Chapter 332: Decryption!

Led by Pinkman, the group soon arrived at the B1 level of the theater and walked all the way to the room directly facing the center of the stage before stopping.

It was a circular door, its silver-gray metal surface gleaming coldly under the dim lights.

Around the door frame was a ring of thick bolts, and in the center was a huge ship's wheel-style handle, like a watertight door on an old-fashioned ship.

"What is this?" Chen Xiong's voice came from the middle of the group.

Pinkman did not answer.

He leaned his cane against the wall, gripped the wheel handle with both hands, and turned it hard to the left. The handle emitted a dull, metallic creaking sound of metal rubbing against metal, then began to rotate, circle by circle.

As the handle turned, the bolts distributed around the door frame began to retract from the frame one by one, each retraction accompanied by a short "click," like the firing pins of some large firearm being pulled back one by one.

"Click... click... click..."

Twelve sounds in total.

Pinkman grabbed the door handle and yanked it outward.

The heavy metal door let out a low sigh and slowly opened.

Behind the door was a huge room.

Light poured out from the crack in the door, stinging people's eyes and making them squint slightly.

This was a one-to-one replica of a bank vault.

The ceiling was high, embedded with rows of white fluorescent tubes; the light was cold and biting, without any warmth.

The floor was covered with light gray industrial floor paint.

Every inch was as flat as a mirror, and stepping on it, one could hear the slight, astringent friction between the soles of the shoes and the painted surface.

The surrounding walls were occupied by rows of steel safes, ranging in size from large to small; the large ones were taller than a person, and the small ones were only the size of a shoebox.

Each safe door was embedded with a brass nameplate engraved with a serial number, and some numbers had red or blue labels stuck next to them, the labels already slightly curled at the edges, as if they had been artificially aged.

The surface of the safe doors was coated with dark gray hammer-tone paint, reflecting fine, flickering spots of light under the lamps.

In the center of the room stood a metal table.

Neatly stacked on it were piles and piles of Euros!

Each stack was bound with a white paper band, printed with the Euro currency symbol and the denomination.

The banknotes were very new, so new that the edges of each one were as sharp as a blade, reflecting light slightly under the lamps.

The air was filled with a faint, peculiar smell characteristic of dried printing ink, similar to a mixture of paper and chemical agents.

Seeing the group, Wesley, who was standing next to the banknotes, asked inexplicably:

"Can someone tell me what on earth is going on here?"

Pinkman smiled, walked around the pile of banknotes, and came to stand in front of Wesley.

He tucked his cane under his arm and straightened his suit lapels with both hands:

"This is the B1 level of the Grand Theater. To be precise, it is the room directly facing the center of the stage. It was that 'Time-Space Shuttle' from just now that sent you here; there is a slide directly beneath it. When the remote control is pressed, the platform under your feet will quickly fold downward, and at that moment, the person will slide directly into this room along the slide, just like going down a playground slide. The whole process takes less than a second. You wouldn't even have time to be afraid before you arrived."

Wesley looked down at his feet, then looked at the metal floor beneath him.

"So, you mean—" Wesley raised his head and said, "Chu Chen built a one-to-one bank vault under the stage in Las Vegas, just like this?"

Pinkman smiled and nodded slowly.

"I see... but the problem is, a vault can be a Forgery, but how did that ticket stub signed by the American get from Las Vegas to the vault of the French Bank in Paris? That ticket stub had that man's personal signature on it. Our handwriting experts have compared it; it is his own handwriting. A ticket stub signed in Las Vegas appeared in a French bank vault eight thousand kilometers away on the very night it was signed. How do you explain this?"

When Wesley said this, his gaze was fixed straight on Pinkman's face, the white light of the fluorescent tubes reflected in his pupils like two freshly sharpened blades.

Pinkman smiled: "A signed ticket stub certainly wouldn't travel across the ocean, unless it was already waiting for you at the destination."

Wesley looked at him, puzzled.

Pinkman continued: "Long before the magician took the stage, the real magic had already begun. Detective, would you rather believe in something as absurd as 'Time-Space' travel than believe that someone put that ticket stub in the bank vault in advance?"

"You mean—" Wesley's voice was half a tone lower than before, as if something had suddenly appeared in his throat, "that guy had already put the signed ticket stub into the Paris bank vault before that performance in Las Vegas even started? How is that possible?"

"Not just the ticket stub," Pinkman continued: "There is also that American—the 'randomly selected audience member' who personally signed his name on the ticket stub on the stage in Las Vegas. He wasn't random. He was the target Chu Chen had selected long ago."

"Chu Chen spent a long time, continuously, incessantly, using various methods to psychologically suggest things to that American. A certain image on a television program, a certain pattern on a street billboard, a line of lyrics that drifted by by chance on the radio—all these seemingly unrelated fragments of information, under Chu Chen's design, were like carefully polished keys, inserted one by one into the keyhole of that American's subconscious. In the end, the American himself didn't know why he suddenly wanted to go to Las Vegas for a vacation. Once in Las Vegas, he 'just happened' to pass by that hotel, 'just happened' to see the poster for that show, 'just happened' to buy a ticket, and 'just happened' to be picked from the audience onto the stage by Chu Chen."

"He hypnotized him and made him sign the ticket stub."

Wesley took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

After a while, he said: "But I still don't understand how he robbed the bank from a distance."

"He didn't rob it," Pinkman said, his voice very light, but every word was like a nail, "This guy just played a trick of swapping the beams. Dealing with a cash-in-transit driver shouldn't be a difficult task for Chu Chen, right? If he wants to, he has ten thousand ways to handle this: bribe him, threaten him, or like he did with that American—hypnotize him. No matter which method is used, as long as the driver acts according to Chu Chen's instructions within a specific period of time and along a specific route, half the plan is already a success."

"Once the counterfeit money is in place in the vault, there is only one last step left—"

Pinkman took something out of his pocket.

It was a very small, thin, square sheet that looked like a playing card but was much thinner than a playing card; the color was silver-gray, and the surface had a rainbow-like, oil-film luster.

He held the sheet between his index and middle fingers and held it up to the light.

"This is called Fluorescent Paper. One of the most basic props for a magician. Even a three-year-old child can use it with ease."

As he spoke, Pinkman released his fingers and threw the Fluorescent Paper into the air.

The paper met oxygen and was quickly ignited.

"This thing can make those specially made counterfeit banknotes disappear silently, without leaving any traces!"

"As for the real banknotes..." Pinkman said, while pressing another button on the remote control in his hand.

The next second.

The exhaust fan above the vault was turned on!

The sound of the blades rotating climbed from low to high, turning from a "buzz" to a "whoosh" within a few seconds, and then into a low, continuous roar like a jet engine idling.

Immediately after, the money began to spin crazily like a tornado, flying into the ventilation duct!

One Euro note after another was sucked in by the powerful airflow!

And then, they fell one after another from above the stage!

"How about it, do you understand now?" Pinkman said in a low voice: "There is no such thing as time travel, no such thing as teleportation, and certainly none of the impossible technology you imagine. He simply finished the magic trick before anyone even realized it had begun!"