4 Chapter 4- What a Riddle.

'The world can be very funny when looked through a particular lens,' Tom thought, looking out the window.

The year was 1948, and the world was engulfed in another war: the Cold War. A geopolitical conflict between the United States and the Soviet Union. It was almost comical, barely out of another world war, and the world was once again plunged into another war. 

Of course, it wasn't as terrible as the first two, but it certainly was remarkable how easily countries could be goaded into such conflicts.

Unlike the other two, the Cold War was a war on the hearts of men rather than one of arms. Locked in such a state for fear of the consequences of the nuclear bomb.

'Well, more chances for me.' As a wise man once said, "Chaos is a ladder."

And so Tom climbed, little by little. It started years ago when he was still in his fifth year, with a little cunning and strategy, he'd managed to build himself a gang of street thugs. None of them had known what he looked like; he had made sure of that. But they followed him all the same. Gang war after gang war he orchestrated, till he carved up enough territory within London and recruited enough men to his cause.

He began his quest to acquire more, first dealing in drugs, and then moving on to guns. Of course it wasn't all smooth sailings, drugs and weapons have always been a reliable source of income for those high enough in the social ladder, but legilimency went a long way in securing bribes for himself, now he stood as the head of Riddle's enterprise, a 'legitimate' business that dealt in the most seemingly mundane of things, like toys, clothing, courier services, storage units, among others.

"Here we are Tom." Charlie called out from the front.

And here they were. A luxury penthouse suite he rented, designed with a focus on 'modern' aesthetics and often featured spacious layouts, large windows, and contemporary architectural elements. It made the perfect home for this rising star.

Charlie smoothly maneuvered the car into place, handing the key to a waiting valet. As the passenger door swung open, Tom stepped out, "Thank you, Charlie."

The pair strolled through the well-manicured garden that adorned the penthouse, eventually reaching the reception area where a balding man named Jack sat reading the papers.

"How's the missus, Jack?" Tom inquired with a friendly smile.

Jack returned the smile, "She's doing just fine, Mr. Riddle."

"Good to hear," Tom replied, leaning casually of the receptionist table, "And the kids?"

Jack's face lit up, "The older one's got a child on the way."

"Ah," Tom exclaimed, "A grandpa now, are we, at your young age?"

Jack chuckled, lighting a cigar to puff on before responding

"Hah. Young? I haven't felt young in years. Oh, before I forget, you got mail," He added, pointing towards the rows of mailboxes lining the opposite wall.

"Hmm," Tom hummed, "Thanks for the heads up."

They exchanged nods and parted ways. Tom made his way to the mailbox, his fingers rifling through his pockets. After a moment, he produced a key, deftly unlocking the box. Inside awaited a single letter, quietly nestled within.

"What is it?" Charlie asked, making their way upstairs.

On the top left of the letter's front, written in bold, was the address:

The Right Honorable Baroness Victoria Harrington

42 Hampstead Lane

Hampstead

London NW3 7JR

United Kingdom.

"Its the Baroness." He replied, pulling the door open.

He stepped onto the polished marble floor, his entrance marked by the muted hum of jazz in the air. With a deft motion, he removed his hat, revealing a cascade of dark waves. The living room unfolded before him. Pastel walls in bleach white, baby blue, and red formed a canvas for sleek furniture with angular grace. Chrome and polished wood embraced the optimism of the era, while geometric patterns adorned sofas and chairs.

A television console, housing a boxy TV, alongside a record player playing vinyl records. Abstract art decorated the walls, panoramic windows offered a breathtaking view, casting the room in natural light.

"You left the record player on again." Tom remarked, letting his hat hang.

"Oh, did I?" Charlie replied, walking towards the player, and turning it off. "But never mind that, what's the letter about?"

"Alright, alright. Just a moment," Tom responded. He reached for a letter knife, skillfully slicing open the sealed package with a careful hand.

"My Dear Thomas," Tom read aloud.

Sitting with his arms folded, Charlie sniggered.

"I trust this letter finds you in the best of health and spirits. It is with great pleasure that I take pen to paper to extend my warmest regards and heartfelt salutations to you." Tom recited, making his way round the living room.

"I wish to express my gratitude for the recent correspondence received from your esteemed self. Your thoughtful words have been a great source of delight and have found a cherished place in my heart."

"Her heart she says." Charlie interrupted, "Next it'll be between her legs."

"Oh, hush." Tom chastised lightly, rolling his eyes.

"How fortunate I am to be the recipient of your charming expressions, which have become a cherished beacon in the tapestry of my days.

In the quiet moments between the ticking of the clock, I find myself reflecting on the unique relationship we share. Your presence in my thoughts is a comforting melody, a refrain that plays softly, reminding me of the delightful encounters we've shared."

Charlie snorted, interrupting the reading, faster than he could react, a newspaper stack zoomed across the table, to where he was at and beaned him on the forehead.

I look forward to the possibility of creating more memories with you. The prospect of our paths crossing in the future fills my heart with such anticipation and excitement.

In the spirit of shared joy, may I extend an invitation to the Royal Opera House this Saturday? The thought of your company gracing the occasion adds an extra layer of warmth.

"Saturday?" Charlie interjected, "Isn't that when we're leaving?"

Tom grunted.

Until the pleasure of our next meeting, I send you my fondest wishes for every happiness and success. 

Yours, with Affection,

Victoria."

Charlie couldn't hold it in any longer. He let out a loud bellow of laughter.

"You slick son 'ava gun!" Charlie laughed, "You actually did it!"

Tom smirked, settling into the plush cushions of the couch, and casually tossed the letter onto the table before him.

"It wasn't that hard. Dead husband. All alone in that big house of hers. A handsome man to pay attention," He shrugged.

With a casual wave of his wand, a bottle of brandy and two glass cups glided in from the cupboards. Tom expertly poured a measure into one glass, then turned to Charlie with a raised brow.

"Want one?" He offered,

Charlie nodded appreciatively, and with a nonchalant flick of Tom's wand, the second glass sailed through the air toward him. Catching it adeptly, he downed the brandy with gusto.

Tom followed suit, placing the cup down and getting up. Charlie, seeing he had no intention to drink, grabbed the bottle and began chugging.

"What'ch ya gunna do now?" He asked between mouthfuls.

"Write back to her, of course. Can't keep her waiting for too long."

Charlie hummed and returned to his bottle. Meanwhile, Tom entered his room, shedding his jacket first and neatly placing it in the wardrobe. His shirt, tie, and pants followed suit, replaced by a more comfortable white T-shirt and grey shorts.

Seated at a desk, quill in hand, he began to write. Once finished, he sealed the letter and carefully placed it on the table.

"Remember to get that in the morning," He murmured to himself.

.....

It was one o'clock when they left the Penthouse. Tom led them to the nearest telegraph office, from whence he dispatched the letter. He then hailed a cab and ordered the driver to drop them off at Richmond.

"What on earth was that fool thinking?" Tom lamented beside Charlie, "As a matter of fact, my mind's been made up, no chances for him."

"You amaze me, Tom," said Charlie, "Surely you knew this day was coming; the man's too bloodthirsty. I wouldn't be surprised if he's a werewolf."

"There's no more room for mistakes," He answered, "We're cutting the fool off. I told him this was the last time, after this, no more. And he went ahead and did it anyways. Does he think I can continue to throw money at the damned police?"

"Seems simple enough," said Charlie, lowering his voice to a whisper, "but what if he talks?"

"Why would he? He knows what'll happen if he doesn't keep his fool mouth shut. It's a simple calculation even for him."

The man i question went by the name, Victor Holm. A savage man for a savage job, he worked as one of Tom's gang members, particularly as the face of his enforcers. Six feet and five inches in height, with a deep scar across his forehead, he made for a frightening sight. 

He had served in the army during WW2. Once a well-adjusted individual, the horrors of war transformed him into a volatile alcoholic teetering on the brink of lunacy. His violent tendencies and impressive physicality had drawn Tom's attention, with a little mind magic and calming potion he convinced the man to work under him, every week or so he'd send a vial of the potion with instructions to drink them immediately.

'Obviously he ignored them now.' Tom sighed, rubbing his forehead.

A man dead and another badly injured. Drunk on booze, the man had foolishly fled the scene, forgetting he was a head and shoulder taller than the average man. The chase didn't last very long, luckily he hadn't killed any officers, but it had been a damn near thing, with one officer having been critically injured in the chase.

This had hardly been the first time something like this happened, but it was the first time it ended in death.

'Damn him.' Tom cursed, 'He's too important to rot in jail.'

The cab pulled up in front of the station. Tom thanked the driver and discreetly passed the fare, subtly waving his wand under his coat.

The driver's eyes glazed over momentarily before returning to normal. He accepted the money, expressing gratitude, and sped away.

The two walked into the building, Tom leading the way with the larger Charlie following closely behind.

With a congenial smile, Tom approached the receptionist. "Good afternoon, sir."

The receptionist, looked up at Tom, his eyebrows raised. "Yes, do you have something to report?"

"Oh, no, no," Tom assured. "I'd simply like to speak to the captain."

The receptionist stared. "He's busy, I can't just let anyone see him. But if you have a problem, you can share it with me, and I'll make sure the information is passed along."

Tom shook his head, "I'm afraid that wont do."

"Its all I can offer righ-"

"Call him."

The man's eyes glazed over for a moment, like a string on a puppet he responded with, "Ok."

Charlie stared at the man as he left, he shivered, "I hate it when you do that."

Tom ignored him, preferring to wait in silence. A moment passed and the receptionist returned, but not alone. A fat man in a common grey suit came waddling after him. With long brown hair flowing down past his ears and a handlebar mustache.

"Ah, Mr. Riddle." The fat man leaped forward, shaking Tom's hand vigorously.

"What brings you here Mr. Riddle?"

Prying his hand away, Tom responded curtly, "Private business, Captain. May we speak inside?"

The captain hesitated for a moment, "Eh, it might b-."

""I'm afraid I wasn't asking, Captain," Tom interrupted sternly. "Or have you forgotten who put you in that seat?"

"Oh, yes, of course Mr. Riddle, right this way please."

Guiding the two to the rear of the station where his office was situated, the captain gestured to a seat before him. "Have the chair, Mr. Riddle."

"And for you Mr. Each, I'll get a chair." He turned momentarily, as if expecting one to materialize out of thin air, before heading out the door yelling for a chair to be brought to him.

A moment later, he returned with the chair, struggling for a moment to push it in.

"Have a seat, Mr. Each."

He circled the table before settling into the cushioned chair, wiping sweat from his forehead. "So," he said, breathing heavily, "What brings you here?"

Tom breathed in, maintaining his posture with a straight and erect back. "I'll get to the point, Captain. You have a member of my staff here, and I'd appreciate his release, please and thank you."

"I- er, well, you see, Mr. Riddle, the problem, um," The captain floundered, searching for the right words.

"What is it," Tom snapped, his tone cutting through the hesitation.

"I- I know the man you speak of, and I'm afraid there's not much I can do for him," The man said, his voice growing quieter with each passing word.

"Then what good are you then?" Tom frowned. "Is this not why I put you in that seat?"

"I-" The Captain hesitated.

"WELL!" Tom thundered. "Spit it out, man."

"It's just, well, it's murder," He winced. "If this were a mere barfight, there wouldn't be any probl-."

"I want to see him," Tom cut in.

"What? Ah, I'm afraid that's not entirely possible. Victor is kept under extreme watch, but I can pass along any message," The Captain assured.

Tom let out a breath, leaning back in his seat to stare out the window. A moment of silence enveloped the room. The Captain, perplexed by the situation, also gazed out the window.

"Mr. Riddle, I'm not sur—," He began.

"Beautiful day, is it not?" Tom cut in again.

Hesitating for a moment, he responded with. "What?"

"I said, 'Beautiful day, is it not?'" Tom looked back at the Captain, his black eyes bore into the man's brown. "How's the family, Oscar?"

The Captain—no, Oscar—paled considerably at that. "I- I- I suppose I can get you to see him after all."

Tom smiled, "See, that's not so hard, is it?"

Oscar shook his head.

The Captain led them down to the building's cells. Dismissing the guards, he guided them to the cell. Kept to himself within the enclosure was the man all this fuss was about, shaking on the hard surface with his back to the bars.

"You can leave," Charlie said to Oscar.

Oscar said nothing, looking to Tom. Tom returned the gaze, then motioned with his hand for Oscar to leave.

"Dog," Tom called.

Victor jumped at that, his eyes turning to find Tom standing outside. Eyes widening, he got up and walked closer.

"Mr. Riddle," He whispered, cradling his head.

Victor grabbed onto the bar, "Please, it hurts."

Tom didn't say anything; he simply reached in and touched the deep scar on the man's head.

He pulled his hand back out. "Then you should've thought of that before acting the fool."

Victor howled, his cries vibrating through the cell. He thrust himself back and began to pound his head on the cement floor.

Tom looked on, seemingly unbothered by this, waited until the episode subsided.

Finally, after a while, Victor stopped. He turned to Tom, blood and tears leaking from his face. Crawling on his knees, he held onto the bottom hem of Tom's pants. "Please, I'm begging you."

Tom kicked off the hand. "Oh, stop being dramatic. You lived once without the vials I gave you."

The man began to cradle his head again. "It's getting worse now."

"Worse?" Tom smirked.

"Yes." Victor looked up to Tom's black eyes, "More frequent and more painful." 

Tom sighed, from his pockets, he produced a vial, its liquid contents yellow and murky. Victor jumped at the sight of it, his hands clutching through the bar in desperation.

Placing the vial in Victor's hands, he waited until the man had downed it all.

Like a parched man after water, Victor drank the potion so fast some went down the wrong way. Hacking and coughing, he lay down and waited for the headaches to subside.

When his breathing finally began to subside, he got up from the floor and looked up at the two angrily, "Am I being let out now?"

Of to the side, Charlie snorted. "You killed someone Victor, it's gonna take more than a bribe to get you out of here."

Victor ignored him, choosing to instead focus on Tom.

"No, Dog, you're not being let out your cage just now." Tom leaned on the bar, "No doubt there'll be a hearing."

Victor growled, "But I'll be free right?"

Rolling his eyes, Tom responded, "Yes, eventually. But not right now. Just make sure to deny all allegations, we'll take care of the rest."

He turned away, before turning back, "Oh, and Dog?"

"Yes?" Victor bit out.

"Deny everything, and we'll handle the rest," Tom repeated, his tone firm. "But understand this, Victor, this is the last time I'm pulling you out of a mess like this. You've jeopardized everything with your recklessness."

Victor nodded again, his gaze fixed on the floor. Charlie, standing nearby, observed the exchange with a mixture of amusement and disdain.

"You've got lucky before, Victor," Charlie remarked, "but you can't keep relying on luck. Eventually, it'll run out, and you'll be left to face the consequences on your own."

Tom straightened up, his gaze still locked on Victor. "Charlie's right. This is your final warning. Cross me again, and I won't be there to clean up your mess. Is that clear?"

Victor, his expression a mix of gratitude and fear, mumbled a barely audible, "Yes."

"Charlie will be back with another vial. Until then, behave."

The two left the man and exited the dungeon. Waiting outside was Oscar, who smiled nervously at the two. He then led them outside, where a cab was already waiting for them.

"Make sure to inform me in case anything changes," Tom ordered.

The Captain nodded vigorously, "Yes, yes, of course, Mr. Riddle."

The taxi sped off into the city, leaving a trail of dust and the thankful Captain behind.