Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

The masts of the Port of London are so dense that they resemble a forest, making the river seem narrower. Like London itself, it is a city floating on the sea.

Rows of gray-brick warehouses lined the dock, and cargo ships from all over the world drifted in, their holds piled high with coffee, spices, timber, wool, and silk and porcelain from even more distant places.

The thick ship chains rattled and creaked as the workers' muscles drove the winch, barely managing to lift this massive steel python weighing thousands of kilograms.

Richard and his two companions walked around stacks of wooden crates taller than a person toward the customs office. Several workers pushed a cart past them, with several wooden barrels stacked on it. Louise stepped aside to let them pass, her skirt brushing against the cart and leaving a faint gray mark.

Logan pushed open the office door, and a young employee peeked out from behind the counter. Upon seeing Logan's business card, the employee immediately turned and ran down the corridor.

Soon, a man in his fifties with a beer belly and sausage fingers came out of the corridor, approached Logan, and took off his cap.

"Good afternoon, Inspector. I'm Senior Inspector Harding," he said. "How can I help you?"

"We're investigating a case that may involve smuggling," Logan replied, "and someone died in it."

Harding's expression changed, and his eyes involuntarily darted downwards: "Could it be... Benjamin Brendel?"

Richard narrowed his eyes: "It seems you know he hasn't been to work for a while."

Harding sighed and leaned against the edge of the counter:

"Benjamin never greets anyone, and he often doesn't come back to the office for more than a week at a time. We're all used to it." He frowned. "There's no easy work here, but if you don't stop him, he could work himself to death on the docks."

Louise stepped out from behind Richard and asked, "Inspector, is the clerk who worked under Benjamin still there?"

Harding glanced at her and shook his head: "She's gone too. A few days after Benjamin disappeared, she stopped coming to work, and she packed up her things. Her colleagues all said that the two of them eloped."

"What do you think?" Richard asked.

"Benjamin has worked here for more than ten years and even said that this job is his second life. I think he's crazy, but he can't just leave without saying anything."

Logan and Richard exchanged a glance.

"Inspector," Logan straightened up, adjusting his hat, "could you take us to the B-sector warehouse?"

"Of course, of course." Harding turned around, took a bunch of keys from the wall, pushed open the side door, and the three people followed behind him.

They walked across an open space filled with wooden crates toward the row of gray brick warehouses.

The wind blew from the river, seemingly stirring the tar floating on the water, and carried the smell into Richard's nostrils.

Harding stopped at the entrance to the warehouse in Block B, picked out a large iron key from his keychain, inserted it into the lock, and turned it twice.

The iron gate was pushed open heavily, the hinges making a harsh scraping sound. The sky outside the window grew increasingly overcast, and a few raindrops faintly pattered against the glass.

The warehouse was filled with crates, made of wood and nailed together with slats, and the air was filled with the smell of wood and hemp rope.

An old man in overalls came out from behind the shelves, holding a pair of pliers. He saw Harding and Richard, paused for a moment, and then quickly tucked the pliers behind his waist.

"Manager, this is a Scotland Yard inspector," Harding said. "They want to check something."

The administrator nodded, and Logan stepped forward, pulling a small notebook from his pocket: "Container B204, check it."

The administrator turned and walked to a large wooden table against the wall, opened a drawer, and took out a thick register.

His fingers slid across the page, and soon stopped on a line of text. He looked up.

"B204, mechanical parts, entered the port on the 22nd, and then went into the bonded warehouse, which is here."

"So fast? Who signed the pass?" Richard asked.

The administrator glanced at Hardin, who nodded slightly.

The administrator then turned the register over and pointed to a line of text: "The consignee's signature is Benjamin Brendel."

Logan leaned closer for a look: "So he just skipped all the intermediate procedures? No declarations or inspections?"

"I don't know," the manager shrugged. "I'm only responsible for shipping and receiving goods; I don't ask questions. But something didn't seem right that day..."

"What?"

"On the very night this cargo container was transferred, Benjamin made a special trip to the warehouse."

"You saw him?" Richard asked, puzzled.

"No, I had already left work, but the night shift guard saw him. The next morning he came to ask me if something had happened, because it's not common for customs officials to come and inspect goods late at night."

Richard's mind started racing. A customs officer who signed the release order in his office during the day and then personally came to the warehouse to check the same batch of goods at night.

If the transaction is already completed and the goods have been released and unloaded, why would he need to come? Wouldn't it be better for him to just stay home and collect his money comfortably?

“Inspector,” Richard turned to Harding, “I want to see the shipping log for B204. The complete one.”

Harding glanced at him, asked no further questions, and gestured to the administrator.

The administrator then pulled out another register from the drawer, flipped through a few pages, and handed it over.

Richard read with his head down: B204, passed through customs on the morning of the 22nd, and was transferred to transfer shed number three that afternoon, which was the unloading area in the 19th century.

From customs clearance to transfer, it took less than a day. This is almost impossible under normal customs procedures.

Declaration, review, inspection, release, and transshipment—each step takes time, ranging from three to five days to one or two weeks. But B204 only took one afternoon. It seemed the shipper was in such a hurry to pick it up that day.

That very evening, Benjamin arrived at the Port of London, and no one ever saw him alive again.

Richard looked up at Logan and Louise: "I need to check out Transfer Shelter Three."

Logan nodded and turned to Hardin: "Prosecutor, please lead the way."

Harding sighed, picked up an oil lamp, as if he couldn't wait for this visit to end: "Shed No. 3 is at the far east end of the dock, near the sluice gate."

After saying that, he walked ahead and led the way: "But over there, there are just old shelves and broken boxes piled up. It won't be easy for you to find anything in the junk."

"As long as no one touches the junk, it's fine," Richard said.

"Don't worry, no worker is so idle as to take care of it, and I'm not paying them for it."