Try Begging Novel - Chapter 29

The atmosphere was unusual.

Fred sat rigidly in a chair in the hallway outside the office, occasionally glancing around. A soldier stood at each end of the hallway. It felt as if they were guarding him to prevent escape.

Two hours ago, Lieutenant Campbell had called out three members of the unit, saying he had something for them to do, and he had followed along without thinking. In front of the annex, the lieutenant had brought four more soldiers.

At that time, I thought we just had to move heavy furniture…

But Campbell had taken two inside the office and stationed the other two in the hallway. Fred, along with the other two, were seated in a row on chairs in the hallway.

After Winston entered the office, he called them in one by one. And now, it was Fred’s turn.

Did I do something wrong? Did they find out my identity? I didn’t do anything.

Cold sweat gathered in his clenched fists on his lap. His hands felt slick, and just as he was about to wipe them on his trousers, the office door burst open.

The corporal who had gone in second emerged. His face was deathly pale. What on earth had happened inside?

“Private Fred Smith.”

Campbell, standing beyond the door, called him, as the corporal fled.

“Yes, yes!”

Fred struggled to suppress his quickening breaths, dragging his trembling legs into the office.

But inside the office, the atmosphere was surprisingly convivial, making his tension feel absurd. Cheerful jazz music played from the radio, and at a chess table in front of the bookshelf, the two soldiers Campbell had taken inside were playing chess.

Campbell, closing the door behind him, went straight to the sofa and sat next to Captain Winston.

The Captain was in a comfortable, relaxed posture, legs crossed, leaning back slightly. In one hand, he held a half-smoked cigar, and in the other, a crystal glass with about an inch of whiskey.

“Ah, Private Smith.”

Winston’s eyes curved into a smile as he looked at Fred, who stood stiffly by the door. The man who had lately exuded a dangerous aura, as if he might explode if provoked, now seemed relaxed, perhaps due to drink.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Sit.”

He gestured with the tip of his cigar towards the chair opposite the sofa. Fred, still tense, moved his stiff legs and approached. He sat down, merely swallowing hard, while Winston and Campbell refilled each other’s whiskey glasses and engaged in trivial conversation.

Finally, Winston turned his gaze to Fred and stared silently. His eyes still curved gently, yet his gaze was somehow sharp. Was it due to that chilling blue light?

“Um… Captain.”

Winston raised an eyebrow in lieu of an answer, urging him to speak. The smile on his lips seemed quite generous, but Fred couldn’t help but ask.

“Have I done something wrong, sir?”

Winston, who was tilting the crystal glass to his lips, chuckled. Fred stiffened his back, more tense at the unexpected reaction, and he slowly shook his head, setting the glass down.

“Nothing of the sort.”

“Ah…”

“Why? Is there something bothering you?”

“Oh, no, sir.”

Winston curved the corner of his mouth, tilting the whiskey bottle over the empty glass in front of Fred.

“Private Smith.”

“Yes.”

“Relax.”

His voice was quite gentle. The impossibly high-ranking Captain personally offered the glass, and Fred leaned forward to politely receive it.

“Thank you, sir.”

It would be rude to set the offered drink down again. But he worried he might make a mistake if he got drunk.

Fred took just enough to moisten his lips and slowly placed the glass on the table. Winston, who had been watching him, took the cigar from his mouth and exhaled a long plume of white smoke.

“I called you here today because I have a secret mission for you, to be kept from the higher-ups. I’ve narrowed down suitable individuals to carry it out, and you’re one of the candidates.”

Fred blinked, dumbfounded by the unexpected situation. He had thought Winston was displeased with him because of the incident in the torture chamber last time.

Was he not?

This could be a golden opportunity to infiltrate the intelligence department as a key operative and make a name for himself. Then, someday, he might gain Little Jimmy’s trust and become a high-ranking officer in the revolutionary army.

Fred, unable to hide his delight, saluted.

“It’s an honor, sir.”

Winston flicked ash into the ashtray, his eyes curving into a smile.

“The two youngsters before you failed. So my expectations for you are high.”

“Don’t disappoint the Captain,” Campbell added from beside him, and Fred, with a determined expression, declared.

“Yes, I will do whatever you ask.”

“Already trustworthy.”

Winston smiled at Campbell, and Fred smiled along.

“Private Fred Smith.”

“Yes, Captain!”

“I hear you’re from Fairhill, Raven. Is that correct?”

The moment the question was asked, a hairline crack appeared in Fred’s smile.

“Yes, yes. That’s right.”

No, it’s a lie. That was merely false information on the fake identity papers the higher-ups had fabricated for Fred Smith. Fred swallowed hard, trying to recall the information about Fairhill village he had learned during his pre-infiltration training.

“There’s something to do in that area.”

“…Yes, just give me the order, and I’ll work hard.”

“It’s nothing major, but we’ve received intelligence that a Blanchard rat has infiltrated the village council there. I’d like you to investigate. Since it’s your hometown, no one will suspect you if you snoop around a bit.”

Fred breathed a sigh of relief. The revolutionary army wouldn’t send a spy to a small mountain village with a population of less than 500. It seemed Winston was just wasting time on faulty intelligence.

“Ah, the name of Fairhill’s village head is…”

Winston rubbed his brow with the hand holding the cigar, looking at Fred as if struggling to remember.

“…Mr. Mason.”

He could only hope the answer he had painstakingly recalled was correct.

“Ah, that’s right.”

Fred exhaled the breath he had been holding.

“It’s famous for ski tourism in winter, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I went there once for a family trip when I was about fifteen. Private Smith, since you were born and raised there, perhaps we even crossed paths.”

Fred offered only an awkward smile in reply. How could a wealthy man like Winston have ended up in a rural village without luxury hotels?

“Oh, speaking of which, something truly funny happened.”

Winston turned his head towards Campbell and began to recount a lighthearted memory from Fairhill.

“There was a tavern below the ski resort.”

Is he really drunk?

Fred, his tension somewhat eased, picked up the whiskey glass in front of him and moistened his parched mouth.

“They sold warm mulled wine there, and the owner, seeing my size, thought I was an adult. That day, Jerome and I drank heavily, and on our way out of the tavern, we collapsed in the snow.”

“Oh dear.”

“If the tavern patrons hadn’t found us, we would have frozen to death. It’s a pleasant memory.”

“It must have been a terrible memory for Mrs. Winston.”

As the two burst into laughter, Fred joined in, setting his glass down. With the alcohol, his stiff body quickly relaxed.

“Fred, you know Mr. Albert, don’t you? The pot-bellied tavern owner.”

“Ah, yes, yes.”

Of course, he didn’t. But saying he didn’t know would be problematic. The moment Fred promptly agreed, Winston grinned at Campbell.

“He was a cheerful man.”

“Yes, he was. Haha…”

“Oh, and there was a festival every winter… Ah! St. Maurice’s Day.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“It was a truly peculiar tradition. Oh, but this is something you should hear from a native. Fred, tell Campbell about it.”

Winston took a puff from his cigar and leaned deeply into the sofa. Fred’s heart pounded under the expectant gaze.

Had he ever heard of such a festival?

Fred quickly searched his memory. Just as his hands were about to break into a cold sweat again, he recalled the village’s symbol.

A man holding his severed head in his hands.

“Well… St. Maurice, who was from our village, died by decapitation…”

“That’s right.”

Winston nodded, and Fred moistened his dry lips, curving them slightly.

Well done, Fred.

Even his sisters, who usually treated him like a child and ignored him, would have to admit it.

“The villagers would bake gingerbread in the shape of a person on that day. Right?”

“Yes.”

“And before eating it, they’d tear off the head like this.”

Winston gripped the middle of his cigar and snapped it in half. It seemed rather brutal, but as the others started laughing, Fred joined in.

Winston tossed the two halves of the cigar into the ashtray, exhaling a hazy plume of smoke. For a moment, it might have been Fred’s imagination, but it seemed as if sparks flew from his icy blue eyes.

“Fred, shall I tell you one more interesting story?”

He leaned closer to Fred. Fred also leaned in, listening intently to Winston, who then slowly whispered.

“I’ve never been to Fairhill.”

Fred couldn’t hide his confusion at the sudden confession. Winston stared at his surely trembling eyes and smiled chillingly.

“Even I, who has never been there, know this. The festival isn’t called St. Maurice’s Day, it’s St. Nicholas’s Day.”

Winston suddenly stood up. Fred remained frozen in the same posture, facing Winston. His clenched fists on his lap instantly grew cold, then trembled. Behind him, the sound of chess playing abruptly ceased.

“Oh, and it’s rye bread, not gingerbread.”

A fierce voice muttered, following the sneer.

“To fall into such a trivial trap.”

He should have run, but his body wouldn’t obey. All Fred could do was look down at his uncontrollably trembling limbs, then turn his eyes towards Winston. Winston was standing by the window, leaning against it, gazing outside.

“Fred Smith. Why did you lie about your hometown on your enlistment application?”

Leon parted the thin lace curtains, his eyes following something outside the window as he muttered to himself.

“My conclusion is…”

He slowly closed and opened his eyes.

“…that you’re a truly terrible spy.”

The two who had been interrogated earlier were not spies. When pressed a little, they readily confessed to embezzling funds and squandering them on entertainment. It was truly a trivial waste of time.

“Campbell.”

Campbell, as soon as the order was given, pulled out a yellow file from under the sofa and opened it. Soon, a reading of Fred Smith’s enlistment application began, set against the backdrop of the absurd jazz music from the radio.

“Name, Fred John Smith. Father, Robert John Smith. Occupation, butcher.”

“A son raised by a butcher, who turns deathly pale and vomits at the sight of blood. Campbell, does that make sense?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you hear that? That’s your mistake, rookie.”

Campbell once again marveled at his superior’s sharpness. It was a contradiction others wouldn’t notice.

However, it was so minor that if the opponent insisted it was a mere conjecture, it would be the end of it. Knowing this, his superior didn’t touch that contradiction but instead used leading questions to expose more contradictions and lies.

The man, who had unknowingly made countless mistakes, could not offer a single rebuttal that he wasn’t a spy and merely trembled.

The rat had, in effect, slit its own belly and ended its own life.

“Arrest him.”

Behind Leon, the sound of chairs scraping echoed in unison. The waiting soldiers had risen from the chess table. The rat, trying to escape belatedly, stumbled disgracefully, and a loud scream erupted from behind him.

“No! It wasn’t me!”

His belated denial was utterly pathetic.

His screams echoed down the hallway. Only when the echo faded did Leon withdraw his bitter gaze and turn his back. Outside the window, where he had been staring, a brown-haired maid was pulling a laundry cart towards the main building.