Tinkling, tinkling, the bells, pulled taut by the ropes, swayed continuously, carrying their sound throughout the spacious yet relatively empty living room. Sitting on the sofa, reading the newspaper and studying various investment opportunities, Klein stood up. In his white shirt and black jacket, unbuttoned at the collar, he exuded a comfortable, homey ease. My first case as a detective? But I can't always stay at home, waiting for assignments to come knocking. Hmm... I'll need a visitor's log mounted at the door, paired with a water-absorbing steel pen so customers can write down their preferred return times, allowing me to prepare in advance. Still, for a newly established, relatively unknown detective, this setup essentially means no follow-up visits—well, I'll have to settle for a bit of inconvenience for now, checking each morning whether there are any commissions, and scheduling them accordingly. Of course, this might mean missing out on assignments from particularly strong or dedicated clients—well, if that happens, it's probably a good thing. As he thought,克莱恩 walked toward the door, and without even glancing through the peephole, the images of the visitors in the hallway naturally appeared in his mind: one was an elderly woman wearing a soft black wool hat, slightly hunched in posture, with deep wrinkles and dry, yellowish skin, yet her dark dress was neat and well-pressed, exuding a sense of clean order. Her temples were now entirely white, yet her blue eyes were bright and lively, currently gazing at the young man beside her, indicating that he should pull the doorbell once more. The young man was in his twenties, possessing eyes similar to the elderly woman's. In the increasingly colder weather, he wore a black double-breasted suit, the style favored by the gentlemen of Beckland, a silk hat of moderate height, and a necktie styled like that worn at formal banquets—always maintaining a high standard of personal presentation, no matter the setting. Leveraging the "clown's" intuitive sense, Klein turned the handle just as the bell was about to sway again, opening the door and smiling warmly: "Good morning, madam, sir. What a lovely day—it's been five minutes of sunshine so far today." He spoke of the weather with a touch of exaggeration, a tradition in Beckland that had flourished for over a century. "Yes," the elderly woman nodded in agreement, "it usually hesitates, hiding behind fog and overcast skies, reluctant to appear." And the younger man asked, "Are you Sherlock Moriarty, the detective?" "Yes. What can I do for you? Excuse me, please come in—we can talk further over the sofa." Clarendon turned slightly to make room and indicated the reception area. "No, thank you," the elderly woman said, her voice slightly sharp. "I don't want to waste any time. My dear Brody is still waiting for me to rescue it!" "It?" Clarendon noticed the most crucial pronoun and suddenly felt a bad hunch. The well-dressed young man nodded confidently: "Brody is my grandmother Miss Doris's cat. It went missing last night, and I'd like you to help us find it. We live at the end of this street. I'm willing to pay you five sou for your assistance—of course, if you can later prove that the time and effort you've invested exceed this amount, I'll supplement that with additional compensation." Looking for a cat? I was hired because it's right down the same street—extremely convenient... Klein felt this wasn't the detective life he had imagined. It made me look like a clown... Well, the first client after opening the door can't be turned away—according to the seer's perspective... He paused for a few seconds and said: "Could you describe it in more detail?" Mrs. Doris interjected before the young man had a chance to speak: "Brodie is a lovely, lively black cat, very healthy, with beautiful green eyes. It especially loves boiled chicken breast. Oh, goddess, it just walked out last night like that—no, it must have gotten lost. I left plenty of chicken breast in its bowl, and it wouldn't even look back." ...Klein smiled slightly and said: "I'm quite satisfied with your description, Mrs. Doris." "I accept this commission. Good—let's go to your home right away. I need to gather clues and examine traces. You know, the essence of detective work lies in the details." "Mrs. Doris didn't consult her grandson and immediately nodded, saying, 'You're the most proactive detective I've ever seen—deal!' Cain put on his coat, hat, and cane, and followed Mrs. Doris and her grandson onto the street. Unlike Tinggen, many of Beckland's districts had their roads recently paved with concrete or asphalt, so even during rainy weather, they remained much less muddy. Seizing the opportunity as the elderly woman briskly led the way, her grandson approached Cain and whispered, 'I hope you'll do everything possible to find Brody.' 'Ever since my grandfather and parents passed away, Brody has been the cornerstone of my grandmother's life.' 'After Brody went missing, my grandmother's mental health deteriorated—she began hearing voices, constantly telling me she hears poor Brody crying out in distress.' Cain nodded seriously. 'I'll do my best. By the way, may I ask how I should address you?' "Jürgen, Jürgen. Cooper, a senior transactional lawyer," the young man replied. Soon, they arrived at No. 58 Minsk Street and entered the dimly lit house. "This is Brody's bowl," Doris said, her lined face expressing a mixture of concern and anticipation. "This is the box he loves most—he always sleeps inside it." Klein crouched down and pulled out several black cat hairs from the box. He straightened up, holding the silver-handled cane firmly in the hand that still held the cat hairs. His eyes deepened as he pretended to survey the room, silently reciting incantations. His hand gradually withdrew from the cane's head but remained in contact, so that neither Jürgen nor Doris noticed that the cane was standing on its own. Then, slowly and gently, the black silver cane tilted slightly to the side and forward, as if leaning. Klein grasped the cane's head again and looked steadily in that direction, observing for several seconds. Then he took a step forward, walking toward an old cabinet. "Have you found any signs that Brody has left?" asked Jurgen, his concern evident, while Mrs. Doris waited for the answer. Before he even reached the door, he spotted a figure lingering at his doorstep. Another client? Clary focused, and saw a young boy—about fifteen or sixteen—wearing an outdated coat far out of proportion with his age, with a round hat on his head. It was him. Clary immediately recognized the boy from the day he had first arrived in Beckett, when he had seen him being chased on the steam subway. The boy’s maturity and composure had left a strong impression on Clary. What could he possibly need? Muttering to himself, Clary stepped forward and smiled. "May I ask—were you looking for me?" The boy jumped, quickly turning around, his bright eyes filled with unspoken fear. He steadied himself, hesitated, and then said, "Are you Sherlock Moriarty, the detective?" "Yes," Clary replied, glancing around. "Let's go in and talk." "Certainly," the boy said, without hesitation. Upon entering the room, Crane did not remove his coat; he only took off his hat and set his cane down. He led the young man to the reception area and indicated the long sofa: "Please sit. May I call you by your name? What would you like to entrust me with?" "You may call me Ian," the young man said, surveying the room carefully and remaining silent for several seconds. "I previously worked for another detective, Zeryll Victor李先生, assisting him in gathering information and intelligence." Crane sat down, hands folded. "Is your commission connected to your former employer?" "Yes," Ian nodded firmly. "A few days ago, I suddenly realized I was being followed—intentionally, with a certain intent. So I devised a plan to get rid of them. Well, I believe you've witnessed this scene yourself—I immediately recognized you when I saw you, as you were the man who had been observing me for several minutes on the subway that day." "...This observational skill isn't much behind that of a mere spectator. Is it perhaps an innate trait, or a special kind of person? Klein activated his spiritual vision and glanced at Ian, but found nothing unusual. He nodded calmly and replied, 'Your handling of the situation has left a strong impression on me.' Ian didn't dwell on this point and continued, 'I suspected my own experience was linked to Mr. Zerel, so I visited his residence. It appeared normal at first, yet several subtle cues indicating someone had entered were triggered. Since then, I have not seen Mr. Zerel again—I suspect he has encountered an incident. I attempted to file a police report, but his absence hasn't yet reached the required duration. I reached out to other detectives I know, only to be turned down, as they claimed they had recently seen Mr. Zerel at a gathering of colleagues." "That surprised me greatly, as I had contacted Mr. Zerel by the agreed-upon method and received no response at all. I still stand by my judgment and intend to engage a detective whom Mr. Zerel does not know—well, in that case, I don't know anyone either, and have only learned of you through the newspapers. That's how I came to find you, Mr. Sherlock Moriarty."