Chapter Nineteen: The Manure Collector

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Song Yingge returned outside Liu Yuezheng’s room. Relying on his extraordinary hearing, even through several walls, he could still clearly catch the conversation inside. Dujuan looked at the rosy slap marks on Liu Yuezheng’s face and felt a pang of sympathy. She then said, “This person is not right. Could he be from the secret service?” That madam certainly had issues. Liu Yuezheng’s voice carried a cold edge, “No. If he were from the secret service, he wouldn’t be so blatant.” Hearing this, Song Yingge thought to himself that reverse psychology only worked on clever people like Liu Yuezheng. If he tried it on someone like Dujuan, he wouldn’t even know how he died. This time, he was on the third level.

“Feng Ni, why don’t we run away secretly? You work for the Japanese, and who knows when you might just disappear like Ma San — gone without a trace, neither alive nor dead,” Dujuan said fearfully. Liu Yuezheng was actually Liu Fengni! So the hidden owner behind the Yingchun House was Liu Yuezheng.

“Mom, we can’t escape. Ever since I was saved after falling into the water by the Japanese, my fate was sealed to be controlled by them. Staying might save my life; running away only leads to death,” Liu Yuezheng said calmly, her tone utterly steady. To think Liu Yuezheng was Dujuan’s daughter! The child who fell into the water years ago was Liu Yuezheng. If she hadn’t died, why had there been no news all these years? “It’s all Mom’s fault. If you were capable, you wouldn’t have been taken by the Japanese,” Dujuan said. “If the Japanese hadn’t saved me and paid for my treatment, I would have died long ago. This is my fate; I cannot escape it,” Liu Yuezheng replied calmly.

Seeing Dujuan about to start crying again, Liu Yuezheng hurriedly said, “Hurry and send out the film. This intelligence is very important.” “Don’t worry, Mom, I understand,” Dujuan replied. After listening to the mother and daughter’s conversation, Song Yingge’s doubts were cleared. After Liu Yuezheng was rescued from the water, she was adopted by the Japanese, secretly trained, and a few years ago changed her name and identity before sneaking back to Jinling.

Song Yingge sighed. Japan’s intelligence work had started too early; the gap was vast and would require much more effort to catch up or surpass. Dujuan chatted briefly with Liu Yuezheng before leaving. By now, dawn was breaking and the sky brightening.

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On the streets, some breakfast shops had opened. At the same time, a group of special workers appeared—the night soil collectors. Jinling, with nearly a million residents, would become unbearably foul if the waste they produced was not promptly removed. These collectors, though inconspicuous, were vital workers. At first light each day, they pulled carts carrying large wooden barrels for collecting waste.

When the collectors called out, “Time to move!” households would bring out their chamber pots. Dujuan appeared as well, silently carrying her pot to the cart and emptying it. As she left, Dujuan hesitated briefly, locking eyes with the collector and giving a barely perceptible nod. If it weren’t for Song Yingge’s unwavering gaze, such subtlety would have gone unnoticed. This method of intelligence transfer was certainly unorthodox but remarkably covert. Despite days of surveillance, none of the intelligence team had detected it.

Song Yingge followed the collector as he filled the barrel and headed toward the outskirts to the waste processing plant. Night soil was valuable in this era—after treatment, it became fertilizer and sold for good profit. The waste collection industry was monopolized. In a deserted area, the collector stopped, using a scoop to retrieve something from the barrel. Soon, a small package with a peculiar odor was pulled out.

After unloading at the plant, the collector returned to the city. Passing an alley, he pretended to relieve himself and secretly hid the film behind a brick. The collector left, but Song Yingge stayed to watch. That afternoon, a man in his forties, short and plain-faced, took the film and returned to the Japanese consulate. Song Yingge immediately recognized him as Sugiyama Kosuke, mentioned earlier by Ma San.

The stakeout at Yingchun House was no longer worthwhile. Song Yingge assigned only two people to guard it just in case, while the rest focused on the consulate. He handed Sugiyama Kosuke’s portrait to his team, instructing them to take turns watching outside the consulate and record everyone he contacted for thorough investigation.

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Shanghai, Huangpu Road, Japanese Consulate in Shanghai.

Zhou Shun was tied to a wooden frame, covered in wounds from apparent torture. He had followed Song Yingge’s advice and confessed everything upon returning.

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“You should have committed seppuku to atone, not come back skulking,” barked Yamashita Jiro, the Japanese military officer stationed in Shanghai. “Yes, but I have vital intelligence that must be brought back,” Zhou Shun replied. “What intelligence?” Yamashita asked. “There’s a mole in the secret service. The infiltration team just arrived in Jinling, and the Chinese agents already found us. The leak must be from Shanghai, or we wouldn’t have been captured. Uncle, please give me a chance—I swear I’ll root out the traitor myself!” Zhou Shun’s real name was Yamashita Keisuke; he was Jiro’s nephew.

“Shut up! I don’t have a cowardly nephew like you!” Yamashita Jiro cursed. “What about your beloved Yamashita Riko? If I die, she loses her value. The Chinese won’t spare her. If Riko isn’t in their hands, I will commit seppuku,” Zhou Shun said. “Riko…” Jiro’s tone softened somewhat. “Please, Uncle, awaken the secret service’s undercover agents to rescue Riko,” Zhou Shun implored. “Undercover agents are for the empire, not for saving people!” Jiro’s voice was firm, but his wavering gaze revealed inner conflict.

Yamashita Riko was publicly his niece but was actually his daughter with his widowed sister-in-law. He had three sons but only one daughter. “Damn it! I shouldn’t have listened to her and let her become a spy,” Jiro regretted. Riko chose espionage to escape her original family. “Lieutenant Colonel Yamashita, please give me a chance. I can still feed false intelligence to the Chinese agents at critical moments,” Zhou Shun begged. “Half a month. That’s all you get. If you don’t find the mole by then, get lost back to Japan. I don’t need such a foolish subordinate,” Jiro said, slamming the door.

Meanwhile, the person they feared most, Yamashita Riko, was playing the role of a teacher. “Mr. Song, your Kanto accent is purer than mine. Compared to you, I sound like a foreigner,” Riko exclaimed. “Japanese is originally a Chinese dialect; it’s not difficult at all,” Song Yingge said, taking a moment amid the chaos to study Japanese. After seven or eight days, his Japanese was already very fluent. Listening to his accent, one would surely think he was a native from Japan’s Kanto region.