Chapter 22: Do ​​you know about Sherlock Holmes in London? It has nothing to do with that.

The steaming cup of black tea in Leru Manager’s hand clinked against the saucer with a rhythmic “tak-tak-tak.”

Vivian sat across from him, a small notebook in her hand and a well-practiced business smile on her face.

“Deep breaths, Mr. Leru,” Vivian said gently.

“This is the best agency in all of Paris—as long as you can pay.”

Cicero sat behind the desk, polishing a gear with a piece of deerskin cloth.

“I think we need to confirm the rates first,” Cicero said without looking up.

“The consultation fee is charged by the hour. Less than an hour still counts as a full hour. If all you want is someone to listen to your anxieties, I suggest you go next door to Notre Dame. The priests hear confessions for free.”

“No! No!” Leru Manager abruptly set down the tea cup, sending the scalding tea splashing across the table.

“Mr. Cicero, what I’m about to say… you mustn’t be afraid.” Leru Manager’s bloodshot eyes widened.

Cicero finally put down the gear and, with deliberate slowness, donned his monocle.

“Rest assured, Mr. Leru. Whether it’s undead or mechanical monsters, we’ve seen it all.”

He leaned forward slightly, fingers interlaced beneath his chin.

“We won’t be afraid. Please, go on.”

Leru Manager swallowed hard.

“It… it’s not some ordinary thing.” Leru lowered his voice, “It’s… it’s…”

“It’s a ghost.”

The air went still for a second.

Cicero’s expression didn’t budge an inch. Vivian just blinked, her quill frozen mid-air.

“Which ghost are we talking about?” Cicero raised an eyebrow.

“Not which one, it… it has no face! It wears half a white mask! It’s like… like…”

He suddenly choked up, struggling to find the words.

Vivian couldn’t help but cut in, “Like what? Covered in tentacles? Or has three heads?”

“It… it wrote us a three-thousand-word scathing review for our new play, ‘Aida’!”

Leru Manager let out a wail, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his coat and slapping it onto the table.

“It said our soprano’s high notes sound ‘like a rooster with its tail stepped on,’ called the stage set gaudy as ‘a nouveau riche’s funeral,’ and said our script’s logic could only be understood by a paramecium!”

Vivian: “…”

Cicero: “…”

Vivian leaned back in her chair, tactical retreat: “So, this ghost has become your artistic director?”

“Pfft.”

Cicero couldn’t help himself; a soft chuckle escaped.

Leru Manager flushed bright red at once, “What are you laughing at!?”

“I’m not,” Cicero instantly returned to his corpse-like composure, dead serious.

“We’re professionally trained—no matter how funny it is… I will not laugh.”

“Unless you can’t help it,” Vivian muttered helpfully from the side.

“This is a matter of dignity!” Leru Manager slapped the table, sending the negative review flying.

He began pouring out his recent woes like spilled beans.

“It switched the leading soprano’s throat lozenges with wasabi balls, swapped the stage prop sword for a real blade.”

“And last night!” Leru Manager shivered.

“I was counting money in my office… I mean, checking the accounts. It whispered in my ear: ‘If you don’t change that stupid ending in Act Three, I’ll drop the chandelier and crush that fat sponsor of yours.’”

“If that sponsor dies, the opera house goes bankrupt! I’ll be ruined!”

Cicero picked up the “negative review” and glanced at it.

The handwriting was elegant and wild, every flourish tinged with the arrogance of a medieval noble, and the ink…

Cicero leaned in to sniff it.

“Top-quality Venetian red ink.”

He tossed the letter back onto the table and leaned back in his chair—a clear gesture to see the guest out.

“Mr. Leru, by my judgment, what you’ve encountered is not some evil spirit.”

“Then w-what is it?”

“An entity with an artistic obsession… a ‘conceptual being’.” Cicero took off his monocle and polished it.

“Things like this are common in Paris—like the Napoleon statue in the Louvre that comes out at midnight to correct tourists’ French pronunciation.”

“So can you get rid of it?” Leru’s voice brimmed with hope.

“I could, but there’s no need.” Cicero rejected him without mercy.

“These spirits born of ‘artistic obsession’ have no physical form and no murderous intent.”

“To eliminate it, I’d have to debate opera aesthetics with it or act through an entire play alongside it.” Cicero curled his lip in distaste.

“Too much trouble for too little gain.”

“You might try revising the script according to its suggestions.” Cicero offered his final advice, “Who knows, maybe ticket sales will improve.”

“B-but…” Leru Manager was on the verge of tears.

“The script was written by the sponsor’s mistress. If I change it, he’ll pull out his funding!”

“Then that’s a conflict between capital and art,” Cicero stood up. “Not within this agency’s scope of business. Vivian, see the guest out.”

“Huh?” Vivian was stunned.

But this was business delivered right to their door!

“Boss, shouldn’t we reconsider?” Vivian tried to salvage the deal. “Besides…”

“Besides, he can’t afford to pay for the mental damage I’d suffer from reading a garbage script.” Cicero said coldly, turning to head upstairs.

“Oh, right.” Halfway up, he stopped, glancing back at the grief-stricken Leru.

“Consultation fee, twenty francs. Vivian, remember to enter it in the books.”

Bang.

The door upstairs closed.

The reception room fell utterly silent.

Leru Manager’s face was ashen as he shakily fished out two gold coins from his pocket and placed them on the table—his final shred of dignity.

“Sorry to bother you…” He shuffled out like a walking corpse.

“Wait!”

Just as Leru’s hand was about to touch the doorknob, a slender but strong little hand pressed against the door.

Leru turned to see Vivian’s excessively beautiful face.

A greedy light gleamed in the girl’s eyes, but to Leru, it looked like an angelic radiance.

“Mr. Leru,” Vivian lowered her voice.

“Even though that cold-blooded boss rejected you, it doesn’t mean there’s no way to handle this.”

“You… you mean?” Leru clung to hope like a drowning man to a reed.

“I won’t pretend anymore, I’ll be straight with you.” Vivian puffed out her chest, full of vigor.

“You know Sherlock Holmes?”

“Isn’t that an Englishman?”

“Right, but that’s unrelated. Anyway, I really am a detective. That guy’s just a mouthy mascot.”

A thud sounded from upstairs—probably Cicero tripping.

Vivian ignored the noise and went on conning, “You saw it too—at the plaza, who was it that charged in with a frying pan? Who dealt with that big brute?”

“It… it was you!” Leru remembered the photo in the newspaper.

“That’s right, so, if you’re willing to hire me…” Vivian rubbed her fingers together.

“It’d be a ‘private job.’ I can handle that ghost for you.”

“Really?!” Leru was so excited he almost grabbed Vivian’s hand, “How much do you need? As long as I can keep the sponsor, any amount!”

“Shhh—” Vivian pressed a finger to her lips. “Keep your voice down, don’t let the capitalist hear.”

Her eyes flicked, rapidly calculating her debts in her mind.

Three hundred seventy-five francs, sixty centimes.

“One price—five hundred francs!” Vivian made her outrageous offer.

“Two hundred up front, the remaining three hundred upon completion.”

“Deal!”

Leru instantly pulled out a wad of bills, counted out two hundred francs, and stuffed them into Vivian’s hand, moving as if afraid she’d change her mind.

Vivian squeezed the thick roll of bills, relishing the wonderful feeling at her fingertips.

“But there’s a catch.” Vivian quickly tucked the money into a hidden pocket in her skirt.

“I can’t just go in openly as a ‘detective’. That ghost’s definitely sensitive—if he realizes I’m after him, he might disappear.”

“So what should we do?”

“Set me up with an identity. Something inconspicuous, lets me move everywhere, but nobody would notice.”

“No problem!” Leru thumped his chest. “The opera house happens to be hiring. You can go in as the new…”

He looked Vivian up and down.

This girl’s too pretty. If she’s onstage, the noble swarms will mob her, and there’ll be no chance to investigate.

“…Stagehand.” Leru came up with a genius idea.

“Huh?”

“Stagehand! Moving props, cleaning backstage, handing water to the actors.” Leru got more excited as he spoke.

“This position can go anywhere in the theater, and everyone treats stagehands like air—perfect for undercover work!”

“Fine.” Vivian gritted her teeth. “For five hundred francs… stagehand it is.”

She was strong enough anyway, moving set pieces shouldn’t be a problem.

“Wonderful! Report first thing tomorrow morning.” Leru finally breathed easy.

“But, to avoid suspicion of favoritism, you’ll need to go through a formality—an interview.”

“An interview?” Vivian was shocked, “Stagehands need interviews?”

“Just a formality, just a formality.” Leru wiped his brow.

“But… the hiring manager is, um, a bit… eccentric.”

“Eccentric?”

“She’s our chief costume designer and head of backstage.” Leru spoke hesitantly.

“She really hates… uh… girls who are too pretty. She thinks pretty girls can’t handle hard work, just want to climb into some rich guy’s bed.”

Leru looked at Vivian’s doll-like face, hesitating.

“So tomorrow you’d better… dress a little more plainly?”

Vivian glanced down at her already faded, even patched, skirt.

“I think I’m already plain enough,” she said earnestly.

“Good, good.” Leru let out a dry laugh.

“Then see you tomorrow, Miss Detective. The fate of the whole theater is in your hands!”

After seeing Leru out, Vivian closed the door and leaned back against it, letting out a long sigh.

“Yes!”

She pulled out that wad of bills and gave it a kiss in the sunlight.

“Two hundred francs! Once I finish this job, I’ll be free to sing my song!”

“I think I hear a little mouse downstairs, stealing cheese?”

A faint voice came from the stairs.

Vivian jumped, nearly dropping her money.

Cicero was standing on the stairs, a glass of red wine in his hand, looking at her with a half-smile.

“Boss, weren’t you busy?” Vivian tried to keep calm.

“The sound of money moving woke me.” Cicero strolled down slowly. “Looks like our Leru Manager is a generous man.”

“This is… this is just a tip!” Vivian clutched her chest, “Nothing to do with you!”

“Is that so?” Cicero came right up to her, bending down slightly.

He smelled of cedar, mixed with a faint hint of red wine. Those deep eyes seemed to see through every lie.

“According to Article 3, Clause 2 of the Partnership Agreement,” Cicero held out a hand, “all income generated in the agency’s name must go into the public account, then distributed by share.”

Vivian stepped back, pressing herself against the door.

“This is a side job! A private commission I got on my own!”

Cicero glanced at her defensive posture, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

He withdrew his hand and turned to the massive bookshelves.

“Get ready, Vivian. We’re getting less sleep tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Know yourself and your enemy, and you’ll never lose.” Cicero pulled a thick black book from the shelf.

“Since you’re going undercover, you should know exactly what that ‘ghost’ is.”

He flipped to an illustration and pointed.

It was a blurry sketch—a caped man standing atop a giant crystal chandelier, holding… a conductor’s baton?

Vivian leaned in. It was a human leg bone.

“The Paris Opera House is built over an underground river,” Cicero’s voice grew low.

“And in the depths of that river are buried the hundreds of souls who disappeared during the bloody days of the Paris Commune in 1871—never to be seen again.”

“I suspect that ghost is the product of those hundreds of souls’ envy and hatred toward ‘high society’—condensed into a… critic.”

Cicero tossed the heavy book to Vivian.

“Memorize it. Especially Chapter Thirteen—‘How to Tell if Your Conductor Wants You to Sing or Eat You’.”

Vivian opened the brick-thick tome and wailed.

“Are you human?! It’s all in Latin, how am I supposed to read this?!”