Chen Fan and Brother Bao stopped at the sound, freezing where they stood.
Chen Fan held his breath and looked toward the sound. Sure enough, a figure was strolling toward them from about twenty meters away!
The man drew closer and closer. Only when he was a little over ten meters away did Chen Fan hear his footsteps.
The footsteps approached, accompanied by a muffled sound, as though someone were humming a little tune.
A night watchman.
Brother Bao had already reached for the iron rod at his waist. His body tensed slightly, ready to spring into action.
Chen Fan pressed down on his arm and shook his head.
This was no time to act. Acting would make noise, and noise would bring more people.
Ma Xiaotian came up behind them and whispered, "There's only one. Let him pass. Leave him alone."
Chen Fan made a hand signal. The three of them huddled against the base of the wall, holding their breath, not daring to make a sound.
Before long, they could clearly hear the night watchman singing smugly, "First touch, I touched her hand, little sister..."
One listen was enough to tell that the tune was nothing respectable. It was clearly "The Eighteen Touches," sung in the brothels...
Soon, the footsteps passed less than ten paces in front of the recess where they were hiding.
But as he passed, the man inexplicably paused.
Then a trickling sound came from the corner. Apparently, the man had stopped to take a piss. Afterward, he continued on, his singing growing fainter until the night wind finally swallowed it.
Ma Xiaotian was the first to emerge from the recess, taking the lead and beckoning the other two to follow!
They continued forward and soon circled around to the warehouse's rear wall.
Just as Ma Xiaotian had said, there was a row of ventilation windows in the rear wall, about a person's height above the ground.
Chen Yangfan gripped a window frame with both hands, pulled himself up, and climbed onto it with his feet braced against the wall.
Then, standing on the sill, he turned sideways, squeezed through the ventilation window, and dropped soundlessly into the warehouse.
About a dozen seconds later, half of Chen Fan's face appeared in the ventilation window, and he signaled outside.
Brother Bao understood. He stepped back twice, took a running start, and jumped, his large hands catching the window frame securely.
With a heave of his arms, Brother Bao's upper body went through the opening. Then he twisted at the waist and nimbly climbed inside.
Chen Fan gestured for Ma Xiaotian to hide in the shadows and watch for movement outside, then vanished into the darkness!
The warehouse was even darker inside than outside.
The lamps overhead were all out. Only the windows on the eastern wall let in a faint trace of light.
Chen Fan and Brother Bao crouched against the base of the wall, letting their eyes slowly adjust to the darkness.
"Which way?" Brother Bao's voice was muffled, as though it came from inside a jar.
Chen Fan did not answer. He took something from inside his clothes: an extremely thin "wax cord"!
It was made of cotton thread soaked in wax and twisted together, only as thick as a toothpick. Once lit, its flame was barely brighter than a firefly.
It was standard equipment for secret agents, providing just enough light in total darkness to see three steps ahead, while remaining invisible from a distance.
He struck a match, cupped it in his hand, and lit the thin wax thread. A tiny glimmer appeared in the darkness, scarcely larger than a will-o'-the-wisp.
"Stack seventeen. Third row of racks on the east side."
The warehouse was packed with goods. In the darkness, they could not make out the full shapes of the cargo, only the impression of mountains barring their way.
They had only fifteen minutes. Wax cord in hand, Chen Fan walked along, counting the stacks.
Section C. The first row held bundles of cotton yarn. White yarn showed through gaps in the burlap, glimmering dully in the candlelight.
The second row of racks held metal drums printed with foreign lettering. He could not make out what it said, but they probably contained lubricating oil or kerosene.
The third row of racks...
Chen Fan stopped and raised the wax thread a little higher.
The goods on the racks were piled haphazardly. Several layers of sacks lay at the bottom, with seven or eight wooden crates stacked on top!
Each crate was about two feet long and one foot wide, made of thin boards bound with metal strips.
The crates bore no markings, no shipping marks, no product names, and no recipients.
Brother Bao leaned closer, lightly tapped the top crate with his iron rod, and tilted his head to listen. "This one?"
Chen Fan crouched, drew a dagger from his waist, slid it into the gap beneath the lid, and gently pried.
The board came free, revealing the contents. A layer of oilpaper lay on top. Beneath it were tubular objects wrapped individually in wax paper, each about as thick as a thumb and six inches long.
American-made detonators.
Chen Fan counted. Forty were neatly arranged in the crate, separated by wooden partitions, each wrapped tightly in wax paper.
According to Old Knife Handle, the shipment contained one hundred and twenty. That meant three crates.
"This is it." Chen Fan replaced the lid on the crate he had opened. "Brother Bao, you take two. I'll take one."
Without another word, Brother Bao bent down and picked up two crates, tucking one under each arm.
The crates were not large, but the detonators were heavy. Each weighed about seven hundred grams, making a crate weigh fifty or sixty jin!
Together, the two crates weighed at least a hundred and ten-odd jin, yet Brother Bao carried them as though they were nothing.
Chen Fan picked up the remaining crate. It was heavier than he had imagined, but fortunately, they did not have far to go. He could grit his teeth and make it.
The two deftly climbed out through the iron window. Ma Xiaotian emerged from the shadows and led the way as the three retraced their route.
Chen Fan brought up the rear. With the crate pressed against his chest, he could not see the ground beneath his feet and could only follow Brother Bao's back.
Brother Bao walked quickly with long strides. Chen Fan followed, breathing hard, the crate digging painfully into his chest.
Halfway back, Ma Xiaotian suddenly stopped. Chen Fan and Brother Bao instinctively stopped at the same time.
Without turning around, Ma Xiaotian held an open hand behind him, fingers spread, then slowly closed it into a fist.
It was a battlefield signal: enemy spotted, take cover where you are, no talking.
Chen Fan's heart leaped. He strained his ears but heard nothing.
But Ma Xiaotian would not make that signal without reason. Chen Fan opened the system panel.
Sure enough, several yellow dots were slowly moving toward them from about twenty meters away!
About a dozen seconds later, Chen Fan heard them too.
A patter of footsteps approached from the southwest, some sixty or seventy paces from their position.
At that speed and in that direction, those two people would reach Section C in less than half a minute.
There was no time to go around.
Ma Xiaotian looked back and made a gesture. "I'll handle it."
Chen Fan shook his head, raised his palm, and bent it slightly backward, signaling, "Go back!"
Ma Xiaotian looked at him again, pointed at Brother Bao, then at Chen Fan, and finally toward the warehouse's rear wall.
His meaning was clear: "You two take the goods and go. I'll deal with these two."
Then he held up three fingers to Chen Fan and slowly folded two down, leaving one.
Give me one minute.
Chen Fan nodded and made a gesture. Be careful!
Ma Xiaotian quickly headed in the opposite direction. A clang rang out, as though he had bumped into something, followed by a man's voice. "Who's there? Who is it?"
Hurried footsteps followed as those men chased after Ma Xiaotian.
"Stop! Who are you?"
Taking advantage of the opening, Brother Bao and Chen Fan quickened their pace. Carrying the crates, they retreated along their original route toward the north side of the docks.
Once outside the warehouse area, Chen Fan and Brother Bao hid in the shadows where they had sheltered before. In the distance, a searchlight beam swept slowly past.
Ma Xiaotian had not come out yet.
Chen Fan stood at the little doorway, holding his crate, and hesitated for three seconds.
"Let's go," Brother Bao whispered behind him. "He can get out."
Chen Fan gritted his teeth, turned, and slipped through the little door.
Outside was a narrow alley. A handcart stood at its entrance, lined with oilcloth. Brother Bao had arranged it during the day.
They stacked the three crates on the cart, covered them tightly with the oilcloth, and secured them with several loops of hemp rope.
Brother Bao took up the cart's handles while Chen Fan pushed from behind, saying, "Don't rush. Go slowly."
"Brother Ma hasn't caught up yet."
"Don't worry. Brother Ma doesn't just have good ears. He's very capable in a fight too." As Brother Bao spoke, he slowed his steps.
One in front and one behind, they pushed the cart west.
After about three or four hundred paces, hurried footsteps came from behind.
Chen Fan did not move, but Brother Bao warily snatched up the wooden club from the cart!
"It's me." Ma Xiaotian's voice came from the darkness, slightly breathless.
Brother Bao asked in a low voice, "Where are they?"
"I led them over to the coal piles in the east, circled around twice, and lost them."
Ma Xiaotian caught his breath and said, "Those two were customs men, not Japanese. Slow as anything. They followed a few steps and lost their bearings."
"Brother Ma, thanks for the hard work. Let's get out of here!" Chen Fan nodded. The three pushed the cart faster and soon disappeared into the darkness!
In the early hours...
Backstage at Shengping Theatre, the room behind the iron door was comfortably warm, with two charcoal braziers burning inside.
The kerosene lamp's shade had been polished spotless. Its pale yellow light gave the room's few pieces of red sandalwood furniture a rich sheen.
Old Knife Handle sat in a traditional armchair, an ivory cigarette holder between his lips, smoking leisurely.
Before him sat a dish of pine nut candy and a pot of Lapsang Souchong, its bright red tea giving off steam.
The silver-frost charcoal burned fiercely in the braziers, occasionally giving a faint crack or two, like someone accidentally stepping on a dry leaf.
He was not in high spirits. He simply could not sleep.
He already knew Chen Fan was going to "move the goods" tonight.
Although he had offered no help openly, he had secretly sent two lookouts to hang back well outside the docks.
The lookouts dared not get close. They could only watch from afar and return every hour to report that all was well.
If things went smoothly, there would be nothing to do. But if they did not, he would have to prepare to help them get out.
Although he was unwilling to let Chen Fan see him at a disadvantage, business was business. If something really did happen!
Losing the goods would be a minor matter. If the men fell into Japanese hands and the trail led back to his name, that would be serious.
Fortunately, the lookouts had returned three times so far, each reporting, "No movement. Nothing unusual that we can see."
Heh. At a time like this, no movement was the best news.
As Old Knife Handle was thinking this, a knock sounded outside, neither loud nor soft.
It did not come from the iron door, but from the small wooden door at the back of the theatre.
Outsiders did not know the layout of his office.
The audience entered the theatre through the main entrance, while a backstage passage led to the iron door. Only a handful of old acquaintances knew the back door existed!
The back door opened onto a secluded alley behind the theatre. Anyone unfamiliar with it would never find the place.
Anyone who could find this spot and knock in the dead of night had to be from the underworld, and on urgent business at that.
Old Knife Handle took the cigarette holder from his mouth, rose, and walked to the door. Through the wooden panel, he asked, "Who is it?"
"Jingui." The voice outside had an oily smoothness to it. "Sixth Master, it's me, Wu Jingui."
"I'm terribly sorry to disturb you so late, but it's urgent."
Old Knife Handle frowned. He knew all the people dealing in sundries in Shanghai!
Although Wu Jingui was an old hand, his courage was scarcely larger than a pinhead.
He had a small shop on Luban Road in the French Concession, ostensibly selling assorted sundries.
But he had connections everywhere, with ties to the Green Gang, the chamber of commerce, and the docks.
So he knew exactly what was in short supply and could get hold of a little of any sought-after merchandise.
But his most notable quality was not his skill in business. It was his timidity. The slightest sign of trouble sent him shrinking back.
Even when he knew a deal promised huge profits, he would turn tail and run if there was any risk.
Still, it had to be said that in Shanghai, timid men always lived a little longer than bold ones...
They moved in the same circles, and Old Knife Handle had dealt with him two or three times before. Someone else had brought him along each time. He had never dared visit alone.
Now he had found his way to the back door, and at this hour. Presumably, this was no ordinary matter.
Old Knife Handle slid back the bolt and opened the wooden door.
Outside stood a short, plump man in his forties, round-faced and small-eyed, wearing a gray squirrel-fur robe beneath a black cloak. Its hood covered his head, hiding most of his face.
This was Wu Jingui, known in Shanghai as "Fatty Wu."
The way he had bundled himself up made him look terrified that anyone might learn he had been here...
Seeing Old Knife Handle open the door, Wu Jingui put on a flowery smile that squeezed his eyes into slits. "Sixth Master, I finally get to see you. I'm terribly sorry to disturb you so late..."
"Come inside." Old Knife Handle stepped aside and glanced outside.
The alley was deserted. Only moonlight shone on the gray brick wall, glaring white.
Only after confirming no one had followed did he shut the door and slide the bolt into place.
Wu Jingui entered the room and pulled down his hood, revealing a scalp shaved smooth and bluish, with only a small tuft of hair at the back, glossy with oil and meticulously combed.
He rubbed his hands together, looking as though he wanted to speak but could not bring himself to.
Old Knife Handle returned to his armchair, put the cigarette holder between his lips, and took a leisurely puff without prompting him.
After so many years as a middleman, he understood all too well. Those seeking a favor would speak first on their own.
The more urgently you pressed, the more airs the other party would put on.
Sure enough, Wu Jingui could no longer sit still.