Courtyard House: Home Alone

Smith's fingers paused for a moment on the edge of the business card, a fleeting, enigmatic light flashing in his grey-blue eyes. He gently placed the water glass back on the coffee table, the sound of its bottom striking the glass surface crisp and short.

"Fifty thousand units." He repeated the number, as if confirming some weight. "Mr. Zhou, I need to know—whose quota did these extra twenty thousand units come from?"

Chen Gongshu's smile remained unchanged: "Mr. Smith, business in the concession is all about mutual benefit. Some people are in a hurry for goods, and some are in a hurry for equipment. Old Master Tang is simply asking those who are willing to wait to wait a little longer."

"French."

Smith suddenly laughed, a laugh with the straightforwardness of a Midwestern rancher, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I should have guessed it when you said you couldn't resell it to the Japanese. That old fox Pierre, he's sold himself out again."

A brief silence fell over the room. The long, desolate sound of a ship's horn echoed from outside the window on the Haihe River, cutting the twilight into fragments.

"Mr. Smith is well-informed," Chen Gongshu said calmly.

"In doing business in the concessions, a good nose is more useful than good eyes."

Smith took a manila envelope from his briefcase, sealed with the wax seal of the U.S. Trade Office in China. "Equipment list. Power plants, steel mills, pharmaceutical plants. I'll contact the U.S. tonight, and I'll let you know immediately if there's any news. As for the samples..."

"Don't worry about the quality of the medicine. We'll be trading with John and Pierre tomorrow. I'll arrange for someone to pick you up and take you to our warehouse to inspect the goods." Chen Gongshu poured Smith another glass of water.

Smith took the water glass, his fingertips lightly tracing the rim, as if assessing the value of the deal. He suddenly looked up, his grey-blue eyes staring directly into Chen Gongshu's: "Mr. Zhou, I have one more condition."

"Please speak."

"I want to see the 'ghost'."

Chen Gongshu paused almost imperceptibly as he poured the water, but the spout remained perfectly tilted, creating tiny whirlpools in the cup. "Mr. Smith," he said, "Old Master Tang is ill and doesn't receive guests; that's the custom."

"It's not Old Master Tang." Smith's voice lowered slightly, carrying a tentative weight. "It's the real 'ghost'—the 'ghost' for whom the Japanese offered a 100,000-dollar bounty, yet couldn't even get a single photograph."

The air in the room suddenly seemed to freeze. Just then, the whistle of a cargo ship sounded outside the window, like a long sigh. Chen Gongshu gently placed the teapot back on the tray; the sound of porcelain touching sandalwood was crisp and clear, like tearing silk.

"Where did Mr. Smith hear that name?"

"The rumors have been circulating in Beijing and Tianjin for over a year."

Smith pulled a folded newspaper from his bag. Unfolding it revealed the corner of the North China Daily News, where a reward notice was circled in red: "The Japanese, the British, and the French are all looking for this 'ghost'."

Some say he was the mastermind behind the Green Gang, some say he was a special envoy from Nanjing, and others say he didn't exist at all, just a smokescreen put up by Old Master Tang.

Chen Gongshu took the newspaper, his gaze lingering on the numbers for a moment. One hundred thousand silver dollars—enough to buy half of Nanjing Road. He suddenly laughed, folded the newspaper, and handed it back: "Mr. Smith, if the 'ghost' truly didn't exist, would the Japanese have withdrawn from Beiping? And who are you sitting here talking to about these fifty thousand doses of penicillin?"

Smith's fingers tightened slightly as he took the newspaper.

"I can tell you,"

He suddenly leaned forward, his grey-blue eyes taking on an almost transparent quality under the light. "The U.S. Commercial Service in China has an internal memo specifically analyzing how this 'ghost' operates. Your penicillin has a purity of 98%, far exceeding the 75% in the lab."

This level of purification and factory production technology was beyond the reach of the Green Gang, nor was it accessible to the bureaucrats of Nanjing.

A crack finally appeared in Chen Gongshu's smile. He put down the teapot, clasped his hands together on his knees, his knuckles turning slightly white from the pressure: "Mr. Smith, what exactly are you trying to say?"

I want to say,

Smith stuffed the newspaper back into his bag with a resolute motion. "This 'ghost' is either a top chemist or backed by the world's leading pharmaceutical industry. And me,"

He pulled the Parker pen from his inner pocket, twirled it between his fingers, and said, "I happen to know a few friends who work at Merck and Eli Lilly."

"Mr. Smith's friend," he began slowly, "also wants to obtain the fermentation and preparation technology for penicillin?"

Smith's pupils contracted sharply. Penicillin—a term still considered top secret in the medical community—was being casually tossed about like a pebble thrown into still water. His knuckles clicked slightly as he gripped the pen, the vacuum filling mechanism of the Parker pen gleaming coldly in his palm.

"Mr. Zhou knows about penicillin?"

"I heard it from Grandpa Tang."

Chen Gongshu spoke in a calm and ordinary tone, as if he were just talking about the weather. "Dr. Fleming of England discovered the wonderful uses of a certain mold, but mass production is difficult."

"But the 'Ghost' has access to world-class chemists and pharmacists. For them, mass production of penicillin isn't a problem; the key issue is that the current cost can't be reduced."

"Cost?" Smith looked at Chen Gongshu thoughtfully.

"Mr. Zhou, I hope you could speak to Mr. Tang and tell him that two of my friends are very interested in your purification and mass production technology. I wonder if we could explore further cooperation in this area?"

"Mr. Smith, let's leave this topic here. There are no plans to transfer or sell the technology of 'Ghost' in the near future," he said slowly.

Smith's shoulders slumped slightly, like a punctured balloon. He looked down at the Parker pen in his hand, the inscription on the clip flickering in the light.

"I understand." He finally spoke, his voice tinged with a forced sense of relief. "Business is business, and technology is technology. Well then, I'll take my leave now. I still need to contact the fleet. Also, you've prepared an extra 20,000 doses of penicillin and 500 kilograms of sulfanilamide for me; I need to go and prepare some more gold."

Chen Gongshu rose to see them off, his footsteps falling silently on the Persian carpet. The wall lamps in the corridor cast long shadows of the two men, overlapping and separating at the corner, like an unfinished game.

"Mr. Smith," he stopped at the top of the stairs, "please be on time for the inspection tomorrow."

Smith didn't turn around, but simply switched the briefcase to his other hand, the sound of the leather rubbing against the suit fabric particularly clear in the silence: "Mr. Zhou, please give my regards to Mr. Tang—if he really is ill."

The footsteps faded into the distance, eventually disappearing at the end of the spiral staircase. Chen Gongshu sat back down in his chair. "Young master, the Americans are gone," he whispered to the air, his voice even softer than the smoke.

Lin Yifan's response came through the communicator, tinged with a thoughtful calm: "I heard you. You did well. You stay here today. I have other things to do, so I'll be leaving now. You're safe until they get the medicine, but be careful in case someone gets desperate."

Don't turn off your communicator, because it shows your location. If anything happens, I can get there quickly.

Chen Gongshu nodded slightly, tapping his fingertips lightly twice on the armrest as a response. He didn't press Lin Yifan about where he was going—in this industry, the less you know, the longer you live.