Chapter 607: Business Blocked

"Baka, a bunch of useless fools."

At the apartment on Changchun Road in Hongkou, Superintendent Nantianzi stared at the pool of congealed blood across the floor, at her subordinates whose faces showed terror, longing, and peace in death, and slapped the officer standing before her with a sharp backhand.

No one could understand how the Japanese operative felt—he merely stood at attention and nodded: "Haii..."

She glared at him, drew her hand back to ease the pain, exhaled deeply, and stepped forward, treading on the blood-smeared stairs.

She examined every room carefully, finding no trace of struggle—consistent with the deaths of the eight men: some had seen their killer, others hadn't, but all had been utterly unable to resist.

On the third floor's master bedroom, she saw the corpse seated upright on a sofa stained dark red with blood, head tilted back, mouth slightly open, as if in release.

Superintendent Nantianzi immediately turned to the indentation still lingering on the opposite sofa, and the two cigarette butts on the floor—her fury surged. This meant the killer had been calm, sitting there smoking, watching Xia Changguo bleed to death.

She suppressed her rage and asked: "Tell me everything."

The Japanese operative who had just been slapped stepped forward and replied: "Preliminary judgment places time of death between 5 and 7 p. m. yesterday. Witnesses reported seeing a lame man coming from the south last night. Due to the heavy rain and his raincoat, his face was obscured. The patrolling military police claimed they saw no pedestrians on the road, so we conclude the lame man is the assassin. He likely entered the International Settlement; our men checked thoroughly this morning and found no one matching his description—he must be disguised. I suspect this assassin is none other than the legendary... Red Party's top killer, Comrade Pei Min!"

"It seems we've struck a vital nerve of the Red Party—otherwise they wouldn't have sent Comrade Pei Min, who's been missing for two years, to carry out this assassination. Intensify interrogations. Force those Reds to talk. Even if what we extract is already too late, it doesn't matter—we now know Comrade Pei Min isn't in Yan'an or Chongqing. He's in Shanghai. One day, he'll slip up."

At that moment, a Japanese operative entered and reported: "Superintendent, news of Xia Changguo's murder has spread."

"Sending Comrade Pei Min was meant to warn other internal members and to intimidate us—Chinamen's scheming is endless. Ignore them. Such rumors can't be traced." Superintendent Nantianzi waved her hand. "Hmph. Comrade Pei Min? A killer is most deadly when hidden in shadows. Once his trail is found, death is his only fate—that's the destiny of the Empire's enemies!"

The French Concession had six police stations, with over two thousand officers. The Central Police Station, the largest, housed nearly three hundred officers. Of these four hundred, excluding fifty foreign leaders and foreign officers from Falanxi, India, and other nations, the remaining three hundred were under the command of the Superintendent—Huang Jinrong of the Green Gang had held this position, using the station's authority to gradually become the so-called Green Gang boss, though back then there were far fewer Chinese officers and fewer Chinese residents in the French Concession.

The current Superintendent is a Frenchman. Below him are three Chief Inspectors, each commanding about a hundred officers; beneath them are team leaders—Wang Yan holds one such position.

Of course, this is the Chinese terminology. According to the official foreign structure, ranks are divided into Detective, First-, Second-, and Third-Class Constables, First-, Second-, and Third-Class Sergeants, and so on.

Wang Yan's current rank is Sergeant. The Chief Inspector is called Superintendent, also known as Chief Sergeant. The First-, Second-, and Third-Class designations roughly correspond to rank tiers. He is currently a team leader; if promoted one level, he'd be given the title of Deputy Superintendent—but in reality, he'd still command the same team, with only a slightly higher salary and no real power. Only if he truly ascends does even the lowest Detective rank matter—some would work for free just to hold the position.

In an office on the second floor of the Central Police Station, Wang Yan, along with two others, respectfully saluted an old man over fifty seated behind the desk.

"Chief Inspector, sir!"

Chen Jiangliu, smoking a cigar, waved his hand, rose from behind the desk, and sat on a nearby sofa: "Come, sit down."

His gaze fell on Wang Yan, and he asked with concern: "I heard you weren't feeling well yesterday afternoon?"

"Thank you for your concern, Chief Inspector. It was just a chill from the storm—I slept it off and feel fine now. No serious issue."

"I'm old, useless. You're young—take care of your health."

Fang Yuantu, team leader of the Second Unit, smoothly added: "Chief Inspector, how can you say that? Your bones are strong, your voice booming—you're the pillar holding up our hundred-odd brothers. How could you be useless?"

"Indeed, Chief Inspector," said Zhang Xian, team leader of the Third Unit. "The brothers all rely on you to fight for us with the foreigners. Don't speak such gloomy words."

Including Wang Yan, these three controlled one-third of the Chinese constables in the Central Police Station—all prominent figures in Shanghai. After all, there were only nine team leaders in the Central Police Station; across the entire French Concession, that amounted to just fifty-four.

Though he knew they were flattering him, Chen Jiangliu still enjoyed it. He smiled, shook his head, and drew a puff from his cigar: "No need for flattery—I know my own condition. I'm forty-nine, half-dead already. Holding onto this position means I'm being foolish. The situation is complex, Chinese constables are struggling—I'm too old to handle it. It's time I step down and leave room for the young. The Japanese are powerful now—what do you think?"

Without giving them a chance to flatter, he directly posed the key question, still smiling, cigar smoke curling around his face, obscuring his expression. No one answered.

Seeing no one speak, he pointed at Wang Yan: "Ah Yan, you attended foreign schools—you have some insight. You speak first."

"Undoubtedly, the Japanese have wolfish ambitions, seeking to destroy China. Last December, they captured Nanjing and slaughtered hundreds of thousands. After taking Shanghai, they imposed brutal rule—in just three months, I've heard of hundreds killed. But..."

Amid their unreadable stares, Wang Yan shifted: "A gentleman avoids standing under a crumbling wall. I'm a coward who loves comfort—I'm a Chinese constable, and the Japanese dare not touch me easily. Whose bread I eat, I serve. I follow the French, but I won't alienate the Japanese, nor provoke the Military Intelligence Bureau or the Red Party—they're all more reckless than death. Their lives mean nothing to them; I still want to live to a hundred."

"Chief Inspector, you know I've partnered with my men to run a business—selling grain, cloth, and such. Thanks to friends outside Shanghai, we ship to Red Party territory, to Nationalist territory—nothing illegal, nothing that offends the Japanese. I only make my own money, enjoy life, and keep those around me safe—that's all I ask."

"You just can't quit your greed. Remember: men die for wealth, birds for food. Avoid offending all three sides? That means offending all three. One day you'll regret it." Chen Jiangliu sighed, turning to the other two.

Fang Yuantu laughed: "Chief Inspector, at this point, what voice do men like us have? Old Wang's right—making money matters most. That way, we can handle whatever comes. What else can we do?"

"Exactly, Chief Inspector," said Zhang Xian. "Even if we didn't fear the Red Party, the Military Intelligence Bureau, or the Japanese—what about the foreigners and all the bosses in our district? Who could we afford to offend? Without you, Chief Inspector, holding up for us, even armed constables tremble. Old Wang's right—earn honestly, enjoy life. At least you get a few more peaceful years."

No one in this world spoke the truth. These two didn't know what the old man meant, so they parroted Wang Yan—safe, secure.

"Then it's not just Ah Yan who must be careful—you three all must be cautious." Chen Jiangliu chuckled. "Alright, you're all busy men with endless duties—go on, don't let this old man waste your time."

After another round of flattery, the three left together. Zhang Xian passed out cigarettes, lit one, and scratched his head: "Old Wang, Old Fang—what do you think the Chief Inspector meant?"

Fang Yuantu snorted: "Old Zhang, don't play dumb now. Isn't that right, Old Wang?"

"You're right," Wang Yan smiled, lit his cigarette, glanced at them, and strode off.

Watching Wang Yan's retreating back, Fang Yuantu narrowed his eyes: "Old Zhang—who do you think will become Chief Inspector?"

"Wang Yan!"

"How do you know it won't be me?"

"His patron is Lin Hongyuan of the Tong generation—same generation as our Chief Inspector, with ties. You're Green Gang too, but your patron is Wu generation. You call Old Wang 'brother' casually, but do you really think he's a good-natured fool? He's richer than both of us combined, speaks fluent French, and is close to the French. What do you have to compete with? Secret schemes? Do you really think you can outmaneuver him? Do you think 'Smiling Tiger' is a nickname for nothing? Old Fang, I'm not against you—but staying alive matters more than anything. Unlike you two, I don't have the Green Gang's backing or tangled connections—I climbed up step by step, through hard work. I'm telling you now: whoever becomes Chief Inspector, I follow. Think carefully."

With that, Zhang Xian walked off quickly—no room for misunderstandings now. His meaning was clear: he stood with Wang Yan.

"Du Yong and Zhang Xiaolin are a generation apart, yet Du Yong still crushed Zhang Xiaolin," Fang Yuantu sneered.

But he admitted Zhang Xian was right—many things were obvious, and he understood them. Wang Yan ran a company called Yonghua Industry. Though named "industry," their actual assets were just a few large warehouses. As Wang Yan said, they imported goods from abroad and resold them inland. What they resold? Just think—it wasn't only grain and cloth. After all, only banned goods made real money. He also knew that some foreigners in the police station were Wang Yan's partners—and Chen Jiangliu, that old devil, surely took a cut.

With such power, how could he stay content as a team leader for so many years? Fang Yuantu thought Wang Yan was an idiot. If it were him, he'd have plotted to kill Chen Jiangliu and take his place long ago.

Like Zhang Xian said, he had risky ideas. If he became Chief Inspector, he'd rise instantly—completely different from now. But he couldn't decide. Success meant glory; failure meant death.

Zhang Xian, however, had no backing—he rose to team leader through sheer grit. Could he really be simple? But Fang Yuantu wasn't worried—Zhang Xian could never ascend. Even if he did, he'd be a puppet, only able to command the Third Unit. Without matching power, no one could hold the position. The Chinese constables' role was to help the French manage territory, collect taxes, and keep the foreign masters comfortable and their profits secure. In the French Concession, thick with all kinds of gangs and factions, without connections, you had no face—and couldn't do your job.

So Zhang Xian had no real chance. Even if Wang Yan and Zhang Xian both died, Zhang Xian still wouldn't be chosen—more likely, someone from outside would be brought in.

Fang Yuantu returned to his office, smoking, his expression shifting between cruelty and helplessness—because Wang Yan had no children...

In truth, Wang Yan had no ambition for promotion—he was focused solely on making money. Before the Battle of Shanghai, during the power struggle between the two parties, he had already secured transport routes from Shanghai to inland areas, bribing Frenchmen, Americans, and some Green Gang members to smuggle goods. He sold mostly to Chiang Kai-shek, but the Red Party deals were more crucial—he used profits from Chiang's side to offset losses from Red Party sales, ultimately turning a profit for everyone. That's how he could afford houses, rentals, and multiple cars—many famous Shanghai merchants weren't as wealthy as he was.

Agathe Olsen, the logistics officer of the police station, was recently very unhappy. The Japanese had occupied Shanghai, blockading the surrounding seas—all shipments now required inspection. Though he was French, and his family had influence back in Falanxi, he could get certain shipments cleared—but the cycle had lengthened. And with the Sino-Japanese war, all goods had skyrocketed in price. Every delay cost him dearly—damned Japanese.

Holding a cigar in one hand and a wineglass in the other, he drained the glass, wiped his mouth with his sleeve with no aristocratic grace, and slammed his palm on the desk: "Damned Japanese! Wang, did you know? They seized our medicine—they're provoking great Falanxi!"

"Calm down, Agathe, my friend. If your great Falanxi were truly powerful, you wouldn't be here smoking cigars and drinking alone—you'd be sailing warships to bomb Japan."

"Well, maybe I'd even sleep with the damned Emperor's wife," Agathe laughed at his own joke, chuckling for a while before glancing awkwardly at Wang Yan, who sat across with legs crossed: "Wang, my friend, you always have the best ideas—what's your advice for our current situation?"

"Agathe, you're a wise French noble. You must see the Japanese are testing you. I believe they've seized not just our goods, but also those of the Municipal Council, and likely British and American shipments too. My homeland is suffering—I share your urgency to get these goods to our soldiers fighting the Japanese. But even if I had a hundred ideas, what can I do against battleship cannons?"

"Wang, you're so hypocritical—painting your black-market profits as noble. But don't worry—just as you said, the British and Americans' goods are seized too. They have more power than you or I—they'll find a way. Believe me, no one resists money. Honestly, if I could, I'd just give some cash to those ugly Japanese monkeys—our losses are too great. Right now, our medicine may be stuck for a long time. Wang, you must sell your tobacco, alcohol, sugar, grain, and cloth at high prices."

Agathe was a senior officer in the police station, in charge of logistics—a true big shot. For a lowly Chinese team leader like Wang Yan to be connected to Agathe had shocked many. But from another angle, if Wang Yan weren't connected to Agathe, that would shock even more. When they first met, Agathe wasn't in his current position, and Wang Yan was just a lowly Chinese constable.

Their acquaintance began with a theft. A young beggar stole from Egger's wife—a woman of considerable charm, a flirtatious foreign mare—whom Egger loved dearly. One day on the street, the beggar stole her bag. When Egger found out, he flew into a rage, storming into the police station from outside, cursing in French. Just then, Wang Yan was cooling off in the courtyard, smoking a cigarette, and replied to him fluently in French. Within less than two hours, he recovered the bag intact.

After that, Wang Yan took Egger out to eat, drink, and be entertained, then persuaded him into smuggling—continuing to this day. There is a three-tenths bond of friendship between them; after all, they've known each other for years, enjoyed themselves, and cooperated smoothly.

Wang Yan sighed, extinguishing his cigarette butt in the ashtray: "Egger, the current situation no longer permits it. You know the Japanese have occupied Shanghai and stationed troops at every key transportation point. To get our goods out, we must pay a hefty sum. This drastically raises our costs. Even if we raise prices, buyers must still be able to afford them. You know what happened the past two months—after paying off every checkpoint along the way, we barely made a profit above cost. It's terrible."

"Wang, I know you. If you say this, you must already have a plan. Tell me quickly. You don't know how much I've been losing sleep lately—look at these dark circles. All because of those damn Japanese."

"Let's store this shipment for now. I'll think of another way—see if I can find a breakthrough with the Japanese."

"Oh, Wang, you are such a noble man. Your homeland is being invaded, yet you, to aid your country's soldiers, are willing to befriend those Japanese monkeys who invade you. Oh, what a magnificent spirit of sacrifice!"

Watching Wang Yan shake his head helplessly, Egger rose from behind his desk, clapped him on the shoulder, then poured two glasses of red wine: "Drop your hypocrisy, friend. I know you're a man who cares only for money. What you just said is merely your polished excuse to justify yourself. We've known each other seven years—no one understands you better than I do. I await your good news, Wang. You know I don't represent myself alone. Cheers!"

"Don't worry, my friend," Wang Yan took the glass, swallowed a large gulp of wine, then said: "Egger, I need your help with something."

"That's an insult, Wang."

"Alright, Egger—if you can, I'd like you to ask your friends in Falanxi, or America, or even Britain, to help me collect major scientific journals: Nature, Science, The Lancet—oh, and the New England Journal of Medicine. Every issue from 1920 until now, if possible. Try to get them all."

Egger frowned, looking at him as if he were an idiot: "Wang, are you ill?"

"Of course not. I've simply felt the power of technology. Perhaps the most advanced Western scientific journals hold business opportunities. Our trade is restricted everywhere—if we can discover some cutting-edge technology and produce something no other country has, we'll make enormous profits—money enough to spend for generations."

"Sorry, Wang, I must interrupt you. In fact, I already have enough money to last a lifetime."

"No, Egger—you need a vast estate. You need huge lands in Australia, Canada, or somewhere else. You need your own luxury plane, your own luxury yacht, your own vineyard—named after the Olsen family, the finest vineyard in the world. Believe me, in fifty years, your name will be on this bottle of red wine. Screw Lafite."

"Alright, Wang—I have to admit, your vision is splendid. So hurry up and find a way to get rid of those damn Japanese monkeys before they block our profits again. As for those journals, I'll contact my friends tonight. They'll find them for you—for free. Consider it done."

"To a generous friend," Wang Yan raised his glass and clinked it against Egger's, then left Egger's office under his urging.

When he returned to his domain on the first floor, all his men had left—they were on patrol duty.

In emergencies, they'd blow a whistle, just like in TV dramas, and reinforcements would rush from all directions. If gunfire broke out, they'd all hide in corners, then step forward to collect corpses—the procedure was second nature. But Wang Captain would always get scolded, and Chen Jiangliu wouldn't escape either. After all, it was their jurisdiction—when such a serious incident occurred, someone had to take the blame. As long as no foreign devils were injured or frightened, it was a minor issue.

He came in the morning to hold a meeting for his men, then was called away by Chen Jiangliu for a long chat, then Egger sent someone to summon him to discuss profit schemes. By the time he returned, it was already past ten.

Seeing he had time, he sat quietly, thinking.

Chen Jiangliu's meaning was clear—he was asking for money. The old man had grown greedy. Over the years, he'd taken his share of profits from every deal—he'd made plenty. Now he was stepping down, losing power, and growing old. His influence within the Green Gang was uncertain. He wanted a final payout.

But money was never the problem—it was only a question of who held it. The laws of physics tell us: energy is conserved. When money vanishes from Wang Mou's hands, it appears in Chen Jiangliu's. So all that's needed is to reverse the flow.

The question is: why does Chen Jiangliu want to retire? Few are truly detached; many are truly greedy. The old man waited until nearly fifty to consider retirement, while others stepped down in their forties, using their prime years to train subordinates, expand influence, and climb higher. By his age and connections, he could easily have held on for three more years.

Thinking this, it becomes clear: it must relate to the current situation. And the current situation ties to the Japanese. Earlier, Chen Jiangliu asked his opinion of the Japanese. So it follows: the Japanese are contacting him—or Zhang Xiaolin spoke to him.

The old man is afraid. He can't take the pressure. He wants no power, no trouble—just a peaceful retirement.

Then Zhang Xiaolin's visit to him becomes deeply suspicious.

Zhang Xiaolin is the old man Wang Yan bowed to—that's the Green Gang's term for his boss. But the Green Gang is ancient, its rules different. In truth, it's not much different from adopting a foster father. Zhang Xiaolin is a Tong-level elder; Wang Yan is Wu-level, same generation as Du Yong.

Zhang Xiaolin and Chen Jiangliu have known each other for years. Yesterday, Zhang Xiaolin didn't come. Yet yesterday, Zhang Xiaolin called him to invite him to dinner. Today, Chen Jiangliu summoned him. If there's nothing strange here, that would be odd.

So now the question is: has Zhang Xiaolin defected to the Japanese? And what does the dinner invitation mean?

Although Zhang Xiaolin controls most of the Green Gang's power, he cannot fully represent it. There are too many factions and cliques, with countless ties to the Bald Head's side. Even if Du Yong fled to Hong Kong, this side still has capable men. Zhang Xiaolin, no matter how powerful, cannot impose a one-man rule—he's survived several assassination attempts, only because he's lucky enough to be alive.

According to Wang Yan's knowledge, Zhang Xiaolin used to be quite honest—content to run opium dens, gambling halls, and brothels. Now, inviting him to dinner? He can't help but suspect.

Is he trying to pull his favorite disciple into the Japanese camp…?