Chapter 634

As expected, over time, this absurd incident spread widely. Wang Yan became fodder for Shanghai's elite during tea and meal conversations, a laughingstock in their mouths.

The Japanese kept silent, and they dared not ask Wang Yan, but there were seven or eight people present when he had dinner with Zhang Xiaolin. Even more unfortunate was Gao Yunchang, who had one wife and two concubines—all gossiping old women with loose lips. The fact that they paid 350,000 US dollars was now common knowledge.

Thus, it wasn't hard for people to deduce how much money Wang Yan had given the Japanese.

This was precisely what Wang Yan had anticipated. He had heard no news of Da Cun Zhanghong or Cunben Yilang being punished, and neither of these two Japanese had come to see him—meaning Da Cun Zhanghong had distributed the 200,000 US dollars perfectly, taking care of everyone from top to bottom. It also meant he was completely safe.

After all, the entire Shanghai elite and both parties now knew the full story. If the Japanese turned on him now, it would severely impact future operations. Wang Yan held a high position and wielded considerable power; he had even sent the Japanese a substantial sum of money. If even he could be killed by them, how could anyone else possibly hope to rise through their favor?

But Wang Yan had set a bad precedent—by openly revealing that he had paid the Japanese, he had made a dangerous move. Still, the issue wasn't severe, since not everyone had the ability to pay the Japanese.

How tragic—begging to give money away, yet still needing qualifications to do so. But that's just how the world is…

The incident passed safely, and Wang Yan took the opportunity to send a telegram to Chongqing, detailing the cause, course, and outcome. In intelligence work, such reports were always compiled. Shanghai's underground Communist intelligence unit had surely reported upward already, though they didn't know Wang Yan—the party member—was the subject. They would likely use this incident to propose a tentative contact.

Besides reporting these matters, Wang Yan also reiterated his connection with the Military Intelligence Bureau. He had, of course, reported this long ago—otherwise, future complications would be impossible to explain. The higher-ups were also perfectly at ease, since his parents had been killed by the Kuomintang. Though the two parties cooperated, the family grudge remained, merely unspoken.

This time, he reported his connection with the Military Intelligence Bureau again because of his incitement to assassinate Zhang Xiaolin. The Shanghai station couldn't punish Zhang Xiaolin—plainly, they lacked the resolve. If Chiang Zhongzheng scolded Dai Yu and others mocked him, within two months Zhang Xiaolin's head would be on a pike. After all, Zhang Xiaolin was just a gang boss—what difference did it make if he sided with the Japanese? Wang Yan couldn't defy collective will; how much more insignificant was Zhang Xiaolin?

Wang Yan knew the location of the Military Intelligence Bureau's liaison office in the French Concession. How could he not report this? How could he not know the leadership of the Shanghai station? How could he not know that Wang Tianfeng was currently in charge in Shanghai?

Tian Biao was a Captain. Though Wang Yan hadn't investigated Tian Biao's record, his complaints clearly indicated he had joined the Military Intelligence Bureau through one of three paths: during the Lixingshe era, through military reassignment, or by chance selection into Dai Yu's special training class. Tian Biao's promotion to Captain suggested a military service length of three to eight years. Given his self-deprecating claim that he had "no one above him," and considering his accumulated merits, he likely climbed step by step, laboriously over six or seven years.

Wang Tianfeng was even simpler—his superiors must have been nonexistent. Otherwise, the "Dead Spy Plan" would never have been entrusted to him to die.

Tian Biao was a competent soldier. The fact that he began complaining to Wang Yan, an outsider, revealed the internal state of the Shanghai station. People influence each other. No matter how intelligent or calculating Wang Tianfeng was, he couldn't remain unaffected—he must have grievances. A fanatic with ideology, spirit, and faith was no less an ambitious man; without ambition, one couldn't even become a fanatic. Who could casually use their own life as bait?

That's why Wang Yan incited Tian Biao to relay messages back and stir Wang Tianfeng. In the past, it might have been uncertain—but now, with this inequitable division of credit, Wang Tianfeng would surely act. Zhang Xiaolin's death was all but certain within these two months.

Zhang Xiaolin held a high position; his death would have some impact. Reporting it allowed the organization to prepare and respond.

Due to certain unspoken special reasons, Wang Yan couldn't act too openly or cause too much disruption. But Zhang Xiaolin was originally slated to die in 1940—dying two years early posed no major problem. Some impact, but manageable. For someone like Wang Zhaoming, Wang Yan wouldn't dare touch him—the consequences were unpredictable. Even if the organization ordered his elimination, Wang Yan couldn't succeed; he could only add one more failure to his flawless record. Because pulling one hair moves the whole body—the butterfly's wings, once flapped, could never stop.

Had it not been for this, with all his wealth and control over so many technologies, he would have long since begun secretly funding research and building industry in the Soviet Zone.

Even so, it didn't prevent him from accelerating the emergence of certain things—some impact, but still within acceptable limits…

Wang Yan wasn't an intelligence operative—he was a moneyman. Though Shanghai's covert war never ceased, and though he held the identity of Comrade Pei Min, Shanghai was vast. There weren't many defectors, nor were there many targets worthy of the Red Party deploying its top assassin. So his life remained quiet: daily contact with the organization, occasional minor reports upward, and otherwise, he was utterly idle. Even when riding in his car along the streets, if he didn't look at the sidewalks, saying "peaceful years" was not an exaggeration.

After all, he was a Shanghai celebrity, frequenting only elite venues, associating with no Bai Ding. Even those dancers with nothing but beauty possessed considerable culture. If he didn't want to see the people's suffering, he saw nothing. If not for Qi Si occasionally muttering about the beggar children he once helped, Wang Yan might never hear of suffering at all.

Of course he could see and hear it. On the bustling streets, half-naked beggars hid in corners; in deserted alleys lay the homeless. Every day, listening to his subordinates report how many had died in their district the previous night—everything unfolded before his eyes.

Having stirred trouble, Wang Yan began deliberately lowering his profile, cultivating inner calm. He still spent money, of course, but no longer frequented dance halls or casinos. Even this modest restraint was surprising—everyone knew Detective Wang was greedy and lustful. Now that he truly stopped going out, others understood: this time, the cowardly Detective Wang was genuinely terrified.

To the Japanese, he was extremely cooperative. He didn't wait for them to ask—he told Wang Manchun everything during their intimate conversations. Most of this information came from Mitchell, some from Egger and other foreigners. He leaked a flood of useless intelligence mixed with a few scraps of marginal value.

The information was actually deliberately fed to Wang Yan by the French. Though these foreigners were arrogant, they respected those who served them and were willing to understand. Though Wang Yan's actions had embarrassed the police leadership, they knew that if these people weren't exposed, worse trouble would follow. They understood this. They also knew Wang Yan's precarious position with the Japanese—they couldn't protect him, and their great Falanxi far away in Europe had no solution for these damned Japanese monkeys.

They couldn't even lie to Wang Yan, couldn't stir him up with empty rhetoric. But they didn't want him dead—so they could only cooperate, feeding him information to help him maintain relations with the Japanese.

As for Wang Manchun, she was always satisfied. Only after her period ended, when she met Wang Yan again, did she mock his earlier humiliation and urge him: "Why not just defect to the Japanese? You gain neither their trust nor French protection—you'll just die uselessly."

Wang Yan, of course, gave her the same old line: "Whose bread you eat, whose orders you follow," and brushed her off.

After prolonged contact, Wang Manchun knew she could never sway Wang Yan's choices, nor could she ever make him obsessed with her beauty. If not for her daily duties at the Tokumu-ku reminding her, she might forget her mission entirely. A woman's beauty is poison; a man's competence is too. And Wang Yan possessed many other qualities—Wang Manchun couldn't help but be drawn in, increasingly unable to extricate herself.

She knew clearly: she and Wang Yan shared only bed companionship. But that didn't stop her from nurturing forbidden feelings—even though she was an ambitious woman, one who sought to surpass men. Nor did it prevent her from having the resolve, and the unhesitating will, to deliver the bullet that ended his life when necessary.

Everyone has their convictions. She had hers.

Wang Yan, of course, understood this perfectly. Coincidentally, he wouldn't hesitate either.

A month passed. One morning, at the Central Police Station on Xue Lihua Road, Wang Yan held his daily morning briefing for his men. Nothing important—just another night's deaths, arrests, and which of the arrested were big shots. He gave them instructions on how much to extort, arranged patrol priorities—easy work.

Meetings were held according to importance. For major matters, only his three team leaders—He Shaohong, Zhang Xian, and He Xinwu—were summoned. He Xinwu had replaced Jingkou Haoer, recommended by Wang Yan. He had originally been He Shaohong's deputy. This kid knew how to handle people—otherwise Wang Yan wouldn't have promoted him.

As for Wang Yongkui, who had previously tipped off Wang Yan about Jingkou Haoer and had a rebellious streak, he was promoted to squad leader of Team Two, commanding five or six men—finally making it. Wang Yan still remembered the joy and excitement on Wang Yongkui's face—he believed his merit had earned him Wang's attention, and squad leader was far from his end goal.

But tragically, squad leader was Wang Yongkui's final goal—he died. He hadn't even sat in the chair for twenty-four hours before he was dead.

Wang Yongkui was killed by the Japanese. After such a major incident and heavy losses, Wang Yan—the main party—couldn't die. But Wang Yongkui, another Wang who had exposed them, had no right to live. He had to be eliminated as a warning to Wang Yan—to remind him not to treat the Japanese as fools.

So Wang Yongkui died—on the very day he became squad leader. That night, he treated his new subordinates to dinner. After three rounds of drinks, he claimed he needed to urinate—and never returned. His throat was slit—clean, swift, one cut.

Wang Yongkui's body was found in an alley near the restaurant, lying on cold earth, buried in the blood of his ambition. Only when notifying his family did they learn: his wife and children were already dead.

Wang Yan knew exactly what had happened. He loudly demanded vengeance, gathering his hundred-odd men for a meeting. He bluntly declared the Japanese had killed Wang Yongkui, explained their intent, and explicitly excluded himself. He reiterated once again: avoid the Japanese, the Kuomintang, and the Red Party; don't get too close to them—and if you do, don't let him find out. Then, feigning sorrow, he personally handled Wang Yongkui's funeral arrangements. He also distributed money to all his men, making them happy, ensuring no one cared about Wang Yongkui—and forgetting Wang Yan's role in it all.

For moderately important meetings, he summoned not only team leaders but also deputy leaders, to ensure precise transmission of orders. For larger meetings, he included squad leaders—to make them feel valued. For all-hands meetings? Purely for stirring morale.

After all, as Shanghai's famed new tycoon, personally speaking to these lowly subordinates was an honor. When the busy Detective Wang called your name, you instantly felt your mission, ready to die for him—nothing was more effective than this pep talk.

After the meeting, someone came to inform him that Egger was looking for him. Wang Yan had no pressing business—he was about to drink tea and read the paper—so he strolled lazily upstairs to Egger's spacious, bright, luxurious office.

He sat down unceremoniously on the sofa, legs crossed: "What do you want?"

"Wang, it's good news—don't look so gloomy." Egger knew Wang Yan hadn't touched a woman in a month—he was so sober he thought Wang had become someone else. He poured two glasses of red wine, sat down, handed Wang one, and grinned: "The scientific journals you asked me to find have arrived. Didn't I tell you? My friends said just gather a few old professors. Every issue of those journals is complete—how's that for good news?"

"Not bad. I just saw how powerful Falanxi and Britain and America were, and how strong Japan had become, and wanted to understand why. You know, my countrymen advocated learning your advanced science and technology decades ago. Yet, after all these years, I've seen no results. Of course, I also truly wanted to see if I could make money—you know, I'm smart, and I've had a bit of luck—maybe I'll find a business opportunity."

"Wang, your state is off. I think you're missing a woman's care—you haven't been with one in a month, which is unimaginable. Wang, tell me secretly—I swear on God I won't tell anyone—have you lost your ability? Scared stiff by those Japanese monkeys?"

Looking at Egger, eyes wide with curiosity and gossip, leaning forward, Wang Yan slapped him hard on his balding head—*crack! *—sending him sprawling back onto the sofa, clutching his skull in pain. "I'm just keeping a low profile, lying low for a while. Don't you know? The Japanese sent a woman to seduce me—I've been with her constantly."

"Wang, my friend, we've known each other seven years—no one understands you better than I do. I know no woman can bind a wanderer chasing freedom and beauty."

Wang Yan laughed loudly, raising his wineglass: "To you, my friend."

They clinked glasses, drank a toast of friendship. Wang Yan asked: "Where are the journals? At the port or the warehouse?"

"You know, the Wusongkou port was bombed. Now our ships dock along the Huangpujiang, then trucks and workers haul them to the warehouse."

The deep water of the Huangpujiang is eighteen to nineteen meters; the shallow parts still reach eight or nine. At this time, the largest cargo ships and oil tankers are around forty to fifty thousand tons, with drafts of fourteen to fifteen meters. Such ships can't enter the Huangpu. But most of their vessels are twenty to thirty thousand tons, with drafts of seven to nine meters—difficult, but barely able to enter, even if they need towboats. No big problem.

Previously, they didn't dock on the Huangpu because it was inconvenient. Wusongkou had a fully developed port system with smooth turnover—especially for foreign goods, which had priority. Also, there was a railway line there. Though farther than the Huangpu docks, freight efficiency was much higher.

Now, Wusongkou was bombed by the Zhongyi Jiu Guo Jun—this was just a last resort.

But Egger continued: "Still, the journals aren't on those small ships. They're on the big ships offshore at Wusongkou. If you're in a hurry, send someone to fetch them. If not, wait two days—they'll reach the warehouse. Want to go out tonight?"

"A few days," Wang Yan shook his head, refusing Egger's winking. "If you hadn't told me, fine. But now I know the journals have arrived—I want to go see them, find opportunities. I haven't been out in a long time anyway. I'll go to Wusongkou, see how the port's been repaired."

Egger didn't mind. He liked beautiful women, but he liked money more—and he loved his wife. Whether he went out to party or not was a matter of chance—he wasn't as promiscuous as Wang Yan. Sometimes he even admired Wang Yan's stamina, occasionally adding another woman. He couldn't even manage his one wife—he was envious.

Wang Yan didn't linger with Egger. He went downstairs, returned to his office, and called Shi Changxing. Then he sat quietly, sipping tea and reading the paper.

Over ten minutes later, someone knocked on the office door. Before Wang Yan could speak, Qi Si pushed in: "Brother Yan, Shi Ge's men have arrived—outside on the street. They say they're going to Wusongkou. What are we doing?"

Wang Yan tossed the newspaper aside, stood up, and walked out: "A shipment's arrived—there's something I need. Besides, I haven't moved around in a month. Let me go see the sea, clear my head."

"That's no way to clear your head—sixty li, rough road, stinking and nothing worth seeing," Qi Si sneered, but he still politely shut the office door and ran ahead to open the car.

Downstairs, someone immediately came to open the rear door for Inspector Wang. After he got in, the man carefully closed it, bowed deeply as the car drove off, then pulled out a newly acquired cigarette and lit it with satisfaction.

Qi Si drove past the police station's gate, and instantly two more cars pulled up—one sped ahead to lead the way, the other followed behind to guard. These were bodyguards—four per car, eight total—all armed.

Unless going to the North Station warehouse, Wang Yan rarely left the Concession in public—even when he did, he was always surrounded by attendants. This was his way of showing he was cowardly. In the Concession, whether the International Settlement or the French Concession, many of his men were everywhere—not to mention the countless rickshaw pullers on every street. They might not dare fight for him, but they'd definitely send word if trouble came.

Because Boss Wang was generous—he charged fair rates for rickshaw hires, took no deposit, stepped in to defend them when customers were rude, ensured they weren't bullied, and helped them get revenge if they were. This was rare, and they supported him wholeheartedly. If anything happened, as long as he wasn't dead right away, those rickshaw pullers would find a phone and call for help themselves.

Of course, both the arrangements inside the Concession and the caution outside were just part of maintaining his persona. Come on—who was Wang Mou to fear those people? He was just sticking to the act, consistently and thoroughly…

The road to Wu Song Port was indeed bumpy—just because it was dirt. These were old roads, worn down by heavy traffic and the fact that the war had ended only half a year ago. Though the Japanese had prioritized repairing this key logistics route, conditions in this era were what they were—there was no way to lay down a full asphalt road.

Wang Yan sat in the back seat, staring aimlessly at the scenery on either side of the road.

He certainly didn't ask Egger to collect those scientific journals for no reason—saying he was looking for new business opportunities was just an excuse. His goal had only one purpose.

In 1928, the British man Alexander Fleming discovered a new mold, and after cultivation and study, identified its effect. In 1929, he published his findings in the British Journal of Pathology.

Coincidentally, the journal Egger was collecting included this one—Wang Yan had even given him a list. Alexander Fleming published a paper in 1929 titled "On the Antibacterial Action of Cultures of a Penicillium, with Special Reference to Their Use in the Isolation of B. influenzae," in which he named his newly discovered mold… Penicillin!