Floor 29: The Deck Stained with Betrayal (2)

Standing in the center of a ring of blazing eyes, I realized I had no choice but to say something—anything.

What should I say, though?

My mind raced through possibilities, and a decent idea finally surfaced.

"Well… if I were really the killer, would I have any reason to kill you off one at a time?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm saying you could all rush me at once and I'd handle it."

My goal was to inspire fear, so instead of putting on a show of bravado, I deliberately kept my tone as flat and matter-of-fact as possible. Fortunately, it worked. Before the last word left my mouth, the sailors had all clamped their lips shut.

The navigator, who had been watching for a moment to speak up, finally opened his mouth.

"Knight or not, how could one man possibly take on all of us?"

"You don't think I could? We're welcome to test it. I won't kill anyone—I'll just subdue you."

The navigator started to say something, then swallowed the words back down.

A brief silence settled over the deck before I spoke again.

"I understand you're shaken at being suspected. But I'd rather you didn't point fingers at innocent people."

"We've been sailing together for years! None of the crew would ever do something like—"

"Enough!"

The captain's rough bark cut the navigator off mid-sentence.

"The knight is right. I checked the papers properly. He distinguished himself in the Western Battlefield. If he were the killer, he'd have no reason to go through all this. He could have slaughtered every one of us with ease."

"How do we know that? Maybe he's just toying with us for fun—"

"I said enough!"

Having barked at the navigator, the captain turned his gaze squarely on me, studying my reaction. On the surface he seemed to be mediating, but a measure of suspicion clearly lingered beneath it.

It wasn't a good position to be in, but there was nothing I could do about it. As the navigator himself had said, it was only natural for the crew to trust their shipmates of many years over a stranger.

"Everyone, we bury Letri and return to your posts. Bollen! Louis!"

"Yes, Captain!"

"Move the body."

Letri's funeral was a brief affair. They threw the body into the sea and bowed their heads in a short moment of silence, and that was all. By my own values it was hard to make sense of—but when in Rome, you do as the Romans do.

The captain ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠then ordered the crew never to move around alone if they could help it. Anyone who had to go somewhere was to announce it and travel with a partner.

It was the single most effective way to prevent a murder.

"Dobby, who do you think the murderer is?"

"Kkiik! Dunno!"

Asking Dobby, predictably, yielded nothing.

Hm, I'm getting suspected even more than I expected, aren't I?

The captain's mediation had ended the earlier confrontation, but the crew's stares were as piercing as ever. Whenever they crossed my path, they hurried to shift away from me, keeping their distance with anxious sidelong glances.

They were avoiding me deliberately.

In times like these, the smartest move was to stick to someone like glue. If another murder occurred, my suspicions would be cleared automatically—and one more innocent sailor would be confirmed beyond doubt. If I wandered around trying clumsily to prevent a killing and only made myself look more suspicious, the only result would be more victims.

The problem is that everyone's far too wary of me.

Hm. Rather than shadowing the sailors, it made more sense to stay at the captain's side.

With my mind made up, I made my way toward him. As I strode up, the captain turned to face me with a knowing look, discomfort plain on his face. Nothing to be done for it. If ever there was a time to be thick-skinned, it was now.

"Sir Knight, what brings you here? Is something troubling you?"

"I'm going to stay with you, Captain."

"Excuse me? Why would you stay with me?"

His voice climbed half an octave in his fluster, and I could hear it trembling faintly on top of that.

"To avoid suspicion, of course."

"T-to avoid suspicion?"

I softened my voice as much as I could to put him at ease, but it backfired—the captain actually took a step backward.

"Think about it. If a murder happens while I'm at your side, then neither of us can be the killer, can we?"

"Hm… and if no murder happens, won't that make you the suspicious one?"

"Well, if no one dies, isn't that a good thing? There's barely four days left. All I want is to return safely. And besides… you might come under suspicion yourself, Captain."

I'd deliberately held that last part back to gauge his reaction, but the captain's expression didn't change in the slightest.

He let out a low groan.

"Hmmm…"

"Does it trouble you?"

"…Yes. A little."

"Bear with it. It's for the sake of saving even one more sailor."

The captain gave a small, quiet nod. Then, abruptly, he threw a question my way.

"Sir Knight… will you be with me even while I sleep?"

"Naturally. I'm planning to follow you right up to the privy door, too."

"That's going a bit—"

"It's to establish an ironclad alibi. And don't worry about the sleeping arrangements. Dobby and I will bed down on the floor."

Thank goodness that the title of knight put me above the captain in standing. It meant I could force this absurd arrangement through without argument.

"Haha…"

The captain laughed hollowly, and I smiled back at him.

A full day had passed, and no murder had occurred.

Which meant, naturally, that the eyes of both the crew and the captain had grown only more pointed. The sailors, apparently convinced I was after the captain himself, even began sneaking furtive glances at us from around corners.

Well, none of it was unexpected, so it didn't trouble me much.

Unless the killer is an idiot, he won't make a move while I'm glued to the captain's side.

On top of that, the sailors themselves were moving in pairs now. Committing murder in this situation would shrink his own list of suspects while simultaneously tightening the noose around his neck.

Most likely he was lying low, biding his time and watching for an opening.

Or, of course, the captain really could be the murderer.

Honestly, if the current situation simply held for the remaining three days, that would be fine. Even if I failed to catch the killer, the floor would end when the timer ran out. I wouldn't receive the reward for capturing the murderer, but I would get the reward for keeping nine sailors alive.

But this was a trial the Tower had designed.

The murderer would never simply sit still.

So I decided to flip my thinking around.

If I were the murderer, what would I do?

The knight is tethered to the captain, and the sailors move in pairs. Killing the way he had before would carry far too much risk. To break the deadlock, he'd need to scramble the board.

Shake things up to open a crack, hm?

The only way to do that aboard a ship would be to manufacture a crisis.

Say, punching a hole below the waterline?

Not enough to sink us—just enough to make everyone feel the danger.

While everyone scrambled to bail water, the pairs would inevitably separate, and gaps would open. But the odds weren't high. With everyone moving in pairs, it would be hard to sabotage the hull alone. And if he botched it and the ship went down, he'd drown along with everyone else.

Still, it cost nothing to raise the possibility, so I brought it up with the captain.

"Captain."

"…Yes?"

"What about posting a watch below deck?"

"What do you mean, all of a sudden?"

The captain's tone was puzzled, so I pressed on.

"The murderer has to be feeling suffocated right now. He'll try to manufacture cracks between us. The threat of flooding—there's no bigger crack than that."

"Hm… a fine thought, but impossible, I'm afraid."

"Impossible?"

If he was phrasing it that way rather than simply refusing, there had to be a reason. The captain turned his gaze out toward the far horizon.

"A storm will hit tonight. With two men already dead, we'll need every hand we can get. I regret to say we have no spare strength to spare on a lookout."

"Ah. I see."

I nodded along, my mind already grinding away behind my nod. Yes. Of course an event like this had to exist. This was reality, not some game of Mafia. It seemed the Tower had deliberately conjured the storm precisely because a determined crew could otherwise block the murders outright.

Something will happen tonight.

I didn't need to be a genius to see it. A storm-lashed night—tonight would be the turning point.

And just then, a commotion erupted outside. I sharpened my hearing, and a young sailor's voice came through clear as a bell.

"Aaaaagh! Mork is dead!"

"Captain! Captain!"

The third murder had taken place.

The location: the open deck. Witnesses: three. And yet no one could name the killer—because the cause of death was poison.

Standing before the body of a man who had collapsed vomiting blood, I couldn't hide my bewilderment.

So that's another way to do it, huh.

The first corpse had been stabbed with a blade, and that had buried my imagination. I'd simply assumed the murderer would kill physically. I wasn't the only one caught off guard—everyone had been blindsided. The captain, too, had ordered everyone to move in pairs without once considering poison.

"Who made lunch today?"

"I believe it was Belachi and Ibo!"

The navigator answered the captain's question, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠before the words had even finished leaving his mouth, the two sailors rounded on him.

"Captain, it wasn't us!"

"Everyone else is perfectly fine, aren't they? We rationed the food right in front of the whole crew!"

That was true. Lunch had been distributed in front of everyone, and nothing unusual had shown itself. If the poison had been in the lunch, the others would have shown symptoms too.

The captain, evidently reaching the same conclusion, gave a quiet nod.

"At any rate, the knight and I are in the clear. We've been together this whole time."

"…That's right. He even stood outside the door when I used the privy, and neither of us touched the food."

At the captain's words, the other sailors nodded. The glares aimed my way lost a measure of their chill, and whether anyone noticed or not, the sailors drifted minutely closer to me. I was a knight whose strength was guaranteed, newly cleared of suspicion. They had probably gravitated toward me without even realizing it.

"Damn it all! For now, the captain and I are not the murderers! Does anyone here know what Mork did after he ate?"

"He worked as always, sir. He paired up in turn with the navigator, then Ibo, then Denzel."

"He didn't eat or drink anything else?"

"He ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had a little water, but he didn't share food with anyone."

While the pointless debate wore on, I moved over toward the poisoned corpse, wondering if there might be something worth finding.

"Dobby, do you know what this poison is?"

"Kkiik! Hmm…"

After a moment's dithering, Dobby fell deep into thought. He even leaned ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his nose briefly toward the dead man's mouth before shaking his head.

"Dunno!"

"Can't be helped. Thanks for trying."

As I patted Dobby's hair, my eye caught something at the base of the corpse's neck—a dark, scorched mark. A bit of black ash no bigger than a pinky nail.

That looks like a burn from a cigarette ember, doesn't it?

I turned my head, scanning the area, and a cigarette butt lying near the body caught my eye. Mork must have been smoking right up until the moment he died. When the blood suddenly came up, he'd have pressed his smoking hand against his own neck—that would explain the mark.

The instant my gaze left the cigarette butt, something slammed into the back of my mind.

That cigarette… haven't I seen it somewhere before?

Obviously not on Earth. I rapidly combed through my memories of the last twenty-four hours, from yesterday until now. But nothing concrete surfaced.

When the head fails, the body has to run. I picked up the cigarette butt and took a deep breath of it. Woven through the stale tobacco stink was a cool, refreshing scent. A familiar one.

Wait. This is—

It was the scent of the very cigarettes the captain was always smoking.