Chapter 21: An Encounter in the Bookstore

There was no need for Bai Shoutian’s reminder—Zhou Sen was already aware that he needed to look for suspects whose characteristics matched those of individuals involved in similar past violent crimes. But this case was further complicated by the involvement of Russian spies. This wasn’t an ordinary criminal case, so the murderer might not be a member of the underworld. After all, nothing had been stolen from the Shcherkin household. Murder must have a motive. Zhou Sen was more inclined to believe that the act had been committed by a Russian agent, but such operatives were far more dangerous and elusive than common criminals.

The investigation would certainly continue; otherwise, there’d be no way to explain things to Akiyama. Still, he now had an excuse to delay things a little. With Old Father Anthony dead, Zhou Sen had little heart left for the case.

...

Inside the warehouse.

“Sixth Brother, where’s the boss?” Ye San’er returned from his street patrol, entered the warehouse, and got ready for a cup of hot water—the cold was biting.

“He’s been sitting there in a daze all afternoon,” Gu Lao Liu replied, warming his hands by the stove.

“What’s up with him?”

“No idea. He’s been like that since this morning,” Gu Lao Liu answered with a shrug of his lips.

“You didn’t ask him?”

“Why don’t you go ask?”

“What would I ask? I’m not one for nosing into people’s business...” Ye San’er poured himself a cup of water, took a sip, and nearly scalded his mouth. “Where’s the big guy? Haven’t seen him today.”

“Wu En went with Miss Susanna to her uncle’s place. She’s fine, isn’t she? Has to check in at home.”

“True. When are the two of them coming back? They can’t just leave me to patrol alone—my legs are numb from all the walking.”

“I’ll go with you in a bit?”

“That’d be great. I was just worried I’d have no one to talk to on the rounds...”

“San’er, you stay home and rest. I’ll take a walk with Old Six,” Zhou Sen said, appearing behind them without warning.

“Brother, how do you manage to walk without making a sound? Nearly scared me to death!” Ye San’er clutched his chest with a mock-frightened expression.

Gu Lao Liu chuckled.

Patrolling the streets was a tough and thankless task—the worst assignment in the bureau. But once you made patrol chief, life became much easier. Usually, subordinates handled the rounds, and the chief only appeared if something major happened.

All the minor incidents, Gu Lao Liu handled himself; Zhou Sen rarely needed to show up. He only made occasional appearances to keep up appearances.

They walked west along Haicheng Street, turning onto Railroad Street. Once, the area was bustling, but the railway police had their own jurisdiction here, even though technically, it was still Zhou Sen’s turf. The railway police wielded more authority, and in cases of jurisdictional disputes, the Nangang police station generally stayed out, leaving it to the railway police or, at most, passing it on to the police department.

Due to the snowstorm, most trains were out of service—only a few freight trains ran at low speed to ensure the city’s basic supply.

Gu Lao Liu knew more people along the way than Zhou Sen, but for Zhou Sen, this was a process of reacquainting himself with a familiar environment. If memories weren’t refreshed in time, they might fade away for good.

Zhou Sen’s past strolls had mostly been to bookstores and cafés. He’d buy books at the bookstores, and in the cafés, he’d settle in with a cup of coffee for hours on end—reading books, magazines, or simply watching passersby through the window.

“Since when is there a new bookstore here?” He suddenly noticed a fresh signboard on a small wooden door by the street, reading “Art Antiquities Studio”—it seemed to be a bookstore.

“Oh, that’s new—opened less than half a month ago. The owner is a young man named Qiao Sanlang, but everyone just calls him Sanlang,” Gu Lao Liu replied. He often patrolled the area and was familiar with all the new shops.

“Let’s go in and have a look.” Zhou Sen’s interest was piqued.

He pushed the door open. The space inside wasn’t large—perhaps seventy or eighty square meters. Under the dim yellow lights, the room felt rather cozy but not brightly lit.

To Zhou Sen’s surprise, half the shelves were filled with books, while the other half displayed antiques. The proprietor clearly had an unusual approach, combining rare objects and literature in one space.

A few young people were browsing the shelves, searching for books that caught their fancy, chatting quietly among themselves.

Zhou Sen moved toward the shelves and motioned for Gu Lao Liu not to follow—he didn’t want the sight of a policeman in a black uniform to unsettle the patrons.

The owner, Qiao Sanlang, was a thin man in a gray long gown with a padded jacket underneath. Spotting policemen in his shop, he quickly left the counter to greet them.

“Officer, is there something you’re looking for?” The thin face, framed by a pair of black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, wore a cautious smile.

“I’m just browsing, no need to trouble yourself,” Zhou Sen said with a slight smile. As a street officer, he knew well how ordinary folk felt about men in “black uniform”—the owner hadn’t met him before and, naturally, was nervous.

Qiao Sanlang gave a slight bow. “If you need anything, Officer, don’t hesitate to call on me.”

Gu Lao Liu nodded. He was only here to accompany Zhou Sen. With his level of learning, most of the books here were beyond his understanding. As for the antiques—he couldn’t afford them, nor was he interested.

The shelves offered a wide selection: books in Chinese, Russian, Japanese, even some in English, with a fair number of world classics. Novels by Dumas, Shakespearean plays...

But the Russian books were mostly pre-October Revolution novels, reflecting the life of Tsarist Russia. Soviet literature and poetry were all but absent—those were banned in this city.

It seemed the shop specialized in literature, with other genres as supplements. Zhou Sen noticed some Japanese books promoting “Japan and Manchukuo as one,” or the superiority of Japanese culture over Chinese. But these were tucked away in a corner.

If the Japanese intelligence service saw that, they’d definitely cause trouble—such materials were required to be displayed prominently.

Wearing the “black uniform,” Zhou Sen felt obliged to “do his job” and give the shopkeeper a reminder, lest the man bring trouble on himself.

“Old Six, come here.”

Hearing Zhou Sen call, Gu Lao Liu hurried over. “Boss, something up?”

Zhou Sen whispered a few instructions, and Gu Lao Liu nodded. He thought to himself that Zhou Sen was surprisingly easy-going today; perhaps there was a novel here he liked.

Zhou Sen continued browsing while Gu Lao Liu sought out Qiao Sanlang for a stern conversation. The shopkeeper began to sweat, and promptly moved the Japanese books from the corner to the most prominent spot.

The young men and women browsing the shelves noticed the change and cast looks of open contempt—even hostility—at Zhou Sen.

Those looks stung Zhou Sen. To be regarded as a “collaborator” was a bitter feeling, but he had to swallow it and pretend he hadn’t noticed.

After ensuring the books were properly displayed, Gu Lao Liu found a place to sit. Qiao Sanlang brought him a cup of tea. The shopkeeper knew Gu Lao Liu was with Zhou Sen, but since Zhou Sen was browsing, he wisely didn’t disturb him—probably not wanting to talk to a “collaborator” anyway.

In the past, Zhou Sen seldom read foreign classics. In an age of information overload, it was easy to grow restless—fragmented information took up too much time. The traditions of his ancestors always seemed more appealing, but that wasn’t to say foreign works were unworthy. One had to be open—learn from others, embrace the world.

The body’s previous owner had read many foreign novels, poems, and literary works—just read them, but never truly understood or absorbed them. Everything remained on the surface.

He picked out two books: The Iliad and The Collected Poems of Tagore, both in Chinese translation. To be honest, he couldn’t read the English versions.

He was about to pay and leave when the door opened and a young woman in a pale yellow wool coat walked in. “Mr. Qiao, I’m here to return a book.” She looked to be just over twenty, makeup-free, her eyebrows like crescent moons, a plush hat covering her brow, her voice as clear as an oriole’s note.

She radiated youthful energy.

“Miss Su, you’re here,” Qiao Sanlang greeted her with a welcoming smile.

“Mr. Qiao, I’m returning the books I borrowed from your shop.” She placed three books on the counter.

After checking that all pages were intact, Qiao Sanlang asked, “All in good shape. Would you like to borrow more, Miss Su?”

Zhou Sen didn’t interrupt the two; after all, she’d arrived first—and he hadn’t known the shop lent books as well as sold them. Not a bad arrangement.

“Of course, let me take a look...” Su Yun passed by Zhou Sen, and, catching sight of the Tagore collection in his hand, stopped and politely asked, “Sir, would you mind letting me have that poetry collection first?”

Zhou Sen was momentarily taken aback, then noticed that two of the books Su Yun had just returned were also poetry collections. She was evidently a lover of modern verse.

But since he’d already chosen it, there was no need to give it up. He replied blandly, “Sorry, I’ve already chosen it.”

“Are you buying or borrowing it, sir?” Su Yun sounded disappointed but persisted.

“Either is fine,” Zhou Sen replied truthfully. He’d only stopped in on a whim; he didn’t have a burning desire to buy books, but if he found something he liked, he’d get a couple. He had no intention of dedicating his future to literature.

His and his predecessor’s literary dreams were long since broken.

Qiao Sanlang was a little flustered. Such situations were common in his shop: a favorite book taken by someone else, and the disappointed party trying to get it back. If it was just a loan, it would eventually return; but if bought, it would become another’s private collection.

“Could you lend it to me, then? I really like this Tagore collection,” Su Yun pressed gently.

“Why? I intend to buy it for my own collection,” Zhou Sen replied, placing both books on the counter. In the past, he wouldn’t have been so blunt, but now, he no longer wanted to be the kind of person he once was. “Owner, check me out.”

“That’ll be five yuan and twenty cents, officer.”

Zhou Sen wasn’t short on money. He might never read the books he bought, but they’d add to his collection.

Su Yun gave the Tagore collection a wistful glance, then shook her head, apologized, and went back to browsing the shelves.

She seemed like a decent young woman.