We agreed on the twelve zodiac animals, but you've transformed into the Monkey King?

In the office of the French Consulate General in the French Concession, a gramophone was playing cheerful French chansons.

The Consul General, dressed in a magnificent burgundy bathrobe and wearing reading glasses, stared with a worried expression at the "Arrest and Suspension Warrant for Detective Wen Xiao" on the table. He held a dip pen in his hand, an unlit cigar between his teeth, and muttered to himself, "Couldn't this Wen guy have picked a weekday to commit murder? The French have weekends off!"

He was just about to sign his name quickly and finish his overtime work to have a glass of Napoleon cognac when the black crank phone on the table suddenly rang.

The consul's hand trembled, and ink dripped onto the paper. He rolled his eyes and reluctantly picked up the receiver: "This is France..."

"I don't care what kind of bullshit rules your Municipal Council has!" A deafening roar exploded from the receiver.

"Tomorrow morning at six o'clock! Send that man surnamed Wen, along with your police station's letter of apology, to the Xiafei Road checkpoint!"

The consul quickly moved the receiver half a meter away from his ear, frowned, and rubbed his ear with his free hand.

"General, you are communicating with me via telephone, not by shouting."

The warlord on the other end of the phone paused for a moment, then flew into a rage: "Stop talking nonsense! Hand over the people or not?! You really think I won't fire the cannon?!"

"Hand it over, hand it over, why not?" The consul looked at the arrest warrant on the table, shrugged, and said, "Detective Wen is a big problem. I'd be happy to package him up and send him to you. I can even throw in a free ribbon."

The person on the other end of the phone snorted coldly.

"However..." The consul changed the subject, his comical and lazy expression vanishing.

"I read a report this afternoon. Your regular troops set up heavy machine guns on Chang Street in Nanchang and turned seventeen coolies carrying heavy loads into sieves."

"Those are thugs!" the warlord roared.

"Your Excellency, you know that while we French are romantic, we're not bad at math." The consul's eyelids drooped, and a cold glint appeared in his azure eyes. "Seventeen civilians from your own country."

"Those are thugs! They're Wen Xiao's accomplices! Don't you dare..." the voice on the other end of the phone roared rudely.

"In France," the consul continued, ignoring his roar, "a soldier who points a gun at his own country's civilians is not a general."

He flicked the ash from his cigar and said calmly, "Calling the butcher will get you to the guillotine."

The breathing on the other end of the phone became heavy, like that of a wild beast that had been whipped: "You really think I wouldn't dare fire?!"

"You're very welcome."

The consul clapped twice and said with a smile, "If your first shell tomorrow lands precisely on the roof of my dilapidated building, the Municipal Council can approve funds for my renovation. However, as a return gift, the French Far East Fleet anchored at Wusongkou will probably use a dozen or so naval guns to blast your governor's mansion into a muddy field perfectly suited for growing potatoes."

"You can give it a try, Mr. Butcher."

Before the other party could unleash a torrent of abuse, the consul abruptly hung up the phone. A loud "bang," and the world fell silent.

He wiped his hands with disgust, picked up the arrest warrant with ink stains on it, tore it in half with a "rip" and threw it into the wastepaper basket.

"Barbarians, you're ruining my appetite for Cognac."

The consul rang the brass bell on the desk. The secretary entered, saying, "Consul, what can I do for you?"

The consul picked up his glass again, resuming his languid demeanor, and waved his hand: "Go tell those idiots in the police station to wear earplugs to bed tonight. Let Detective Wen do whatever he wants, and nobody's allowed to interfere. Also..."

The consul finished his cognac, licked his lips, and his eyes revealed a rare, sharp military gaze:

"Tomorrow morning, if those thugs in the Chinese-controlled area dare to take a single step closer to the iron gate on Xiafei Road, have our machine gunners open fire. I don't want to be woken up by these rude guys first thing in the morning."

……

The underground secret room of the French police station.

The thick walls were covered with dark green mold. But even the thickest walls couldn't block out the dull, sticky thumping sounds from next door.

"Snap." In the first dark room, Wen Xiao folded the leather belt soaked in salt water in half and wrapped it around his hand twice.

Opposite him, the warlord's adjutant, chained behind his back to a wooden stake, convulsed violently. His uniform was torn to shreds, strips of cloth stuck together with blood and flesh.

The adjutant spat out a mouthful of blood, raised his head, and grinned maliciously with a bloodied face: "Wen Xiao... if you have the guts, kill me. If Marshal Lu's soldiers back down, I'll be your grandson! Tomorrow morning, when the cannons fire, I'll see how you die!"

Wen Xiao didn't respond. He took a half step back expressionlessly, and suddenly exerted force in his waist.

"Crack!" Another heavy lash landed without restraint. A scream, distorted and painful, escaped the adjutant's throat.

The scream could be heard clearly from the second, dark room separated by a wall.

Zhao the Bald was handcuffed to the interrogation chair, his fat body trembling with the sound of whips cracking in the next room. Cold sweat dripped down his bald head like worms.

He stared in horror at the young man sitting opposite him.

Under the dim light bulb, Meng Huai was nibbling on an unlit cigarette, head down, wiping his Browning pistol. He cleaned it meticulously, even removing each bullet from the magazine and wiping it clean with a velvet cloth.

With their roles reversed, he was no longer the lowly policeman who bowed and smiled obsequiously at Baldy Zhao for two silver dollars.

"Smack!" Another sharp sound came from next door, accompanied by the adjutant's heavy breathing and cursing.

Zhao the Bald swallowed hard, his voice trembling: "Meng... Little Meng, Brother Huai! We worked together for a while, and I even treated you to drinks when you joined the police station..."

"Team Leader Zhao, let's skip the reminiscing." Meng Huai didn't look up, but simply pressed the polished bullets back into the magazine, making a crisp, metallic "click, click" sound.

Meng Huai pulled a brass pocket watch from his pocket, pressed the cover open with his thumb, and glanced at it. "Did you hear the commotion next door?" Meng Huai placed the pocket watch on the table; the second hand ticked away. "The detective himself did it. He used a leather belt soaked in salt water. You're familiar with this stuff; when it hits someone, they won't back down until you see the bone."

Zhao the Bald's face was as white as a sheet of paper.

"That soldier is tough, but I know the detective's methods all too well." Meng Huai raised his eyelids, looked at Zhao the Bald, and said calmly, "At most five more minutes. After five minutes, the soldier won't be able to hold on."

Meng Huai struck a match, lit the cigarette in his mouth, took a deep drag, and exhaled the bluish-green smoke onto Zhao the Bald's face.

"Captain Zhao, you're a smart man. Let's do the math." Meng Huai pulled up a chair, sat down in front of Baldy Zhao, leaned forward, and lowered his voice. "That adjutant next door, he's Marshal Lu's confidant. Even if he can't withstand the confession, the Marshal has leverage to save his life. At worst, he can just pay to ransom him."

Meng Huai tapped his cigarette-holding fingers lightly on the table twice: "But what about you? Who do you think you are?"

These words pierced straight to the heart of Baldy Zhao.

"Where are the ledgers for your joint opium smuggling? Someone has to speak first." Meng Huai looked at Zhao the Bald's unfocused pupils and slowly raised the stakes. "If the neighbor confesses first and pins all the blame on you, saying your police officers embezzled, do you think the consulate will execute him or you to appease the Marshal?"

Zhao the Bald man's breathing became rapid, and his chest heaved violently.

"Five minutes." Meng Huai pointed to the pocket watch on the table. "Once he speaks first, you'll be nothing but a pile of rotten flesh in my hands. Tomorrow morning, the mass graves in the French Concession will have another nameless corpse taking the blame."

"Thud!" Just then, an extremely shrill scream came from next door, followed by a heavy thud as a body crashed to the ground. It seemed that the adjutant had finally given up and began to stammer and beg for mercy.

With that muffled thud, Zhao the Bald's psychological defenses collapsed.

"I'll talk! I'll tell you everything!" Baldy Zhao struggled frantically, the handcuffs leaving bloody marks on his wrists. "The ledger is under the floor tiles in my office! The contact person is Zhang Sulin! Don't let him confess! Meng Huai, believe me, I'll tell you more details than he does! I also know the bottom price of that batch of goods!"

Meng Huai looked at the tearful Zhao the Bald and a barely perceptible sneer appeared on his lips.

Five minutes later, he slowly put the pocket watch on the table into his pocket, stood up, dusted the cigarette ash off his uniform, walked to the door and opened the iron gate.

Outside the door, Wen Xiao was leaning against the wall in the corridor, smoking. He exhaled a smoke ring and turned to look at Meng Huai, who was walking out.

"He confessed." Meng Huai respectfully handed over a written statement sheet. "He vomited everything out."