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The Plot to Assassinate the President – Part 04

Victorique continued, “Dr. G.I. Boleid received instructions from an unknown figure to carry out the assassination attempt against you. I witnessed him conferring with a mysterious black-haired man. The doctor uttered these words to him.” She took a drag. “Please convey my regards to the Director.”

“The Director?!” Mr. Goldsworthy’s expression shifted slowly.

Noticing this, Victorique was about to inquire further, when the door swung open, admitting the special police. They whispered something to Mr. Goldsworthy, who nodded before turning back to Victorique and Kazuya with a regretful sigh.

“It appears Dr. G.I. Boleid has vanished from both his home and clinic. He may have gone into hiding upon realizing the assassination plot failed. What’s troubling is the discovery of faint bloodstains on the floor and a single purple feather on his desk. It’s almost like a message.”

“A purple… feather?” Victorique murmured, exchanging a meaningful glance with Kazuya.

“Victorique, is that what I think it is?”

“Yes. It might be nothing, but…”

“When we encountered the mysterious Lady Ghost in the basement of the New York Public Library, she—or rather, he—had a fan made of purple feathers.” Kazuya paused. “And on the door of the room the lady entered, there was a plaque bearing the words ‘Hoover’s Files.'”

Mr. Goldsworthy crossed his arms. “I see. Hoover’s Files!”

“You seem to have an inkling, Goldsworthy.”

Mr. Goldsworthy narrowed his eyes thoughtfully before speaking. “Hmm… J. Edward Hoover, appointed by the current president as the first director of the FBI, a recently-established government agency, is rumored to possess a secret collection of documents known as Hoover’s Files.”

“A secret collection of documents…”

“It’s said to be a black book containing dirt on all sorts of influential figures—politicians, tycoons, movie stars. He gathers their secrets and use them as leverage to exert political influence from the shadows.”

“I see…”

“Director Hoover keeps a low profile, but he’s amassing significant power and is even being dubbed the ‘shadow presidential candidate.’”

Victorique puffed on her pipe.

Kazuya gasped. “Hey, Victorique. Is it possible that Dr. G.I. Boleid was also being blackmailed by the FBI as one of their high-profile targets? Maybe Director Hoover coerced him into involvement in the assassination plot.”

Mr. Goldsworthy frowned. “I will admit, my relationship with the FBI isn’t exactly cordial. Their connection to the current president is a big reason, but also because my vision for a new United States doesn’t quite align with what the FBI wants.”

Just then, Detective Benjamin stirred up a commotion outside the door. He was adamant about discussing what happened, with other officers joining in the clamor.

“After he’s done talking with the detective,” said Mr. Goldsworthy’s staff.

“The detective gets priority? We’re the authorities here!”

“I don’t care if he’s a presidential candidate. Open the door, now!”

Mr. Goldsworthy hastily signaled his secretary, who presented Victorique and Kazuya with a file containing photos.

“Are either of you familiar with this individual?”

Victorique and Kazuya leaned in to examine the photos, then exchanged looks.

The photo in question depicted a young man with pale platinum blonde hair and striking purple eyes, wearing the uniform of a Catholic boys’ school. Tall and slim, he had a prominent nose and handsome features, holding his chin up like a noblewoman as he looked into the camera. Beside him stood another young man with long black hair, though his face was obscured.

Victorique creased her forehead. “He bears a resemblance to a figure I glimpsed briefly in my dreams. It left an unsettling impression deep within my subconscious.”

“Dreams?” Mr. Goldsworthy wondered.

“Oh, it’s nothing. So, who is this individual?”

“We only recently managed to obtain this photo. It’s from his boarding school days many years ago. Currently, he is an enigmatic entity.” Mr. Goldsworthy sighed softly, narrowing his eyes. “His name is J. Edgar Hoover.”

Despite the absence of a breeze, the heavy curtains in the room rustled eerily. Victorique and Kazuya exchanged glances and nodded.

“Yes… Those eyes. That hair. He bears a striking resemblance to the young man we encountered in the basement of the New York Public Library, who vanished into the Hoover’s Files room,” Victorique mused.

“He was wearing a purple classical dress and holding a fan made of purple feathers,” Kazuya added.

Mr. Goldsworthy’s brows knitted. “I see. And the long-haired man is likely Hoover’s trusted confidant, seen standing beside him in the student photo. His face and identity remain unknown, however.”

Victorique crossed her arms, regarding Mr. Goldsworthy with a mix of exasperation and distress. “So, there’s no doubt that the person behind the assassination attempt was none other than the FBI Director, J. Edgar Hoover.”

“…”

Mr. Goldsworthy and Victorique held each other’s gaze for a long moment.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

The clock’s second hand ticked ominously.

Eventually, Mr. Goldsworthy nodded slowly, “I believed the future of the United States that I envisioned was within reach, but it appears I’ve unwittingly attracted a formidable adversary.”

Victorique’s expression turned glum. “It would seem so, presidential candidate.”

Another long silence elapsed.

As she smoked her pipe, Victorique’s expression turned melancholic. “People across the United States are beginning to admire you as you strive to establish a new and burgeoning nation. But behind the scenes, a dangerous holy war between the virtuous Goldsworthy and the wicked Hoover is brewing.”

“Indeed.”

“The New World has never before been engulfed in flames by past storms, but now… a new storm approaches. And we, supposed regular immigrants, appear to have been dragged into it.”

Mr. Goldsworthy fell silent for a moment before speaking. “Indeed. You two have had unfortunate luck. But there’s little I can do to help. However, I can offer you some protection.”

“Your concern is not needed, Goldsworthy. Such measures are likely pointless. And as for storms, well… we know a thing or two about them.”

Victorique cast her gaze downward. Kazuya nestled close, offering his support.

A breeze swept through, rustling the heavy curtains, Victorique’s silver hair, the frills of her coat.

The door burst open, and detectives barged in, grappling with the aides.

Victorique and Kazuya were shoved aside, swiftly separated from Mr. Goldsworthy, the nation’s father, the ideal leader, the prospective captain of the new battleship.

“Now, what will you do, lovely lady?” a chilling voice suddenly echoed in Victorique’s mind. She gasped and froze in her tracks.

She glanced around the vast corridor of the Empire State Building, but there were only people bustling past, and none of them had addressed her. Kazuya walked beside her, keeping her safe.

Dr. G.I. Boleid’s high-pitched voice whispered in her mind.

“Which path will you choose? To live as an ordinary citizen, enjoying mundane happiness, or to follow the dangerous and destructive path dictated by that inner black dog—the small beast in the depths of your subconscious?”

Victorique surveyed her surroundings.

“There’s no point in searching for me. I mustered every last bit of my strength to meet you, intriguing young lady, a fellow traveler from the Old World harboring mysterious powers, in the depths of your subconscious. No, I came to bid farewell.”

“Farewell, you say?” Victorique muttered aloud, drawing Kazuya’s curious gaze.

“I am no longer around.”

“So you were killed? By the FBI, I presume.”

“Yes… Farewell, lovely lady, silver traveler from the Old World. Detective Gray Wolf. Through your deductions, I, a mad murder machine, have finally met my end, ending the long dance of agony. I am dead. Just like the children I killed. I hear their voices eagerly waiting for me, calling out from the afterlife. They seem to be thanking you, young lady. Oh, how terrifying. You may not know it yourself, but through your deductions, you’ve brought justice to those poor children. Farewell, beautiful and sorrowful Gray Wolf, bearer of a tragic fate.”

She thought she heard the laughter of children again.

And just like that, the hallucination vanished.

Victorique slowly turned around, and though there was no breeze, she observed the bottom of her coat swaying, as if stirred by some lingering grudge. Then, noticing Kazuya’s concerned gaze, she momentarily revealed an intense emotion despite herself—reliance, love, yearning—staring deep into the clear, jet-black eyes of his only servant and her likely future spouse.

In the labyrinthine corridors sprawling underneath the New York City Public Library, darkness enveloped everything.

A door bearing the plate “Hoover’s Files” creaked open as someone entered.

The room was dim and bleak. Bookshelves lined the walls indistinctly. Flickering torches revealed bizarre furnishings—a cursed statue of Mary, a painting of an earless angel.

Long tables sat in the center, where young men in suits diligently typed away on typewriters under the glow of lamps. At the back stood a fine office desk, its legs engraved with the image of grotesque gargoyles.

Seated cross-legged at the desk was a tall man in a suit, his platinum blond hair pulled back. Even from the side, his striking beauty and thin, cruel lips were evident. His light purple eyes, like those of a dark fairy, gleamed eerily. He was lost in thought before some documents.

The figure who just entered—a man with long black hair—approached the desk with silent footsteps.

“Hey, Edgar… I mean, Director Hoover.”

“…Is it done?” Director Hoover asked quietly, lifting his head.

The man with black hair grimaced. “Yeah. Here you go.”

He handed over a photo: a lifeless Dr. G.I. Boleid, sprawled on the floor of his clinic, shot in the chest. His limbs were contorted unnaturally like he was still dancing.

“Got rid of the body.”

Director Hoover turned away disinterestedly. “Understood.”

“We must dispose of useless pawns and prepare the next one promptly.”

“Yeah.”

The director nodded absently, then raised his head. From the documents scattered on the desk, he casually grabbed a file labeled with Dr. Boleid’s name.

A stack of wartime photos, clipped together, showed a man in military attire reclining in what seemed like a basement setting. His face was obscured. Asian boys and girls around ten years of age, severely emaciated, were huddled on either side of him. All were naked, their black eyes wide with terror. Some wrapped their frail arms around their knees, while others trembled on the floor. The next photo showed dead children with torn limbs, like broken toys.

“Vile adults, and young beacons of hope shattered in the storm,” Director Hoover mumbled. “Two upheavals brought new tragedies into the world, and with it a new era of sorrow and hatred.”

He pinched the file with his fingertips as if it were something dirty, then tossed it into a dark purple trash can. There was a loud clank as the file vanished into the darkness.

“All I want is a New World in shadows, where I can continue dreaming dark dreams.”

He stayed silent for a while, suppressing rage like he was enduring pain.

Then, he lifted his gaze. “But how did he fail?” he said bitterly. “How amusing that Boleid struggled to eliminate someone like Goldsworthy.”

“Apparently, some private detective intervened and thwarted the assassination attempt.”

“A detective?” Director Hoover rested his cheek in his hand, thinking.

“What’s on your mind, Edgar?”

“I think I had a peculiar dream last night, but I don’t quite remember it. Silver hair, green eyes. A small, lovely woman. Who could she be? Hmm…”

He glanced briefly at the photo the black-haired man presented. Then, his thin brows knitted as he scrutinized it.

The photo depicted a small, beautiful woman sitting on the hood of a colorful convertible, surrounded by children, while a young Asian man stood protectively beside her.

Director Hoover posted the photo to the wall with a thick and sharp pin, binding the image of the detective like it was a butterfly specimen. The photo rippled eerily.

“This woman?”

Director Hoover let out a bittersweet sigh.

The typewriters continued their incessant clicking. Eerie furnishings glowed red in the torchlight. The shelves were filled with stacks of files instead of books. The sound of typing echoed in the bleak room.

“A private detective, huh?”

The torch flames flickered without wind, dancing like whispers from the underworld.