## Chapter 246: Old Paris (5K2)
**London, Tower Hamlets District**. Boots, muddy from the morning dew, stomped down the cobblestone streets, their irregular rhythm like a drumbeat in a symphony.
Scotland Yard officers, clad in dark blue tailcoats and black top hats, stood armed and ready, forming a cordon around a small building.
Many East End residents, still slumbering, were jolted awake by the sudden commotion. Ladies, their sleep shallow, rolled out of bed, their rumpled nightgowns trailing behind them, peering out the windows.
Some gasped, covering their mouths. Others couldn’t help but shake their snoring husbands, shouting, “My God! Darling, stop sleeping like a donkey, look what’s happening outside!”
Among the officers, it was easy to spot the leader.
A tall young man, keeping a distance from the rest, stood with a hint of morning mist clinging to his brow, forming delicate drops. He seemed unfazed, simply brushing off the dust from his coat, then meticulously donning a pristine pair of white gloves before gripping the officer’s sword at his waist.
Beside him stood a young police sergeant, slightly older, his head bowed respectfully, holding a thin booklet, seemingly reporting something to his superior.
“Inspector Hastings, as per your instructions, all available personnel from the Whitechapel station have assembled. Do we go in for a direct raid?”
Arthur, noticing the perspiration on Sergeant Jones’ forehead, understood his hesitation.
He pulled a document from his coat pocket and tossed it over. “According to the London Metropolitan Police Intelligence Bureau, after the infamous slave trader Fred was hanged, a small number of his followers have continued their illicit slave trade. This building is one of their occasional hideouts. This morning, Scotland Yard obtained a warrant from the Magistrate’s Court for the arrest of Fred’s fugitive followers, accused of slave trafficking. This raid is fully compliant with the legal procedures of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and Scotland Yard’s internal regulations. Sergeant Jones, now, execute the order.”
Hearing the formal tone of Arthur’s response, Jones’ hand trembled as he caught the document. He hastily clarified, “Sir, it’s not that I don’t trust you, your orders are definitely lawful, but without the warrant, suddenly mobilizing so many men, it’ll be hard to explain to the higher-ups. You’ve been transferred to the Criminal Investigation Department, and here in Tower Hamlets, I can’t operate as freely as before.”
Arthur twisted his slightly stiff wrist. “Jones, I know you have your own difficulties, so I haven’t made things too hard for you. But I believe the problems you face in Tower Hamlets will be resolved soon. You should know that the news has been circulating, Inspector Klein, who oversees Tower Hamlets, is about to be promoted…”
Upon hearing this, Jones immediately grasped Arthur’s meaning. His eyes widened, and a faint smile tugged at his lips.
“Ah… I… I did hear some whispers, but I’m not sure who will replace Inspector Klein and take on the heavy responsibility here. What are Chief Superintendent Rowan and the other Inspectors thinking? Do they have someone in mind?”
Arthur didn’t speak. He simply pulled out his pipe, stuffed it into his mouth, and before he could reach for his matches, Jones quickly lit it for him.
Arthur took a puff and removed his hat, running his hand through his hair, now dotted with water droplets. “Everyone knows Tower Hamlets is different from other districts. The power dynamics are complex, and there’s a constant influx of rough sailors from the West India Docks, all from different parts of the world. The crime rate here has consistently ranked first in London. So, bringing in someone from elsewhere, a newcomer unfamiliar with the local situation, wouldn’t work.”
Jones grinned. “You’re right, it has to be someone who knows Tower Hamlets well, an old hand. They need to know how to navigate the local relationships, understand the priorities. There are so many criminal gangs here, new ones popping up every day. We can’t fight them all if we don’t prioritize. And with so many foreigners here, how can you manage without knowing a few languages? Look at me, I’m just a simple, uneducated sergeant, but I’ve been forcing myself to learn a few Russian phrases.”
Arthur nodded slightly. “And then, we have to consider whether this person can execute orders from Scotland Yard and uphold the traditions of British law. You know, because of the Bernie Harrison case, we’ve been under intense scrutiny from the MPs. They say Scotland Yard is lawless, treating the Magna Carta like toilet paper. Chief Superintendent Rowan even highlighted this issue at the high-level police meeting. You, as the Sergeant of Tower Hamlets, should have received the briefing document from Scotland Yard, right?”
Jones quickly recalled the document.
Although it contained a lot of flowery language, as a former police secretary who assisted Inspector Clemens with office paperwork, he felt that the document could be summarized in a single sentence: until the matter is clarified, all districts must refuse media interviews and not admit any wrongdoing. If anyone wants to admit wrongdoing, please prepare a resignation letter at the same time.
At this crucial moment, Jones immediately demonstrated his highly accurate political stance. “Article C, Section A, Paragraph 1 of the ‘London Metropolitan Police Internal Regulations’: Police officers must maintain a high degree of political neutrality. Police officers should not engage in any personal emotions or political leanings when participating in police operations. Protecting the lives and property of London citizens and reducing overall crime rates are the absolute core and sole job content of police officers.”
Arthur nodded again. “You memorized it well, it seems you’ve been paying attention to this aspect. But speaking of the regulations, it reminds me of something. You should know that the regulations are being revised soon. There may be some new additions, like, to prevent inexperienced officers or internal nepotism and corruption, Scotland Yard will refer to the Royal Navy’s regulations to set term limits for officer promotions. From now on, promotions to sergeant require at least three years of service at Scotland Yard, while promotions to inspector require six years or more, and so on, up to the highest level of Chief Constable.”
Jones’ eyes widened in disbelief. “Inspector Hastings, is this… is this directed at you?”
Arthur didn’t bother playing coy with Jones. “Perhaps. But that was before. Now, I’ve turned over a new leaf with Chief Superintendent Rowan. The positions of Chief Constable and Assistant Chief Constable are currently filled. I’m not interested in climbing the ladder for now. And in the long run, this revision of the regulations will be a good thing for the overall development of Scotland Yard, so I don’t plan to oppose it. But, while this doesn’t matter to someone like me who has no desires, it will surely dampen the enthusiasm of ambitious officers who are eager to achieve greater heights and serve the citizens of London. So, young officers aspiring for promotion, it’s best to achieve some good results in the near future. Jones, I wish you all the best in this regard!”
Hearing this, Jones felt a chill run down his spine. His mind flashed with insight. He looked at the red brick building in front of him and finally understood why Arthur had specially ordered the Whitechapel station to respond immediately this morning.
As soon as this thought crossed his mind, any remaining complaints and worries about his superiors questioning him vanished.
Damn it, Inspector Klein, he’s about to be kicked out anyway. As long as I don’t get him into trouble, that’s all that matters. He can’t stop me, Jones, from getting promoted and making money. If he does, I’ll throw two guns at him tomorrow, if he won’t let me up, then he won’t go up either! Especially with the recent Bernie Harrison case, Parliament is keeping a close eye on Scotland Yard!
With his thoughts clear, Jones’ perspective instantly broadened. Even the foul air of the East End seemed to have a hint of sweetness.
Arthur rubbed his neck and twisted it. “Oh, right, I’ve made an appointment with a journalist at the Whitechapel station today, Charles Dickens. You’ve met him a few times, right?”
Jones, suppressing his inner joy, nodded repeatedly. “Of course I know him. Mr. Dickens is an honest and cultivated journalist. He’s been to Whitechapel for several news investigations, and you always asked me to send someone to accompany and protect him.”
Arthur blew out a smoke ring. “Times have changed. Our Mr. Dickens’ ‘The Pickwick Papers’ is currently being serialized in ‘The Englishman’, a huge hit. I heard he’s considering quitting his job as a journalist and devoting himself full-time to literary creation. This interview might be his last in the field of journalism, so I believe he’ll write it with great care.”
Reaching this point, Arthur put one hand in his pocket, raised his arm, and waved it towards Jones. “I’ll wait for you at the station, Jones. I’ll be waiting for good news from you.”
With that, he disappeared into the London fog, his footsteps fading into the morning mist.
Jones looked at the retreating figure with a solemn expression, his gaze fixed on the disappearing tailcoat until he could no longer see it.
Almost instantly, Jones’ expression changed.
The sergeant, who had just been kind and gentle, even his voice as calm as a fall lake, instantly transformed into a ferocious devil just arrived from hell.
If Arthur had been present, he would have been astonished. If he hadn’t observed carefully, he wouldn’t have known that this young policeman, who had been cautious and harmless just half a year ago, had developed a pair of prominent cheekbones after half a year of practical experience.
Indeed, the simple customs of Tower Hamlets were quite nourishing.
Jones spat on the ground, his boots, hard and cold like ice, pushed aside the officers blocking his way and reached the door.
He glanced at the officers beside him, ensuring everything was ready, then took a deep breath, kicked open the door, pulled out his flintlock pistol, pointed it at the dark interior, and roared, “Police! You bastards, all of you get down!”
However, the only response to Jones was silence.
In his eager eyes, instead of vicious criminals or a stash of smuggled goods, there was only a young man, his hands tied behind his back, stripped naked, wearing only a pair of underwear, constantly trying to break free by doing the “carp-jumping” maneuver.
Jones, seeing this, instructed the officers to search other rooms while he approached the young man and pulled out the cloth stuffed in his mouth.
He asked, “Who are you?”
The young man’s left eye was bruised, and he endured the pain as he opened his eyes to look at Jones. When he saw Jones’ uniform, he was stunned for a moment, then tears of gratitude and joy welled up in his eyes. “Thank God! You must be sent by my uncle to save me?”
“Your uncle?” Jones was also taken aback, but quickly realized, “You’re Inspector Hastings’ nephew? No wonder he was so anxious and left in a hurry to avoid suspicion.”
“Hastings?” The young man was also confused. “Didn’t my uncle report the case?”
“Who’s your uncle?”
“Joseph Bonaparte, of course!”
“Don’t know him.”
“Then my great-uncle, Napoleon Bonaparte, you must know him, right?”
Hearing this, the police officer behind Louis Bonaparte, who was about to untie the ropes, suddenly stopped. He called out to a young officer beside him, instructing, “Ford, I say you write this down. When you receive the interview from the journalist, use this. The victim suffered long-term abuse by the criminal gang and his mental state has been affected. This situation is particularly heartbreaking and further highlights the brutality of Fred and his remaining gang, their criminal methods and their despicable acts that are condemned by the public. The Whitechapel station, with the assistance of the Criminal Investigation Department, will continue to relentlessly and swiftly clean up and crack down on this gang…”
Upon hearing this, Louis Bonaparte simply stared, his eyes wide. “Are you British mad?”
The young officer merely glanced at him, pinned to the ground and unable to move, and calmly replied, “Sir, you’re the one who’s mad.”
…
Half an hour later, in the sergeant’s office at the Whitechapel station.
Arthur and Jones sat on either side of the desk, while Dickens, dressed in fine clothes, was taking notes diligently, his hat perched on his head.
Arthur, keeping pace with his note-taking speed, recited the pre-prepared script in a soothing voice. “This operation, thanks to the quick response of the Whitechapel station, prevented the criminals from transporting the victim to sea and then intercepting them, as they did last time. But we must also note the shortcomings in this incident. For an area like Whitechapel, even with an outstanding leader like Sergeant Jones, it’s impossible to completely solve the problem of insufficient police force. And this is the most important reason why Tower Hamlets has become a haven for criminals.”
Dickens, reaching this point, swiftly and forcefully put a period at the end of his notebook. He whistled. “That’s it, this will be a great report!”
Arthur smiled upon hearing this. “It’s a hassle to have you come all the way here so early. Do you want to have tea with me later?”
Dickens laughed. “Tea can wait, but before that, Arthur, why don’t you introduce me to some good fishing spots nearby? I’ve recently become obsessed with it.”
“Huh?” Arthur joked. “Asking me about fishing spots? Charles, you’re asking the wrong person. I’m a fishing expert, but I don’t fish in rivers.”
Dickens laughed. “Arthur, don’t be silly. You’re a police officer, you must know where to fish. You probably don’t know, but the other day, after I finished writing, I went fishing by the river in front of my house, as usual, to relax.
But I waited for ages and no fish were biting. Then someone came up to me and asked if I was fishing. I thought he was mocking me for not catching any fish, so I explained to him that I caught over ten yesterday.
I thought he would be discouraged, but unexpectedly, his voice got louder. He said, ‘Sir, do you know who I am? I’m the one who inspects fishing here. I must warn you, fishing is strictly prohibited in this river!’
Then he took out a receipt book from his pocket and was about to write me a ticket. I saw he was serious, so I quickly changed my tune and said, ‘Sir, do you know who I am? I’m Dickens, I write novels. You should know, fictional stories are a novelist’s nature.’
He was stunned by my words, and while he was dazed, I quickly grabbed my bucket and ran. He chased me for a while but couldn’t catch me, haha!”
Jones couldn’t help but laugh too. Perhaps because he had just achieved a victory, he was in the mood for a joke.
Jones raised his thumb, pointing at Louis Bonaparte, who was tied up on the bench in the corner. He said to Dickens, “Mr. Dickens, you’re a master storyteller. But I bet you’re not as good as that young man over there.”
Dickens was surprised. “What? What story did he make up?”
Arthur, feigning ignorance, said, “He said he’s a relative of Napoleon.”
As soon as these words were uttered, the office was filled with joyful laughter.
Louis Bonaparte, seeing this, couldn’t help but grit his teeth and roar, “Don’t think I, a Frenchman, don’t understand English. I received a good education! You know, you’re insulting a true royal relative!”
Dickens laughed even harder. He said, “Just like Alexander, it seems French humor has always been consistent.”
As soon as he finished speaking, there was a bang, and the office door was pushed open.
Standing outside was a French fat man with a big belly. He saw Arthur sitting in the office and couldn’t help but proudly pat the holster on his waist, pointing at the pistol inside. “Arthur, look what I found. This gun is newer and more unique than your Scotland Yard pistols. It’s a revolver, you can fire three shots with a single load. By the way, you left me a note at home, asking me to come to the Whitechapel station after I get back, what’s going on? Anything exciting here?”
Arthur saw him and simply smiled and shrugged. He raised his head towards the corner. “Come here, Alexander, meet your French emperor.”
(End of Chapter)