Siheyuan: tomb robbing? I am serious about hunting.

Chapter 1071 1 types

"Who are you?" Lin Lan asked in a deep voice, her voice strained with nervousness, the last syllable trembling slightly in the silent archive room. Her fingers were still tightly clasped around the pistol at her waist, the cold metal feeling spreading from her fingertips to her heart, but it couldn't suppress the chill that shot up her spine. The flickering light of the desk lamp cast her stiff shadow on the wall, flickering, as if countless eyes were peering through the cracks in the filing cabinet at this strange confrontation. The tip of the fountain pen on the table paused slightly, and the ink spread a tiny black dot on the paper. Then, as if grasped by an invisible hand, it slowly lifted and lowered, the ink spreading rapidly across the rough recording paper, leaving a line of small calligraphy that penetrated the paper: "In the 1934rd year of the Republic of China, Shen Yanqiu, Chief Inspector of the Nanhua Police Station." Lin Lan's pupils suddenly constricted, and her breathing suddenly stopped for half a second. Shen Yanqiu—the name was like a rusty key, suddenly prying open a corner deep in her memory. This legendary figure was mentioned in the "Century of Criminal Investigation Files" in the Municipal Bureau's archives. The yellowed pages recorded that he was a renowned detective in Shanghai at the time, said to be able to discern a murderer's gait from a drop of blood and to deduce the murder weapon from half a footprint. The file also included a blurry black-and-white photo of a man wearing a well-ironed dark suit, delicate silver cufflinks visible from his cuffs, a knowing smile on his lips. But what shocked her even more was the subsequent record: In the late autumn of the 1934th year of the Republic of China, Shen Yanqiu suddenly disappeared while investigating a bank robbery. An unfinished case report lay on his desk, and the Longjing tea in his cup was still warm. Seventeen unsolved cases he had handled were never brought to light, and the Nanhua Apartment murder case was the most thorny of them all. "Inspector Shen." Lin Lan deliberately slowed her breathing, the sweat from her fingertips soaking the leather of her holster. "Were you responsible for the five murders at Nanhua Apartments in 1932?" The pen drew a sharp line across the paper, like a heavy sigh. "Indeed. Until this case is solved, I, Shen, will die with my eyes wide open." Before the ink had dried, the light from the desk lamp dimmed a little. The tin box on the top of the filing cabinet made a soft click, as if something were awakening in the darkness. Lin Lan's eyes scanned the words "never close my eyes" and her heart felt like it was being pricked by tiny needles. She suddenly remembered a rumor the old archivist had told her—on rainy nights, she could hear the sound of books flipping from the tin cabinet. Some said it was the old inspector, unsolved, working overtime in the afterlife. She had once thought it a joke, but now she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. "What did you find out about this case?" she asked, suppressing the dryness in her throat. Her fingertips unconsciously brushed the edges of the Republican-era files. The musty scent lingering on the pages seemed to be mingled with a faint hint of sandalwood, the incense often used by scholars in the past. Her pen moved swiftly across the paper, the ink sometimes rushing like a torrential downpour, sometimes sluggish like climbing a hill. An indescribable heaviness permeated the words: "Five victims, all elderly, living alone, suffered fatal wounds to the neck. The wounds were smooth, as if cut by a knife, but no weapon could be found. A bloody handprint was left at the scene, but the fingerprint database doesn't contain the subject." Here, the pen suddenly paused, the ink dot forming a small dark cloud on the paper. "The only clue is a silver cufflink engraved with a 'J' embedded in a crack in the wall." Lin Lan's heart felt like it had been struck hard, and she clenched her fists. At the third murder scene, Xiao Wang from the technical department had indeed found a silver cufflink, also engraved with a crooked 'J', embedded in a crack in the master bedroom wall. At the time, she thought it was left behind by the victim's grandson and casually put it in the evidence bag. Now thinking about it, the pattern of the cufflink is surprisingly similar to the one worn by Shen Yanqiu in the photo. "Have you found the source of that cufflink?" She asked with an imperceptible tremor in her voice, her eyes fixed on a corner of the evidence photo exposed in the file bag - a silver object on the windowsill of Nanhua Apartment in 1934, shining coldly in the moonlight. The pen paused for a moment, the tip of the pen trembling slightly above the paper, as if recalling a past event that she didn't want to mention. The wall clock in the archives suddenly rang, and the three o'clock bell echoed in the empty room, startling the rats in the corner and making them scurry across the iron cabinet, making rustling sounds. "I've checked." The ink flowed again, its strokes becoming noticeably sloppier. "Product of Nanhua Silver Shop. Seven were ordered that year. The owner is..." At this point, the pen suddenly shook violently, drawing a few chaotic arcs on the paper, and ink splattered on the cover of the file like a few abrupt drops of blood. Lin Lan subconsciously took a half step forward. In the halo of the desk lamp, she saw the ink slowly spreading, as if it were alive. "Who is it?" she demanded, breaking the eerie silence. "Suspect Jiang Mingyuan." The pen finally steadied, but the handwriting held a suppressed tremor. "A professor at Nanhua University, specializing in the restoration of ancient books. Before the incident, he had argued with the third victim in the antique market. Someone heard them arguing fiercely over a Song Dynasty edition of the 'Nanhua Jing'." Lin Lan's fingertips danced across the keyboard. Sure enough, there was no record of "Jiang Mingyuan" in the household registration system. But when she clicked on the Nanhua University history database, a faded photo suddenly popped up on the screen. It was from the 10 graduation ceremony. A young scholar in a long gown stood on the podium, a silver university badge pinned to his chest, gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and a subtle smile played on his lips. The caption beneath the photo read: "Professor Jiang Mingyuan, Institute of Ancient Books." "Does he have an alibi?" Lin Lan's gaze lingered on Jiang Mingyuan's all-too-clear eyes in the photo, a feeling that something was hidden behind that smile. "A perfect alibi." The ink became darker as the pen wrote this sentence. "When the five murders occurred, he was working all night in the school laboratory, and three students can testify." After a pause, he added another line, "What's even more strange is that the day after the fifth victim was killed, he boarded a cruise ship to Paris with a box of ancient books and has never been heard from since." Lin Lan enlarged the photo and saw that half of the silver chain was exposed at the cuff of Jiang Mingyuan's long gown, and the pendant just covered the wrist bone - that position was exactly where the cufflinks were worn. She suddenly remembered that the technical department's report had written that the inside of the cufflinks found at the modern crime scene had tiny teeth marks, as if they were left by someone holding them in their palms for a long time. "Inspector Shen," she suddenly noticed an old newspaper tucked into the file. The headline of the social edition of the South China Evening News on October 17, , was printed with "