“Inspector, we truly haven’t killed anyone.” The bespectacled teacher gripped his trunk tightly. “You can’t just go around accusing innocent people.”

“That’s right — I’m about to disembark. My girlfriend is waiting for me at the station.”

Bai Jin’s expression remained severe. “Stop wasting time. Produce your tickets and open your trunks. Otherwise, none of you five are leaving this train.”

“Fine, fine — though you know, you’re quite good-looking. Why do you have to be so intimidating?” The foreign student glanced at Shi Ting standing behind Bai Jin. “That other inspector seems far gentler.”

Bai Jin: “…”

Gentle?

Did this person have a fundamental misunderstanding of Shi Ting?

Shi Ting stood with one hand in his trouser pocket, as though he had heard none of this. His deep, unhurried gaze swept across each of the five in turn.

“Here, here, look then.” The foreign student handed over his ticket. “Everything in my trunk is just clothing — I barely managed to squeeze it all in…”

“Open it!” Bai Jin’s brow furrowed. He glanced at the time; they had very little of it left.

The foreign student, the comprador, the bank clerk, and the elderly man each produced their tickets in turn and opened their trunks.

After a careful inspection, Bai Jin found nothing suspicious among any of them. None of these four was their killer.

That left the schoolteacher — the one who had been hedging and stalling, unwilling to produce either a ticket or open his trunk — as the most obvious suspect.

“My ticket — I lost it.” The bespectacled teacher rushed to explain. “Someone picked my wallet when I boarded. The ticket was inside.”

“And the trunk? Why won’t you open it?”

“Inspectors, I really haven’t killed anyone. I’m just a teacher. How could I possibly break the law?”

“In that case, allow me.” Bai Jin seized the trunk from his hands before the man could stop him and threw it open.

Bai Jin had been confident something incriminating would be inside. What he found instead, to his surprise, was nothing but a few simple garments, some books, a pipe, and a pouch of tobacco.

“He’s not the killer.” Shi Ting spoke from behind. “His complexion is sallow and his frame is gaunt; his eyes are dull. The calluses on his fingers are not from years of gripping a pen — they are from holding a pipe. He is an addict.”

The schoolteacher heard this and lowered his head with a trace of shame.

He was, by reputation, a respectable man — well regarded at his school. But no one knew that he had developed a habit for opium and had long since passed the point of being able to stop. It was something he had kept carefully hidden.

“Seventh Brother, what do we do now? All five are cleared.” Bai Jin’s brow creased with worry. “We have five minutes left.”

Through the overhead speaker, the train attendant’s voice crackled in and out: “The Miaodong stop is approaching. Passengers disembarking at Miaodong, please gather your belongings and prepare to exit.”

“Seventh Brother, we have to think of something — the train is arriving.” Bai Jin stamped his foot in frustration.

“The rest of you, go. The old man stays.” Shi Ting gave the order.

The others wasted no time, gathering their bags and filing out of the compartment one by one, visibly relieved.

“Honestly — just because you’re police officers, you think you can suspect anyone you like?”

“Exactly. Now I have to repack my entire trunk. What a nuisance.”

Their complaints faded as they moved away. Shi Ting stepped toward the elderly man. “Where did you get those clothes?”

“Me?” The old man was momentarily speechless.

“The skin on your neck is thickened, the creases deep, the texture heavily marked — this is actinic skin damage from prolonged exposure to sun and sea. The palms of your hands are heavily calloused with numerous small, old scars — the result of years of hauling ropes. You are a sailor. On a sailor’s income, you could not afford a mid-grade Western suit. What is more, you cannot read — and therefore have no use for a fountain pen.”

Bai Jin frowned. “He can’t read?”

—