The Fox of France

Chapter 237: Petticoat Lane

Oliver was taken aback and struggled vigorously, pulling out a small knife with his free hand and thrusting it towards the "gentleman" who had a grip on his wrist. However, the "gentleman" displayed surprising agility, and his other hand shot out to catch Oliver's hand holding the knife. The two of them held each other's hands, and from a distance, it almost resembled an older brother teaching his younger brother to waltz.

Oliver swiftly applied the techniques that Fagin had taught him, raising his knee to strike at the vulnerable area of the "gentleman." The "gentleman" seemed to have anticipated this move and slightly dodged, avoiding the blow. But Oliver's true intention was not the knee strike; it was a ruse. His foot came down hard on the "gentleman's" toes.

The "gentleman" clearly didn't expect such an attack. He let out a loud cry and used both hands to forcefully throw Oliver aside. Oliver crashed onto the cobblestone road, writhing in pain. He struggled to prop himself up with his hands, much like a carpenter unfolding a folding ruler, inch by inch.

The "gentleman" was far from composed at this point. He hopped on one foot, clutching the other, while his mouth emitted a cacophony of unintelligible sounds, much like a wounded pig.

Oliver, though in pain, managed to crawl to his feet while the "gentleman" was still vociferating. He used this opportunity to run. He took a few steps and collided head-on with a black-clad police officer, sending the officer stumbling.

"You rascal!" the portly police officer exclaimed, swiftly drawing his baton and raining blows upon Oliver, who had been seated on the ground following their collision.

Through years of experience, Oliver knew that begging, crying, or resisting would be in vain at this point. The only way was to shield the vulnerable and easily injured parts of his body, tuck himself into a protective ball, and wait for the rain of baton blows to subside.

Oddly, the baton blows didn't continue. A hand had gripped the police officer's arm, and a voice sounded in his ear, but Oliver couldn't understand what was being said.

Opening his eyes, Oliver saw the "gentleman" standing in front of him. The "gentleman" pointed a finger toward the police officer, berating him in a language that Oliver couldn't comprehend.

The police officer, unable to comprehend the foreign language, saw the "gentleman's" luxurious attire and high-quality silk shirt. Even though he couldn't make out what the man was saying, he realized this foreigner was wealthy. Any wealthy person, whether from England or abroad, deserved a small police officer's respect. After all, a wealthy foreigner was likely acquainted with numerous wealthy Englishmen. And who didn't respect English wealth?

"Sir," the portly police officer stammered, "I... I'm sorry... I may have offended you... But I didn't understand... what you were saying..."

Only then did the "gentleman" realize he was no longer in France, but in England.

"Sir," he continued in English, "bullying a child, I must say I'm ashamed of you." He then turned around and found that Oliver had disappeared. Seizing the opportunity while the "gentleman" was scolding the officer, Oliver had made a quick escape. "Sir, that boy, you can tell he's a little thief at first glance. Truly, I assure you, only someone as kind-hearted as you could be fooled by his appearance. I guarantee you, that lad is nothing but a little thief," the portly officer hastily explained.

During the "gentleman's" reprimand, Oliver had managed to rise to his feet. He turned and dashed back into the alley he had just fled from. Running a few steps along the alley, he abruptly stopped. There, right where he had viciously stamped on the "gentleman's" foot, lay a book—the very book the "gentleman" had been reading, which had fallen during their struggle.

Oliver picked up the book. He knew that books could be quite valuable, and Mr. Fagin himself enjoyed reading. It wasn't uncommon to see Mr. Fagin reading alone during his spare moments or teaching others to recognize simple words.

Oliver tucked the book into his clothing and continued running to the other end of the alley.

After Oliver had left, the "gentleman," Mr. Jacques Golan, the Second Secretary of the French Embassy in England, concluded his altercation with the English police. He assumed an air of superiority, reflecting that, apart from France and Rome, all other nations were barbarians, and he condescended to cast a disdainful look upon the police officer. Then, he retraced his steps to the alley where he had lost his book during the struggle.

The book was nowhere to be found.

However, Mr. Jacques Golan didn't feel too disheartened. The book was expensive, but compared to his salary from the Ministry of Truth, it wasn't much. Furthermore, this book could be reimbursed as a part of official expenses. The reimbursement process might be somewhat lengthy, and often you had to wait quite a while, but in most cases, by Christmas at the latest, you could be sure to receive the reimbursement. (In matters of reimbursement, the accountants often preferred to clear them all at the end of the year.)

Oliver continued down the alley, emerging onto another street and walking for a while until he reached Petticoat Lane. This was one of London's oldest and liveliest streets. During the Tudor era, it had been a place for slaughtering and selling meat. Later, with the rise of the textile industry, it became a market for various textile products, giving the lane its name.

However, the narrow street couldn't accommodate the numerous shops, and its proximity to the workers' residential areas led to a lack of good law and order. After all, most of the workers were poor, and when impoverished people engaged in unlawful activities, they rarely followed proper protocols.

Here, a young girl could become a prime target for the London police for not paying the taxes to His Majesty's government just for half a loaf of bread. Men might similarly stab someone for a potato. Children in this area were often considered young thieves from a very early age.

In this place, the three problems of the century—poverty causing men to despair, hunger leading women to vice, and darkness making children frail—were all present.

The kind-hearted merchants who conducted business with wealth were never pleased to see the suffering of the poor. So, they moved their markets to places where they wouldn't have to witness the destitute. They left behind only the name "Petticoat Lane."

Today, Petticoat Lane had become one of the dirtiest, most chaotic, and lawless places in London, a region where even the police didn't dare to enter lightly. If they had to come, they came in large numbers, armed to the teeth. However, this wasn't a place of complete anarchy; it had its own order, much like Gotham had its order.

Fagin was the order in Petticoat Lane. If you inquired about Fagin's situation from the officials at the London police station and from the residents of Petticoat Lane, you'd think you were hearing about two entirely different individuals.

According to the police station's descriptions, Fagin was a sort of monster straight out of horror stories parents used to scare children with. He would silently infiltrate people's homes, tie up the kindly homeowners, and then threaten them with a knife, demanding the combination to their safes. Or he'd stuff those righteous police officers and reformed ex-thieves into sacks and toss them into the Thames.

However, in the words of Petticoat Lane residents, Fagin was the kindest of all. He was like the embodiment of Santa Claus. Even better than Santa Claus because Santa only served for one night, but he was always there to lend a helping hand during everyone's most difficult times.

But even among the residents of Petticoat Lane, very few knew where to find Fagin.

Oliver was one of the rare few who knew where to locate Fagin.

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