Party and Umbrella (7)

"Vickin Umbrella Shop? Oh... that's ancient history."

In the Gotham Police Department office, Brock was smoking a cigarette, leaning against a filing cabinet, and said to Gordon, "You know, I'm from the East Side, a native Gotham, a kid from the Slums."

"I remember when you first came to Gotham ... that must have been a few years ago? Yes, back then, the East Side was still very prosperous. There were Four Great Families, rows of upscale clubs, all kinds of bars and clubs, and even the strippers were the best."

"Don't think it's a run-down Slums." Brock switched the cigarette to his One Hand, took a drag, exhaled the smoke, and drifted into his memories.

"The East End was glorious for a while, with Green Street as its center, and dozens of streets radiating outwards, including Elizabeth Street, which is now the center of gang activity. But back then, Elizabeth Street was nothing special. When it came to real prosperity, Green Street was undoubtedly the most prominent."

"But now, there's something..." Gordon frowned, touching the corner of his mouth, and said, "I went to see it a couple of days ago when I was working on that case, and it really doesn't quite match what you're saying..."

"Of course, as I said, that was all in the past, about five or six years ago... or seven or eight years ago. Back then, that was the most bustling commercial center in the East District. The Vickin Umbrella Shop was located in the back alley there. Don't think it was remote; it was actually the best location."

Brock exhaled another puff of smoke and recalled, "That was the most unique shop in the East District. In the gang-controlled commercial area, which is usually full of bars, nightclubs and upscale restaurants, an umbrella shop was somewhat out of place."

"However, the customers of that umbrella shop were all high-end, because the old umbrella maker Wiggins was very skilled. His handmade umbrellas were a symbol of status for Gotham mob bosses at the time. Anyone who could carry an umbrella with Wiggins's emblem was considered an upper-class figure in the Gotham mob world."

"I know." Gordon nodded and said, "When I first came to Gotham, there was a craze for handmade goods, a retro trend that led the aesthetics of the East Coast and even the whole country. Everyone was saying that machine-made things are cold and soulless, and only handmade things have taste."

"Perhaps, but not entirely." Brock walked over, sat down in a chair, and continued, "You know how the weather is in Gotham, an umbrella is definitely a useful thing."

Gordon rested his elbows on the table, shifting his weight onto it, and flipped through a file, saying, "That old umbrella maker must have been very skilled, right? It's a pity he's dead."

"Indeed, all the Gotham mob bosses only buy umbrellas from him, so many other umbrella makers have quit. Today, he is the only handmade umbrella maker left in Gotham."

"His craftsmanship is indeed excellent, but his temper is also very strange. When I was still living in the East District, I heard that he only sold umbrellas to a certain group of people, while another group of people could not buy umbrellas no matter how much they paid."

"Really?" Gordon looked at Brock and asked skeptically, "Those gang leaders aren't pushovers. If this old umbrella maker dares to refuse to sell them umbrellas, won't they cause trouble?"

"I don't know about that, but it doesn't seem like any conflict has broken out." Brock shrugged.

"I don't think you'll find any clues from him. He was probably just an innocent bystander."

Gordon, undeterred, said, "Kevin's death is related to Fish's death, but I can't find any clues about Kevin. So we can only start with someone else. What do you think...?"

Gordon sighed, dismissing his own guess, and said, "Forget it, it's unlikely. The handmade craze is over now. A mob boss like Kevin who didn't go to school wouldn't be into custom-made umbrellas. Our informant has never said he knows the boss of Vickin Umbrella Shop. They're probably strangers."

"But I always felt there was something fishy about them dying in the same case." Gordon straightened up, hands on his hips, and said, "There have been many cases of gang shootouts involving other people, but I just felt there was something strange about this case..."

"Your intuition is always spot on," Brock said to Gordon. "Here's what we'll do: I'll go back to that umbrella shop later. After all, I grew up in the East Side and I'm quite familiar with the area. If I find any clues, I'll let you know..."

"That's all we can do."

Just as Gordon finished speaking, a junior officer knocked on the door and said, "Boss Gordon, Mr. Little Falcone. has arrived."

Gordon and Brock hurried to the door to greet him. Upstairs, they saw the Police Department exchanging pleasantries with Evans was dressed in a suit and had several bodyguards behind him.

It looked as if he were the one in charge of the Police Department.

Evans inherited his father's good looks, being tall, upright, and handsome. He also inherited a head of beautiful blond hair from his mother. However, he didn't look like a mob godfather; rather, he resembled a movie star or a passionate artist.

Seeing Gordon arrive, he turned around and shook hands with Gordon, saying, "Detective Gordon, I've heard so much about you. I've heard about you from my classmates and teachers. You're a good cop..."

Gordon and Brock accompanied the Director and Evans in exchanging pleasantries.

That's how it is in Gotham. Even if Evans is the prime suspect in a murder case, all the police officers have to treat him with respect, even as an honored guest, because his last name Falcone.

Just as they were about to invite Evans to the drawing room, Evans said, "No need, I have something to say here..."

In the basement of a hotel on Elizabeth Street, Maroney screamed as Batman broke his leg with a steel pipe. Maroney yelled, "You damned meddlesome weirdo..."

Batman's voice remained as cold as ever. "I stopped you from killing the hotel boss, but not because I happened to be passing by. Obviously, I have something to discuss with you, and you'd better cooperate."

Maroney glared at him and said, "Don't expect me to tell you anything! You son of a bitch..."

Ten minutes later, Maroney lay sprawled on the ground, all four of his limbs broken. Batman asked him, "Did you shoot and kill Fish?"

Maroney seemed surprised by the question. He let out a short, sharp breath, the pain nearly making him pass out, but Batman gave him a stimulant to keep him awake.

"You'd better cooperate, or I won't know where to break next." Batman kicked his arm, and Maroney let out a dying scream. Finally, he gave in and said, "It was me...it really was me..."

Why did you do that?

"I have a grudge against Fish."

Batman stomped on his broken arm again, Maroney screamed in agony. Trembling, he said, "Someone threatened me... I had no choice..."

Who threatened you?

Maroney remained silent for a long time, refusing to utter the name no matter how Batman interrogated him.

Finally, Batman said, "I know where the Maroni Family is located, and I know where your core power and wealth are hidden. If you don't want a fire that suddenly breaks out there and kills everyone, you'd better cooperate with me..."

Maroney lay on the ground, seemingly dead. Just when Batman thought he would never speak again, Maroney uttered a name in a hoarse voice:

"Evans Falcone".

In his ward at Arkham Asylum, Schiller pulled his arm back, put the umbrella down, and rested the tip on the ground. He said to Cobblepot, "... Don't tell me you bought this umbrella. You should know you can't afford it."

"So, did you steal this, or did you rob it?"

Cobblepot, as if he had been insulted, glared at Schiller with pursed lips and said, "This is what I deserve!"

Schiller placed his hands on the umbrella handles, stood still, and asked Cobblepot, "Why do you say that?"

Cobblepot turned his head away and did not answer.

Just then, there was a knock on the ward door, and Schiller turned around and said, "Come in."

Gordon entered, glanced around the room, looked at Cobblepot, and finally fixed his gaze on Schiller, saying, "Little Falcone has confessed."

The atmosphere in the room froze for a moment. Cobblepot nearly jumped out of bed as if he'd been electrocuted. He turned and glared at Gordon, shouting, "What did you say?! Who confessed?!"

His tone was full of disbelief. Gordon swallowed hard and said to Cobblepot, "I know you can't believe it, because I can't believe it now either."

"But the fact is, about a few tens of minutes before I arrived here, the Godfather's own son Evans Falcone, came to the Police Department ..."

"Then he confessed that he had instructed Maroney to kill Fish Mooney."

Cobblepot froze in mid-air, his eyes almost bulging out of their sockets, then he slumped back onto the bed as if questioning his existence, muttering to himself incredulously, "... He ordered Maroney to kill Fish, so what did I do? What did I do?"

"I..." Cobblepot was speechless. From his expression, you could tell that in those few seconds, he had gone through all his plans and actions in his mind. Then he said with absolute certainty, "Impossible, how could Little Falcone ... This just doesn't make sense."

Gordon sighed and said, "Who can argue with that? Brock and I were stunned. Evans was standing in the police Police Department full of officers, and he told us that he was there to turn himself in and that he was the one who ordered Maroney to kill Fish."

"He had no motive for doing this," Cobblepot said, looking at Gordon. "Aren't you cops the most concerned with criminal motives? What reason would Little Falcone have to do this? What benefit would he gain from killing Fish?"

He had barely finished asking when he said incredulously, "Okay, killing Fish might actually have some benefits for him, like intimidating others, but he shouldn't..."

"I know what you're trying to say. Even if the Godfather's son were stupid, he wouldn't use this method to eliminate his rivals. More importantly, even if he did, he would have no reason to turn himself in."

"Gang assassinations are commonplace in Gotham." Gordon frowned deeply, the deep lines between his brows almost etched into his face. "Everyone knows that these things happen every day, but that's not a reason for him to bring it up in public."

"What exactly is he trying to do? Why is he dragging the Police Department into this?"

Gordon himself found it absurd when he said it. What reason could there be to involve the Police Department in a murder case? Good heavens! What was he saying? Was he even a cop?

But in Gotham, this is a universally accepted truth: in gang assassinations, no one calls the police, because doing so would be looked down upon by other gangs and would severely damage their reputation.

But now, the Godfather's own son has come to the Police Department and brazenly confessed to murdering Fish, which completely changes the nature of the matter.

If he hadn't admitted it, no one could have forced him to, because his surname Falcone. But now that he has, no one can ignore it, also because his surname Falcone.