Chapter 11: A Photograph

Sherkin’s study was somewhat chaotic, with books and periodicals scattered everywhere, and he never allowed Feiya to enter. If anyone moved his things, finding them again would be nearly impossible.

Zhou Sen glanced through the manuscripts Sherkin had left behind. The man certainly possessed talent; his writings were impressive, far better than Zhou Sen’s own, at least. Zhou Sen could appreciate good work.

Most of Sherkin’s articles criticized Soviet policies, revealing a profound hatred of “communism.” There were so many manuscripts that Zhou Sen couldn’t possibly read them all at once; he could only skim through, gaining a rough understanding.

“Boss, should we pack all this up and take it with us?” Guo Lao Liu entered and asked.

“Is that allowed?” Zhou Sen replied. Besides Sherkin’s manuscripts, the study housed many books—some of which Zhou Sen had never even heard of.

“Of course. These might be related to the case…” Guo Lao Liu chuckled. Having worked alongside Zhou Sen for four years, he understood the young master’s preferences well. The warehouse already held quite a collection of books.

Young Master Zhou always had a literary heart, a love for books. Reading and collecting were essential to him.

Sherkin lived alone, and the house wasn’t his own. If the original owner cherished books, they might be kept; if not, they’d likely be sold as scrap. Zhou Sen, not one for empty formalities, immediately understood the situation. Sherkin was akin to what villagers called a “family line with no heirs.”

In the countryside, it was common to “inherit from the childless.” Better to benefit oneself than let others profit. Preserving the books and manuscripts as historical testimony would be a virtue.

As for reputation, wearing this black dogskin uniform, did he really care anymore?

“Alright, but not right now. Let’s eat first. Afterward, we’ll find a big truck to haul everything,” Zhou Sen said.

“Sure, boss!” Guo Lao Liu grinned. “Should I grab a ladder and check the chimney on the roof?”

“Are you up to it?”

…

In the private room of the hotpot restaurant, four men sat around the table as the copper pot’s snowy broth boiled.

“Ye San, you picked a good place today; the lamb is genuine, tender, and smooth…” The authentic ingredients tasted so good Zhou Sen almost bit his own tongue.

“Waiter, slice us two more plates of lamb—no, three—and some beef tripe…”

“Right away, sir.” The waiter agreed, though his expression was less than enthusiastic as he headed to the kitchen.

When men in black dogskin uniforms came to eat, few ever paid their bills. The lamb was sliced plate by plate, but today the proprietor would likely work for nothing.

“More orders?” The waiter had barely reached the kitchen when the boss approached, seeing the waiter’s face drop. In this snowy weather, customers were scarce, and business was tough. Now a table of freeloaders was eating and drinking for free—how could business survive?

“Go ahead, slice it…” The boss sighed. These men in black dogskin uniforms weren’t people common folk could offend. Eating and drinking was expected; only if they started taking things would it be a disaster.

“Officers, please enjoy your meal…” The boss personally brought in the freshly sliced lamb, smiling all the while.

“Boss, your lamb here is authentic and excellent. We’ll have to visit often!” Guo Lao Liu laughed.

The boss nearly dropped the plate, forcing a smile. “It’s an honor to have officers dine here. Please, come often…”

But in his heart, he hoped they’d never return.

“Boss, we’re about finished. Settle the bill!” Zhou Sen noticed the boss’s strange look—the way his mouth twisted in pain was obvious. Zhou Sen quickly pulled out a “Old Sheep” banknote—hundred yuan from the Central Bank of Manchukuo.

Guo Lao Liu paused mid-bite, surprised; Ye San took a sip of wine, while Uen revealed a hint of intrigue.

“Sir, it’s an honor to have officers dine here; how could I accept your money…” The boss showed no joy, but rather fear. He’d never seen police pay for their meals in his restaurant.

“Boss, my name is Zhou Sen. You can call me Officer Zhou. I don’t care about others, but I pay for my food. Settle the bill—I won’t short you a penny. Of course, don’t try to overcharge me either. That’s my rule,” Zhou Sen said.

The boss hesitated. Guo Lao Liu looked up and barked, “Our boss says pay for the meal. Settle the bill, didn’t you hear?”

“Yes, yes, officers, I’ll calculate it right away and bring your change.” The boss took the banknote and hurried out.

“Lao Liu, you’re like half a mentor to me, having worked with me the longest. San, you and Uen started at about the same time. The past is past, but from today, I’m setting a rule: wherever we eat, we pay for it,” Zhou Sen said. “We were born and raised in Bingcheng. Someday we’ll grow old and take off this uniform. When that day comes, what will happen? Some things are beyond our control, but others we can do. We must leave virtue for those who come after us.”

“Boss, though I mentored you for a time, I’ll always remember your kindness. Whatever you say, I’ll do,” Guo Lao Liu replied. Zhou Sen’s words struck home, especially since, among the four, only he had a wife and children. Being a police officer might seem prestigious, but to the Japanese, he was still called and ordered about—a servant in all but name.

“What about you, San?”

Ye San liked to take small advantages, but he wasn’t a bad person. In fact, people like him were a dime a dozen.

“Alright, I’ll do as you say; from now on, we pay for our meals.” Though not entirely enthusiastic, Ye San agreed.

As for Uen, Zhou Sen didn’t bother to ask. That one was too principled; if it weren’t for Zhou Sen, he wouldn’t survive at the station.

“After we finish eating, Uen, go find us a big truck. We need to haul some things from Sherkin’s house,” Zhou Sen instructed.

Uen nodded as he ate.

…

“What did you say? Zhou Sen took his men and hauled a truckload of stuff from Sherkin’s house?” Lin Kuan was shocked by his subordinate’s report.

Wasn’t that a bit shameless?

Though Saburo Shibuya had temporarily forbidden him from contacting Zhou Sen, that didn’t mean he couldn’t send people to monitor Zhou Sen’s movements.

In fact, every action Zhou Sen took was under surveillance.

“Yes, director, they moved it all to his warehouse on Haicheng Street. Pile after pile—looked heavy as they unloaded…” The subordinate reported vividly.

“You weren’t discovered?” Lin Kuan frowned and asked.

“No, sir. Zhou’s men are only three—just Guo Lao Liu is any good; the other two are too green,” the subordinate said confidently.

“Alright, keep a close watch. Report any developments immediately!” Lin Kuan ordered. He still didn’t understand why Saburo Shibuya was suddenly interested in a frivolous young master—was it because of his adopted White Russian father?

But Anthony had already left Bingcheng three months ago…

The Japanese acted inscrutably. Lin Kuan dared not inquire or speculate; if he crossed a line, he’d be the one to suffer. Over the past years, people had disappeared every month for no apparent reason, and he had no desire to join their ranks.

Lin Kuan immediately picked up the phone and reported the situation to Saburo Shibuya. Shibuya merely replied, “Oh, I see,” and hung up, offering nothing further.

Lin Kuan sensed there was more to this, but dared not ponder. Better to follow orders faithfully.

…

The Special Service Division clearly hadn’t touched Sherkin’s study; otherwise, with their crude methods, the room would have been ransacked.

Nearly all of Sherkin’s study had been emptied.

“All right, you three go about your business. I’ll handle the sorting alone,” Zhou Sen instructed.

“Boss, it’s so much—how long will you be at it?” Ye San asked.

“You don’t understand Russian; you can’t help me. You can’t neglect your main duties just to help me here.”

“In this wind and snow, what work is there outside…”

“Lao Liu, go visit Susanna’s uncle’s house and find out what happened before she disappeared,” Zhou Sen directed. “Ye San, you go with him.”

“What about Uen?”

“Uen needs to return the horse cart. If you prefer, you can switch with him,” Zhou Sen said to Ye San.

“I’d rather go with Lao Liu to Susanna’s uncle’s house.” Ye San shrank back. Returning the cart was easy; coming back would be trouble. Knowing Uen, he’d never pay for a ride—he’d walk back.

Going out with Guo Lao Liu was different—at least his feet wouldn’t suffer, and Guo Lao Liu would take charge.

The warehouse was left to Zhou Sen alone.

He had dispatched the three in the snow not out of disregard, but because he had discovered a photograph in one of the books brought from Sherkin’s study.

There were three rows of people in the photo, men and women. Zhou Sen recognized few, but one he could never mistake—Anthony, his father.

The photo had been taken two years earlier, with the backdrop of the Yamato Hotel on Station Street. The hotel, formerly the Russian Officers’ Club, had been seized by the Japanese and reopened two years ago.

Everyone in the photo belonged to a White Russian organization: the Russian Patriotic Alliance.

Anthony sat in the middle of the front row, slightly to the left, indicating his significant position within the group.

Yet Zhou Sen had no memory of ever seeing this photo.

Sherkin stood in the back row; the photo had been tucked inside a thick Russian dictionary. If the dictionary hadn’t slipped from his hand, exposing the corner of the photo, Zhou Sen might never have discovered it.