent had acted as an informant, his social circle had expanded in strange and unpredictable ways. Brice clearly admired him, but there might’ve been others—other aspiring writers—who felt betrayed, claiming they were fed bad information. And from the looks of it, their interactions hadn’t been limited to gossip. Goods had changed hands frequently, too.
(*This case is a mess.*)
As Josée pressed a hand to her forehead, feeling a headache coming on, Serge spoke up.
"Fourth Avenue overlaps with my electoral district, so I’ve been hearing a lot. Brice—didn’t Professor Florent have some kind of trouble with his finger last week?"
"Ah, that’s right!"
Josée’s eyes widened as a memory clicked into place.
"Last week, Professor Florent’s fingertip was swollen. It looked like a rash. He said, ‘I can’t hold a pen,’ and seemed really frustrated."
A skin rash.
In Josée’s mind, the pieces began to align.
"I see... Do you know what caused the rash?"
"Florent didn’t seem to know either. But I have a theory."
Brice pointed at the bamboo-woven box Lisette was holding.
"That. The cigarette case he said he got from the literary salon."
Startled, Lisette dropped the box. She glanced nervously at her own fingers, but then frowned.
"Don’t joke. I’ve been opening and closing that thing for a week now, and I haven’t gotten any rash."
Josée stared at the small box lying on the red carpet. A possibility emerged in her mind.
"I see... That box. That’s what killed him."
Then another mystery resurfaced.
"And the ‘light’ that neighbors saw through his window late at night—"
—it wasn’t from a cigarette.
Josée fell into thought. Her mind sifted through all the shiny, flickering things she’d seen over the years. One by one, the candidates came and went.
"Brice, could you come with me to the police? Your testimony might be the key to solving this."
Brice nodded.
Then Josée turned to Lisette with a smirk.
"About that next literary salon... I might submit something to the doujinshi myself."
"Huh?" Lisette blinked. But when she looked into Josée’s eyes, something clicked.
"Ah. That’s the face of someone who’s solved the mystery! Don’t tell me you’re planning to write a mystery novel based on the Fourth Avenue fire..."
Josée smiled as if to say, *Bingo*.