Chương 39: Is this the lock?

The dummy slot has less resistance, but once you fall in, you'll feel a very noticeable sinking sensation.

This is the trap of this lock—it makes you feel that the sinking sensation is correct.

But in the correct position, the marble won't sink; it will slide in horizontally.

The comments section was also listening.

"What is he listening to? This lock is almost silent; it's German-made, with incredibly high precision. The pins slide with only a very faint rustling sound, softer than breathing."

"The master lock picker doesn't rely on his ears, he relies on his fingers."

"Three-Second King: I'm listening to the lock. Expert: What is it saying? Three-Second King: It's saying it tricked my people on the third and seventh locks."

The expert in the gray vest stood at the door.

He watched Lin Zhou's fingers slowly turn the dial, and his lips twitched slightly. Then he spoke.

"Young man," He said the voice wasn't loud, but everyone in the quiet evidence room could hear it clearly.

"This lock isn't the kind of security door you usually use. It's from a safe brand designated by the German Ministry of the Interior. It has a twelve-pin lock cylinder with double-row curved pins, and each pin has a different diameter. The smallest is only 0. 6 millimeters. All the pins have been hardened, making them drillable and pry-resistant."

He paused for a moment.

"I've been running safes for thirty years, and I've only ever seen this model in textbooks. This is the first time I've ever handled one in person."

When he said these words, there was no sarcasm in his tone, nor any arrogant condescension.

But every word he said was telling Lin Zhou—you can't do this.

The live chat exploded.

"He said those things to discourage the locksmith from picking his own lock."

"No, he didn't do it on purpose. He genuinely felt that the lock was too difficult, and Lin Zhou was too young, and might waste his last chance."

"The more he does that, the more professional he appears. He opened it three times; he knows how difficult this lock is. He didn't want a young person to recklessly waste another opportunity."

"Both groups of suspects are in the interrogation room. There are only two chances left to unlock the door. Once those are gone, there will be no more evidence."

Lin Zhou's finger was still on the dial.

He didn't look up.

"The fake slots on this lock are deeper than the real ones. The third one, the seventh one."

The gray-vested expert's eyebrows twitched.

His left hand instinctively rose and touched the edge of the toolbox.

That was the biggest challenge he encountered when unlocking the door.

When he used a professional tool to push the third marble up, it fell into a very deep groove, and he thought it was in place.

I turned around, but it wasn't open. My palms were sweaty.

He tried a seventh one, and the same thing happened.

He didn't speak.

He just said so much.

Lin Zhou responded with just one sentence.

This statement is neither a rhetorical question nor a rebuttal.

It is a statement—about the actual construction of this lock.

This means that Lin Zhou doesn't need to lift a finger; he only needs to turn the dial to accurately distinguish between the fake slot and the real slot from the feedback at his fingertips.

Su Wan stood at the door. Her gaze shifted from the gray-vested expert to Lin Zhou.

She saw Lin Zhou's fingers slowly turning on the dial.

The movements were very gentle, as if caressing something fragile.

She saw his eyes close. He was trying to feel the lock with his heart.

The chat was quiet for a moment. Then it started flooding in.

"He closed his eyes. He was looking inside the lock cylinder with his fingers. He was listening to the expert, but he didn't stop."

"Lock Picker: I heard it. The lock is speaking in my ear. I heard the third marble fall into the false slot, crisper than the real one. You're wrong there. The seventh one too."

"He's a master locksmith. We highly recommend this book to you: 'You're a Locksmith! What's the Start with Catching a Scoundrel?', read here. He can discern an error of a fraction of a millimeter from the resistance at his fingertips. That's a lock telling him its structure in a language only he understands."

Old Zhou stood by the door, holding an enamel mug in his hand.

"Let him give it a try."

Old Zhou placed the enamel mug on the table. The bottom of the mug tapped softly on the table.

"I believe him."

The bureau chief stood to the side.

He looked at Lin Zhou—a young man in a blue down jacket with his hair sticking up.

He recalled the notebooks in the archives and every word Old Zhou had said.

Then he nodded.

"Let him try," he said.

"I'll take responsibility if anything goes wrong."

Lin Zhou opened his eyes.

He looked at the dial, at the markings, at the German text.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his tool bag—which he had left on the shoe rack that morning; he had hesitated for a moment before leaving but had taken it anyway.

Unzip the zipper and pull out the wire.

It's exactly the same as the one used to open a Class C door lock.

It was bronze-yellow, and its tip was polished to a shine.

The expert in the gray vest saw the wire and his lips moved.

I wanted to say something, but I swallowed it back.

Lin Zhou inserted the wire into the gap next to the dial.

It's not about prying it open; it's about using a wire to feel the vibrations inside the lock cylinder.

The feel of the wire was more direct than the dial—one end of the wire was against the marble, the other against his fingertip. He slowly turned the dial. The first marble.

False slot.

He didn't stop, he kept spinning. The fourth one. The fifth one. The sixth one.

The seventh one—here we go again, a fake slot.

His fingers went around and adjusted the angle slightly, causing the marble to slide into a shallower, flatter position.

Seriously.

The comments on the screen spun along with his finger.

"He bypassed the third false slot. He bypassed the seventh false slot. His hand never trembled. Every degree of rotation of his fingers on the dial was precise. Like a key, he himself was that key."

Lin Zhou's finger completed the last rotation on the dial.

All twelve marbles are in place.

His movements paused for a moment.

All sound was silenced from the evidence room.

The hum of the fluorescent lights, the footsteps outside the door, the static of the walkie-talkie.

The sounds are still there, but everyone feels like they can't hear them anymore.

They only saw Lin Zhou's fingers gripping the dial, motionless.

Then he flicked his fingers upwards, and his wrist turned at an almost imperceptible angle.

Click.

The latch popped open.

No one moved.

The gray-vested expert's toolbox slid off the stool.

He didn't bend down to pick it up.

He stood there, his mouth slightly open, his eyes not filled with shock—but with a bewilderment that seemed to say, "I've been unlocking locks for thirty years and I've finally witnessed this with my own eyes."

He was probably wondering how the wire had bypassed the fake slot.

He was probably wondering how this young man could tell the difference between real and fake from the feedback at his fingertips.

He was probably thinking that the safe model he had spent twenty years studying in his textbooks had been opened today by a single wire.

The bureau chief took a step forward.

He looked at the wire in Lin Zhou's hand, then at the latch on the safe that had popped open, and then said, "Okay."

Just one word.

But the weight of that word coming from his mouth was roughly equivalent to the tea stains that had been accumulating in Old Zhou's enamel mug for ten years.

The author, a group of swordsmen's fathers, personally recommends this story: "You're just a locksmith! What are you catching at the beginning?" on Cola Novels.