After arriving in Shun Cheng, the troupe had rented an entire floor of a local inn. All members of the troupe were lodging there together.

Military Police Bureau personnel spread out to search the rooms of each suspect separately.

Shi Ting and Yan Qing went to Yi Zhi Mei’s room—the largest and finest room in the inn, its scale and furnishings a clear indication of Yi Zhi Mei’s standing within the troupe.

The room contained not only a bed but also a writing desk, a square table, and a chaise lounge. Yi Zhi Mei’s luggage was arranged beneath the window in a neat row of four trunks.

Shi Ting opened the trunks one by one. Inside, alongside clothing, stage costumes, and personal items, there was also a substantial quantity of banknotes and gold and silver jewelry.

“The manager said the troupe was struggling financially and barely breaking even—so why does Yi Zhi Mei have such a large store of valuables?”

Shi Ting spread open the banknotes, his brow creasing. “These notes are from banks all across the country, in varying denominations.”

“If they were payments to the troupe, why would they be here with Yi Zhi Mei?”

“The troupe’s earnings are handled directly by the manager and never pass through anyone else’s hands. This wealth of Yi Zhi Mei’s must have come from somewhere other than performing.”

“In that case, this could actually clear the manager of suspicion.” Shi Ting said. “The conflict between the manager and Yi Zhi Mei was over financial interests. If the manager had killed Yi Zhi Mei, this money would have already been moved before we got here—not left for us to find.”

“I don’t think it was the manager either. Killing Yi Zhi Mei would do him no good whatsoever.” Once the troupe’s lead performer was gone, the troupe would essentially be finished. The manager valued money above all else—he would never allow such a thing to happen.

Yan Qing said: “Could it be money Yi Zhi Mei earned from private performances he arranged on his own?”

“Staging a full performance takes more than one person, and troupes closely guard against that sort of thing—especially for a well-known name like Yi Zhi Mei. If he had been performing privately this many times, there’s no way the manager would know nothing about it.”

“There’s something here.” Shi Ting found a ledger hidden in a concealed compartment of one of the trunks. It wasn’t thick—a few entries had been handwritten inside.

The entries were simple: date, location, and income.

“An average of three to four income entries per city.” Shi Ting turned the pages one by one. “Sixteen cities and towns in total, with amounts varying widely.”

“What could this income be from?”

Shi Ting shook his head. “There’s no way to tell from just these few lines of writing.”

He turned to the last page and seemed to notice something. “There’s an entry for Shun Cheng, but—no income recorded.”

Yan Qing leaned over for a look and murmured: “The date is two days from now. The location is Qing Tong House. No income listed—does that mean the transaction hasn’t been completed yet? What is Qing Tong House?”

Shi Ting placed the ledger into an evidence bag. “Qing Tong House is one of Shun Cheng’s pleasure establishments—a place where people go to squander fortunes. It operates on a membership basis. Once you pay for a certain number of chips upon entering, you receive free food, free drink, free substances to smoke, and free seating. It serves both men and women—military officials of high rank, scions of wealthy families, warlords of all kinds. The services offered inside are varied beyond measure. People lose themselves in the place, and many have woken up to find their entire fortune gone.”

“Yi Zhi Mei wrote down Qing Tong House—could it be that the transaction he planned two days from now was to take place there? But aside from the name Qing Tong House, there’s no other information. We have no idea what he was actually planning to do there.”

“To enter Qing Tong House, you must have a membership card. Without one, Yi Zhi Mei couldn’t have gotten in.”

“You mean there should be a membership card somewhere here?”

“I’ve looked all around and haven’t found one.” Shi Ting said. “Or perhaps the card isn’t in his possession.”

“Then where would it be?”

Shi Ting shook his head.

As he returned the clothing he had removed to the trunk, a small black pill tumbled out along with the garments.

“A pill?”

Shi Ting picked it up and handed it to Yan Qing, then turned and walked to Yi Zhi Mei’s writing desk. The desk was topped with a large mirror, and both sides of it were stacked with rouge, powder, makeup pigments, and an assortment of costume jewelry.

Yan Qing picked up a glass medicine bottle from the desk, unscrewed it, removed the cotton plug, brought it to her nose and sniffed, then poured the contents into her hand and counted: “This is heart medication—sixty pills per bottle, with just over forty remaining. It appears Yi Zhi Mei had been taking heart medicine consistently.”

Yan Qing set down that bottle and picked up another glass bottle, this one containing many small black pills, each about the size of a soybean—identical to the one Shi Ting had accidentally found in the luggage trunk.

“Strange—what medicine is this?” Yan Qing said, puzzled. “It’s in a bottle meant for heart medication, but the pills inside are traditional Chinese medicine pills.”

She took one pill and ground it between her fingers, then smelled it. “Do you have a lighter?”

Shi Ting took out a lighter and handed it over.

Yan Qing secured a pill on a hairpin, clicked the lighter on, and held the flame beneath it. Under the heat, the pill produced white smoke and released a strong smell of garlic.

“It’s realgar.” Yan Qing confirmed her suspicion. “Besides realgar, there are other components—but they can’t be identified by sight and smell alone.”

“I recall that realgar can be used to refine an arsenic-lead alloy, which is used in making bullet casings, military poisons, and incendiary compounds.”

Yan Qing nodded, then furrowed her brow. “Realgar—what illness would Yi Zhi Mei have been treating with this?”

Shi Ting secured the medicine bottle. “Since it’s not a commercially produced medicine, it warrants suspicion.”

At that moment, Zheng Yun knocked and entered. “Seventh Brother, the other rooms have all been searched.”

“What was found?”

Zheng Yun held up the evidence bags in hand. “This powder was found in Mei Wu Zi’s room. An unidentified drug was found in Jin Shang Hua’s room. And A Jiu’s room also had a bottle of medicine.”

Shi Ting handed the evidence bags to Yan Qing, who examined them carefully. “The powder from Mei Wu Zi is arsenic. The drug from Jin Shang Hua’s room is a type of neural suppressant—prolonged use can cause the voice to become hoarse and eventually lead to complete loss of voice. The bottle from A Jiu is a stimulant—an aphrodisiac, essentially.”

“And the manager’s room? What was found there?”

“Nothing—just various ledger books.”

Zheng Yun said: “Why would Mei Wu Zi have arsenic in his room? Did he poison Yi Zhi Mei?”

“Yi Zhi Mei had not consumed anything in the six hours before he died. Mei Wu Zi had no opportunity.” Yan Qing said. “For now, take all the medicines back for toxicology testing. What exactly killed Yi Zhi Mei will have to wait for the test results.”

On the way back, the sky had darkened considerably. Shi Ting said: “Let’s eat first. What do you feel like having?”

The air outside was heavy with moisture, and the clouds pressed low. Yan Qing suddenly had a craving for hot pot.

“Hot pot. You know Shun Cheng better than I do—why don’t you recommend somewhere?”

Shi Ting considered for a moment. “I know of a hot pot restaurant. It’s small, but the food is authentic.”

“That one, then.”

The restaurant was located on Xin Kou Street—not a particularly busy area, surrounded by old residential neighborhoods. Even so, the place was packed. In the main hall, more than a dozen tables had been set up, and seven or eight were already occupied.

The owner led Shi Ting and Yan Qing to a private room in the back. “Director Shi, it’s been quite some time since you’ve been in.”

Shi Ting gave a slight nod. “I’ve been busy lately.”

The owner smiled and looked at Yan Qing. “This lady is a friend of Director Shi’s?”

“She is.”

“Please have a seat, Miss.” The owner pulled out a chair, then realized Yan Qing was in a wheelchair, and quickly handed over the menu instead. “Miss, have a look at what you’d like. Our specialties are the tripe and the yellow throat. For meat, we have lamb—freshly butchered each day, guaranteed to be tender and flavorful.”

Yan Qing flipped through the menu and ordered a vegetable dish and fresh shrimp.

“Today’s shrimp just came in—still alive.” The owner jotted down the order rapidly with pen on his notepad.

After the order was placed, the owner brought out a freshly brewed pot of goji berry tea, smiled warmly, and withdrew.

“You must come here often—the owner already knows you.” Yan Qing remarked lightly.

“I once worked a case in which the owner was a victim’s family member.”

“A victim’s family member?”

Shi Ting nodded. “His wife was murdered.”

“How did she die?”

Shi Ting poured her a cup of tea. “I’ll tell you after we eat.”

Just then, the owner lifted the door curtain and carried in a steaming copper hot pot. This type of pot used charcoal burning at its center to heat the food, preserving the original flavors as much as possible.

In the modern era, hot pots were increasingly replaced by electric versions, and restaurants still using these old copper pots were few and far between.

The owner ladled clear broth into the pot—the broth dotted on the surface with red dates, longan, green onion, ginger slices, and goji berries.

“This is lamb neck meat,” the owner said warmly. “The neck is the most tender cut—fat and lean well-distributed. We only have one plate left today.”

Yan Qing smiled and said: “Thank you.”

The owner waved his hand. “Not at all, Miss. Please enjoy, Miss and Director Shi.”

The inn had other servers, but the owner personally attended to their private room without the slightest hint of neglect.

Shi Ting placed a slice of lamb into the pot for Yan Qing. “Try it.”

In this kind of weather—the air damp, spring not yet fully settled—sitting down to a pot of hot pot was an unquestionable luxury.

Yan Qing dipped the lamb in sauce and brought it to her mouth. The meat was tender and succulent, with just the right amount of gaminess, practically melting on the tongue. Paired with the house-made sauce, it was beyond words.

“How is it?”

“Delicious.” Yan Qing’s eyes lit up brightly. “It’s really delicious.”

“Then eat more.” Shi Ting placed several more slices in front of her. “The yellow throat here is excellent too—but you mustn’t overcook it. Once it goes in, count from one to nine, and it’s done just right.”

“Don’t just keep serving me—you eat too.”

Shi Ting said: “I don’t eat hot pot.”

“You—you don’t eat hot pot? Why not?” Yan Qing felt Shi Ting wasn’t the type to be picky about food.

“Eat while it’s hot—it won’t taste as good if it cools.” He continued ladding more vegetables into the pot for her.

“I can manage on my own.”

Shi Ting seemed not to hear her and kept ladling food throughout the meal. By the time they were done, Yan Qing had not served herself a single piece.

As they left the hot pot restaurant, the sky had darkened a few shades more.

Yan Qing asked curiously: “You still haven’t told me—how did the owner’s wife die?”