Chapter 331: Visiting Pinkman!

The rain in London had been falling all day.

By evening, there was still no sign of it stopping.

The Pinkeman Magic Club was hidden on the third floor of an old Victorian-era building; there was no sign at the entrance, only a faded, hand-painted playing card pattern nailed next to the iron gate.

When Wesley pushed open that heavy iron gate, the hinges let out a dry groan, as if the building were complaining about someone coming to cause trouble on such a rainy day.

The members of the Expert Group filed in behind him.

Liu Xuemin walked at the very front, a fine layer of raindrops misting the lenses of his silver-rimmed glasses; after entering, he took a dark-colored lens cloth from his pocket and wiped them unhurriedly.

The interior of the club was much larger than it looked from the outside.

High ceilings, dark wood wainscoting, and walls covered in yellowed posters and black-and-white photographs—magicians from the early 20th century stretching their arms on stage, with huge prop trunks and showgirls in sequined dresses behind them.

Led by Wesley, the group walked through the corridor and stopped in front of a door at the end.

"Knock, knock, knock!"

"Please come in!"

After receiving a response from inside, Wesley pushed the door open and walked straight in.

The room was not large, and as far as the eye could see, it was filled with magic props.

Behind the desk sat an old white man.

He looked to be in his fifties, wearing a dark green velvet suit jacket over a black turtleneck sweater.

His hair was graying but styled neatly; the sides were shaved very short, and the hair on top was swept back, fixed with hair gel into a clean, sharp silhouette.

His jawline was firm and his nose bridge high; in his youth, he must have had the kind of looks that made female audience members scream.

Wesley walked forward.

"Pinkman." He extended his right hand.

His voice was a little higher than usual, carrying a sense of deliberately suppressed familiarity.

He and this man likely had some acquaintance, but not deep—deep enough to exchange greetings, but shallow enough that no prolonged small talk was needed.

Pinkman shook his hand, gave it a firm shake, and then let go.

His gaze passed over Wesley's shoulder and swept across the group of people behind him.

This sweep took less than two seconds, but his expression already told everyone that he seemed to know the purpose of their visit.

"What a rare guest; it seems you haven't been to my club for several years." Pinkman's voice was not loud, but it had a penetrating quality that allowed the last row of an old-fashioned theater to hear clearly without a microphone.

That was the skill of a magic stage persona honed through thousands of trials.

"The last time you came, you asked me if I could make a pigeon appear at the London Metropolitan Police annual banquet. I said no; pigeon droppings are not safe for banquet food. The group you brought today doesn't look like they're here to ask me to make pigeons appear."

Wesley smiled, looked back at the members of the Expert Group, and then turned back to face Pinkman, his expression shifting back to the seriousness he wore when reporting to superiors at the police station.

"Pinkman, I won't beat around the bush with you. We've run into trouble, a very big trouble."

"Oh? What kind of trouble is it that you police can't solve?"

"It's Chu Chen—you should know this person."

Pinkman's smile did not disappear, but it did not widen either. He maintained that precise angle, like a fixed, perfectly appropriate social expression.

"I know," he said. "This guy has been known to the world lately."

As Pinkman spoke, he stood up, invited them to sit, and then said to his assistant nearby: "Go pour some coffee, Kaili."

After the female assistant left, Wesley said:

"We need your help, Pinkman."

Wesley's voice was calm when he said this.

Pinkman picked up his pipe, took two puffs, tilted his head, and let his gaze pass over the faces of everyone in the Expert Group again, this time moving slower, as if he were truly looking at them rather than categorizing them.

"What do you want me to do?" Pinkman asked.

"I want you to help us crack his magic," Wesley replied.

Pinkman smoked silently, saying nothing, wondering what he was thinking.

The chandelier overhead cast a warm yellow light, like a carefully arranged picture frame, and Pinkman was the only protagonist in that painting.

"Heh." After a puff of smoke, he chuckled.

Hidden in this smile was the relief of something long-awaited finally arriving, the satisfaction of "you finally asked the right question," and a kind of patience with a sense of superiority that a magician has when facing laymen.

"You've come to the right person, haven't you." As Pinkman spoke, he proudly pointed to the published magic videotapes on the bookshelf behind him.

It was by relying on these tapes that cracked magic tricks that he became a figure feared by magicians.

He stood up.

The hem of his velvet suit swayed gently with his stride as he came before Wesley, and he asked softly:

"Do you know which incident was the first time Chu Chen caught the attention of Interpol?"

"Which one?" Wesley asked.

"It wouldn't be that time in Las Vegas, would it?" Li Changyu, who was to the side, asked in return.

"That's right, that's the one." Pinkman gave an affirmative answer: "That day, on stage, he successfully stole the vault of a French Bank. The two places were eight thousand kilometers apart. Yet, the iron-clad facts could only make people believe his performance. Do you want to know how he did it?"

Pinkman's smile appeared once again.

Seeing him say this, everyone became interested.

"Do you already know?" Wesley was the first to ask.

Pinkman did not answer him directly, instead picking up the trench coat from the coat rack: "I think we must take a trip."

"Where to?"

Twenty minutes later.

The group arrived at the London Grand Theatre.

Because it was a workday, and it was raining today, there were not many people.

Pinkman greeted the staff, then walked in first and headed straight for the center of the stage.

In the center of the stage sat something resembling a refrigerator, covered by a red cloth.

"What is this thing?" Wesley asked, following behind him.

Pinkman signaled for him to open it and take a look.

Seeing this, Wesley didn't say much more and directly yanked the red cloth off!

Before long, a massive, high-tech cabinet appeared before everyone!

"If you saw his performance in Las Vegas, you should be very familiar with this thing."

"This is..."

"That's right, this is his so-called Time-Space Shuttle, which I replicated one-to-one."

Looking at his masterpiece, Pinkman's eyes were full of affection.

"How about it, Detective, want to go on a long-distance trip?"

Wesley naturally understood what he meant by those words, so he nodded.

Pinkman took a playing card out of his trench coat's outer pocket and handed it to him: "Sign your name here, then put it in your pocket."

Wesley did exactly as instructed.

"Alright, Detective, please."

Under his guidance, Wesley stepped onto the platform of the Time-Space Shuttle.

"Are you ready?"

Wesley nodded nervously.

"Good, have a pleasant journey!"

After he finished speaking, he took a miniature remote control directly from his pocket and pressed the red button on it!

The next second, with a bang, the lid on the Time-Space Shuttle fell rapidly, slamming onto the platform, and at the same time, Wesley vanished without a trace!

"Bang!"

This sudden turn of events gave everyone a fright.

While everyone was at a loss as to what had happened, Pinkman took out his mobile phone and opened a video surveillance app.

After the buffering finished, an image finally appeared on the black screen.

And the person on the screen was none other than Wesley!

The place he was in now seemed to be a bank vault, surrounded by walls of copper and iron.

"How is it? Wesley, can you hear me?"

Due to the recent turn of events, Wesley had not yet fully recovered his senses; only after hearing someone call him did he nod while looking around.

"Congratulations, you have already traveled to Paris, France."

The members of the Expert Group were all stunned, having no idea how he had managed to do it.

"Such a trip is certainly cool enough, but I still prefer taking the stairs to Paris, France." Pinkman said, pointing toward the emergency exit on the east side of his stage.

"Wesley, we'll see each other in a while. Please, everyone!"