Siheyuan (traditional courtyard house): Starting with the Korean War, returning home to take charge

When the train arrived in Shenyang, it was still dark.

He Yuzhu jumped off the train, his feet hitting the concrete floor, the cool air seeping up his shoes. The platform lights were still on, casting long shadows on the people coming and going. Yang Xiaobing followed behind, switching his canvas bag from his left to his right, his breath dissipating quickly in the lamplight.

Standing at the exit was a middle-aged man in a police uniform, with a round face and his cotton-padded jacket collar turned up. He was holding up a piece of cardboard with the words "Welcome Comrade He Yuzhu" written on it. He held the sign not very high, as if he didn't want too many people to see it.

"Director He? I'm Liu Jianguo from the Shenyang Municipal Public Security Bureau." He extended his hand, shaking it loosely but not too tightly, his palm slightly damp. "We've been investigating your case for a few days, and we've made some progress."

He Yuzhu followed him outside. The snow on the square was compacted by footsteps, making a crunching sound as you walked on it.

"Where is he?"

Liu Jianguo hesitated for a moment, then lowered his voice: "Tiexi District, Workers' Village. But Director He, that place..." He paused, as if choosing his words carefully, "...the situation there is a bit complicated."

He Yuzhu didn't respond, waiting for him to continue.

"We kept watch for three days, but by the time we got there, the person had already fled. The house was ransacked, but we found some things under the stove. Please take a look first."

Yang Xiaobing asked from behind, "What is it?"

Liu Jianguo gave a wry smile: "It's hard to say. You two will know once you see it."

The houses in the workers' village were all built in the 1950s, with red bricks and gray tiles, and they all look exactly the same, row after row.

Liu Jianguo led them through a maze of alleys. The clothes hanging on the clotheslines were frozen stiff, their sleeves swaying in the wind. On the windowsill of one house sat several jars of pickled vegetables, covered in dust, looking like they hadn't been touched in a long time.

Walking to the innermost row, Liu Jianguo stopped in front of a wooden door with peeling paint. There was a seal on the door; when he tore it open, the paper stuck to the wood, and a piece tore off when he pulled it off. He pushed the door open and stepped aside.

The room was small, just one room. The mattress on the kang (a heated brick bed) was unmade, dusty, as if someone had turned it over. In the corner were piles of rotten wood and broken cardboard boxes, and there were footprints on the floor; it was very messy. The window was closed, the glass covered with a layer of dust, and the light that came in was dim. There was a musty smell in the air, mixed with the pungent smell of tobacco leaves.

He Yuzhu walked around the room, his gaze landing on the stove. The iron pot was lifted and placed beside it, the firebox blackened.

"It's right down there," Liu Jianguo pointed.

Yang Xiaobing squatted down and reached into the stove. He rummaged around for a few moments, then pulled his hand back and shook his head. He reached in again, feeling deeper. This time he touched something, poked at it with his fingers a few times, and slowly pulled it out—it was an oil paper package, the edges charred black, burned by the fire, the paper already brittle.

He carefully opened it; inside was a notebook with a kraft paper cover and frayed edges.

"Commander, we found it." He held it up, his face covered in a black mark, looking disheveled, but his eyes were bright.

He Yuzhu took the book and opened to the first page. It was filled with names, some circled, some crossed out, followed by codes and dates. He flipped through it slowly, page by page. When he reached the middle, his finger paused. That page read "Remittance Records," followed by a string of numbers and place names. Hong Kong, Macau, and several other foreign cities—names he didn't recognize.

He closed the notebook and tucked it into his pocket.

"What else?"

Liu Jianguo shook his head: "That's it. We searched several times, even dug up the kang (heated brick bed) hole, and this is all we found."

He Yuzhu glanced at the room again. The mattress on the kang (a heated brick bed) was unfolded, as if someone had lifted it. The ashes in the stove were cold, devoid of any warmth to the touch. The footprints on the floor varied in size and depth, making it impossible to distinguish which were left by Old Liu's men and which by the person who lived there.

He walked to the window and glanced outside. The alley was narrow, and across the street was another row of houses with dark, empty windows; he couldn't see anything.

"Who does this person usually associate with?"

Liu Jianguo thought for a moment, then rubbed his hands together: "The neighbors said that an old man occasionally comes to see him. They can't say for sure how old he is, maybe fifty or sixty, thin, very thin. He wears a hat pulled down low, so you can't see his face. He comes in, stays for an hour or two, and then leaves. We asked several neighbors, and they all said they've never seen his face clearly."

He Yuzhu turned around.

"Did you investigate that old man?"

Liu Jianguo shook his head: "There are tens of thousands of people in the workers' village. Finding an old man wearing a hat whose face is obscured is like finding a needle in a haystack." He paused, "But we checked the train station records. On the day this man ran away, there was a train to Beijing. Quite a few tickets were sold, but we couldn't keep track of them all."

He Yuzhu didn't speak, but took the account book out of his pocket again and flipped to the last few pages. The paper was burned down to just one corner, the charred edges curled up, crumbling at the slightest touch. He leaned closer to the window, using the dim light to look at it. The handwriting was blurry, but still legible.

"Your Highness."

Two words.

He put away the account books and went outside. The wind outside was stronger than when he came, making the power lines in the alley whistle.

That evening, He Yuzhu flipped through the account book in the guesthouse, looking at it page by page. Yang Xiaobing was wiping the dagger beside him, wiping it very slowly, one stroke at a time.

"Commander, is this 'Prince' the same person as the steward?"

He Yuzhu didn't answer, staring at the few remaining characters on the ledger. After a while, he shook his head: "The steward has run away abroad. This 'Prince'..." He paused, "The ledger only lists people from China, and the remittances also came from China. It doesn't seem like the same person."

Yang Xiaobing put down the dagger, leaned closer to take a look, and asked, "Could it be someone else? Someone even more powerful than the butler?"

He Yuzhu closed the ledger: "Possibly. Or they might be in cahoots."

the phone is ringing.

He Yuzhu answered the phone. It was Old Sun on the other end, his voice low: "Old He, something's happened."

He Yuzhu's hand tightened slightly.

"The people listed in the ledger are starting to disappear. Two in Beijing, one in Shanghai, and one in Tianjin. They all went missing today. When our people went there, their homes were empty; nothing was left behind."

He Yuzhu held the microphone but didn't speak.

Old Sun waited a while: "Someone tipped us off."

He Yuzhu hummed in agreement: "Probably."

"What did you find out in Northeast China?"

He Yuzhu recounted the story of the "Prince." After listening, Old Sun remained silent for a long time.

"Old He, if this 'Prince' is really the person above the person on the ledger, then we may never have gotten to the bottom of this."

He Yuzhu did not respond.

Old Sun continued, "We can't lose the remaining people listed in the ledger. We have to act before them. When are you coming back?"

"Tomorrow. I'll have someone send the list back first. You get things ready on your end, get everything you can mobilized. Once I arrive, we'll close the net."

The phone call ended. He Yuzhu stood there, looking out at the pitch-black night. Yang Xiaobing had finished wiping the dagger and was inserting it into his boot.

"Commander, that 'Prince,' do you think he's still in the country?"

He Yuzhu shook his head: "I don't know. But it'll be soon."

The next morning, He Yuzhu took Yang Xiaobing on the train back to Beijing.

The carriage was crowded, packed to the brim. He found a window seat and sat down, placing the account book close to his body. As the train started moving, the people on the platform slowly moved back, becoming smaller and smaller.

His gaze swept behind the platform pillar.

An old man stood there, wearing a hat pulled low so his face was obscured. He didn't move; he just stood there, watching the direction the train had gone.

He Yuzhu suddenly stood up and moved towards the window. Yang Xiaobing was startled: "Commander?"

The old man turned around and walked towards the exit. He didn't walk fast, but steadily. His back was slightly hunched, and the collar of his cotton-padded jacket was turned up. He mingled with the people seeing him off on the platform and quickly disappeared from sight.

He Yuzhu stood there, staring in that direction.

He had seen this person before.

Where?

The car lurched, and he gripped the seat back, slowly sitting back down. He closed his eyes, but the image of that figure kept replaying in his mind. Thin, slightly hunched, walking slowly but steadily. It was as if he'd seen him somewhere before, or perhaps just brushed past him. The image drew closer, but remained just a hair's breadth away.

Outside the car window, it started snowing.