Chapter 10: Returning to the Scene

The wind swept the snowflakes, scattering them in a swirling, leisurely descent. On either side of the street, the fiery red leaves of the sugar maples quickly became dusted with a thin layer of white snow. When the leaves could no longer bear the weight, they would tremble in the wind and shake off the snow, which would then tumble down onto the passersby below.

At this hour, those still struggling through the wind and snow were the ordinary people, forced by necessity to brave the elements for their livelihoods. The wealthy ladies and socialites, the high-ranking officials, and the arrogant Japanese invaders all sat comfortably indoors, basking in springlike warmth, sipping tea or coffee, gazing through their windows at the swirling snow while savoring a life of ease.

Descending from Jihong Bridge and following the railway northward, a broad avenue stretched ahead. This was Mountain Street. The Ice City Police Headquarters stood on this avenue—a three-story building with a white classical façade. Six massive Corinthian columns dominated the high front steps, exuding a solemn grandeur, while the pediment above was adorned with a Greek temple’s “acroterion.”

It also served as the seat of the Puppet Manchukuo Songjiang Provincial Police Department—one building, two nameplates, offices merged into one.

On the southern side of the second floor, sunlight poured into a spacious office. The stove blazed warmly. Stepping through the grand redwood doors, one entered a vast room where thick Persian carpets muffled every sound. A crystal chandelier bathed the interior in brilliant light, a stark contrast to the bleakness outside.

Behind a broad mahogany desk sat a middle-aged man in a black police uniform. On his shoulder shone a large plum blossom insignia: the rank of Chief Commissioner. He held himself with a soldierly bearing—short-cropped hair, not tall, his expression severe and meticulous.

This was Saburo Shibuya, Deputy Director of Ice City Police Headquarters and Chief of the Special Affairs Division. He also directed the Songjiang Provincial Police Special Branch—also known as the Ice City Security Bureau. The Security Bureau was a covert agency for counterespionage and anti-espionage, its existence a closely guarded secret.

Standing before him was a man whom Zhou Sen would have instantly recognized: Lin Dakuan, Chief Investigator of the Special Affairs Division.

At this moment, Lin Dakuan was nothing like the spirited, overbearing man he was before Zhou Sen. Now, he was utterly humble, bowing slightly, barely daring to breathe.

“Chief Lin, have you arranged everything as instructed?” Saburo Shibuya asked, leafing through documents.

“Reporting, Mr. Shibuya, I followed your orders. I wanted to transfer him directly into Special Affairs, but he was very resistant…”

“You were too impatient. Such matters cannot be rushed,” Shibuya said, glancing up. If he hadn’t intervened in time, his plan could have gone awry.

“Yes, thank you for your guidance, Mr. Shibuya.” Though Lin Dakuan was the elder of the two, before Shibuya he seemed no more than an inexperienced youth.

“Our task is not merely to catch one or two Soviet spies lurking in Ice City. Remember, our true target may be behind him. Do not approach him again for now.”

“Yes, Mr. Shibuya.” Under the invisible pressure, sweat began to bead on Lin Dakuan’s forehead.

“Speak of this to no one. The Empire does not neglect loyal and reliable friends like you.” Watching Lin Dakuan leave, Shibuya shifted his hand, revealing a telegram beneath his palm.

The message had arrived three days ago from the Japanese embassy in Turkey—top secret.

“Operation ‘Bear’ has failed. There is a Soviet agent within the action team, codename: Leo.”

A trace of bitterness touched Shibuya’s lips. He had poured heart and soul into this operation, but in the end, failure—someone would have to answer for it.

…

Number 3, Haicheng Street—Zhou Sen’s warehouse base.

“San’er, you team up with Uen. Don’t let anyone patrol alone in this ice and snow. I’ll go with Old Six to the crime scene again. At noon, we’ll find a hot pot place for some lamb. When we get back, lunch is on me,” Zhou Sen instructed Ye San’er.

“If the boss is treating us, that’s great!” Ye San’er grinned. Patrols could be tough, but in this harsh winter, there were plenty of ways to slack off when things were quiet.

Processing a crime scene was skilled work. Old Six was a veteran policeman, experienced in these matters, so he was the natural choice to accompany Zhou Sen. Ye San’er didn’t compete.

…

With such heavy snow, cycling was out of the question. Zhou Sen and Old Six could only hire a small horse-drawn carriage. These were typically driven by Chinese, seating two or three, and were cheaper than the alternatives. The larger carriages, usually operated by White Russians, could fit four or five, were more comfortable and better protected against the cold, but cost more.

Despite what later films and TV shows depicted, Zhou Sen had never seen a city full of automobiles—such scenes were pure fiction. When the snow was heavy, even the city’s trams stopped running. At times like this, unless you walked, only horse-drawn carriages were available. Later in the day, even these would be scarce. In the suburbs, a sleigh might be more suitable.

Previously, Zhou Sen had been a low-ranking patrol leader; renting a carriage, let alone hiring one outright, was out of the question. His salary wouldn’t support both a carriage and a driver. Even Old Anthony, considered a wealthy man in Ice City, didn’t own a private carriage—too extravagant. It was more practical to have a long-term rental arrangement with the carriage company, signaling ahead when needed and paying on time. For everyday travel, the tram sufficed—frugal and discreet.

They approached the door and knocked.

It was opened by the Sherkin family’s White Russian maid, Feiya—a plainly dressed woman with a somewhat misshapen figure who recognized Zhou Sen. Two days earlier, she had seen him and the Chinese policeman with the large head come to their home to examine her master’s bedroom after the murder.

After processing the scene that day, the police had sealed the upstairs bedroom, saying they might return at any time. But two days had passed without any police. Feiya worried whether they would return. Her employer was dead—who would pay her wages now? Her family depended on her earnings.

After confirming their identities, she invited them inside.

Without Lin Dakuan watching over him this time, Zhou Sen was much more at ease. He questioned Feiya about a few matters, surveyed the downstairs rooms, and then had her lead them upstairs.

Feiya explained that the upper floor was Sherkin’s living quarters; since the police came, she hadn’t set foot there. The bedroom and study were sealed with official tape from the Ice City Police Headquarters, marked with the date, time, and the department’s seal.

Sherkin had died in the bedroom, so Zhou Sen and Old Six began their investigation there. They stripped away the seal and stepped inside.

After two days sealed, the room reeked—a stifling, fermented stench from the closed space. The scene was much as it had been when Lin Dakuan and Zhou Sen first entered, though at that time Zhou Sen hadn’t examined things in detail; he’d only glanced around, much as the coroner had only observed superficial features of the body, without a thorough autopsy.

Any traces on the floor had long been destroyed. Who knew how many people had trampled through after the incident? There were too many footprints to distinguish anything useful. The case file he’d been given made no mention of such evidence. If Special Affairs had deliberately withheld it, there was nothing he could do. On his first visit with Lin Dakuan, there had been no mention of footprints or fingerprints at the scene.

…

Old Six was an experienced policeman. Though he’d never cracked a sensational case himself, he’d worked on many and had a keen eye. Zhou Sen admitted he couldn’t match Old Six in such professional matters.

“Boss, aside from the messy footprints, this place is spotless!” Old Six exclaimed, having scrutinized every corner of every room.

It was indeed very clean. Zhou Sen had sensed this the first time he entered, though it hadn’t seemed odd at the time. If the killer was a professional, it was entirely possible to commit murder and leave no trace—except for the marks on the chimney, which suggested a hurried escape and a failure to erase all signs, or perhaps a deliberate choice not to waste time.

“There’s a sour stench in here. The guy must have drunk a lot before he was killed,” Old Six remarked.

“Yes. When he was found, there was still half a glass of liquor by the bed—it’s all evaporated now,” Zhou Sen replied.

“The glass is still there?” Old Six looked surprised, glancing at the bedside table to see the glass.

Zhou Sen nodded instinctively, then paused. Such a crucial piece of evidence had been left at the scene without being sent for analysis? Even if Sherkin’s death was clearly caused by a stab to the right side of his neck, standard procedure would still require all suspicious items from the scene to be collected for inspection. The glass, with its remnants of liquor, was the last thing the victim had handled. Both the glass and the remaining liquor should have been tested.

Was this a case of careless police work, or was the glass deliberately left behind?

“Boss, is there something wrong with the glass?” Old Six asked, as Zhou Sen found himself staring at it in a daze. Old Six reached out to pick it up.

“Don’t touch it, Old Six!” Zhou Sen snapped.

“What’s wrong, boss?” Old Six recoiled, startled.

“Go downstairs and ask Feiya for some face powder—if not powder, then milk powder, as fine as possible,” Zhou Sen instructed.

Old Six glanced at the glass and nodded. Though he didn’t know what Zhou Sen intended, it was best to follow orders.

A Russian matron might not use Chinese cosmetics, but most Russian households kept milk powder.

Old Six brought back the powder. Zhou Sen took a bit with a spoon, approached the glass, and gently blew it around the rim. The powder formed a fine mist, settling on the surface of the glass.

“Old Six, what do you see?” Zhou Sen’s eyes shone with anticipation—this result surprised him.

“Boss, you’re checking for fingerprints?” Old Six, being an old hand, finally understood.

“Sherkin drank heavily before bed—the empty bottles on the floor prove it. Surely he didn’t drink with gloves on. I haven’t seen the body, but I doubt he was wearing gloves when he died. Yet, there are no fingerprints on the glass. Isn’t that odd?” Zhou Sen chuckled.

“The killer cleaned up the scene?”

“Very likely. But why? What was the motive?” Zhou Sen mused aloud, a sudden flash of insight in his mind. “Perhaps the killer’s fingerprints were on the glass—and he wiped them off.”

“Let’s check Sherkin’s study.”