Chapter 28: Uncle Ivan (Please add to your favorites and vote for me!)

"Is Sherkin's body still in the police morgue?"
"It should be, I suppose. The case hasn't been solved, so by regulation, funerals and burials aren't allowed..." Old Six replied uncertainly.
"Find a time, you come with me. We'll take a look at Sherkin's wounds ourselves," Zhou Sen said.
"Alright, boss, I'll be off then."

...

Zhou Sen waited another half hour, but Ye San hadn't returned. He wondered what the boy was up to—perhaps his old gambling friends had dragged him off to play cards again. Ye San was good in many respects, but his addiction for gambling was a flaw he couldn't shake.
Once a man becomes a gambler, he's ruined; if there were anyone else available, Zhou Sen would never have employed someone like Ye San.
As for Sherkin's case, judging from Akiyama's attitude, there was no deadline for solving it. Likely, he was using this as a test.
To see if Zhou Sen could inherit old Anthony's legacy; if he proved to be incapable...
It was, in fact, a chance to escape his current awkward position. If he turned out to be hopeless, Akiyama would be greatly disappointed, but Zhou Sen was merely interested in Anthony's past. As for any connection with that so-called Russian Nationalist Alliance, he had no interest at all and wished for no entanglements.
He could drag this out, no need to hurry...

Night had fallen outside. If he didn't go home now, Irina would be worried. He decided not to wait any longer, tidied up, donned his overcoat, wrapped his scarf, put on his hat and gloves.
He closed the door and headed home.
The streetlights were already glowing, and there were still people about. With the New Year approaching, crowds were larger, especially on the bustling streets, and many dressed in wool coats—White Russians, young women.
He often wished he had time to experience skating on the Songhua River, gliding across several feet of solid ice.

Passing by the Yue Lai Hotel, Zhou Sen remembered he had arranged for Wu En to stay there these past few days—first, to spare him the trouble of commuting, second, to ensure Suzanna's safety.
"Inspector Zhou..." The proprietor spotted him and hurried from behind the counter to greet him. In these times, those in black dogskin coats were not to be provoked.
"I'm here to check in. Which room is Officer Wu En staying in?"
"Upstairs, room 203. Shall I show you the way?" The owner offered, eager and deferential.
"No need, I'll go up myself." Zhou Sen waved him off and ascended the stairs by himself, climbing in the dim light.
He found room 203 and knocked. Wu En opened the door; Zhou Sen saw he'd just been eating.
Mixed-grain rice—(it wasn't until 1940 that Chinese were forbidden from eating white rice directly; the ban hadn't come yet, but grain was rationed)—just boiled water and pickles.
"Wu En, is this your dinner?" Zhou Sen was surprised. He knew that during the Manchukuo era, the Japanese, to plunder grain resources, had instituted a grain monopoly. Rice, corn, sorghum—all had to be sold at low prices to Japanese-run grain companies, which monopolized the trade.
His own mill and rice factory got their raw materials from the Japanese, processed them, and shipped the product to designated grain stores. The profit was only processing fees, and even those were whittled away by Japanese levies; it was impossible to make money.
Wu En was a policeman—even if he couldn't eat white rice, surely he could afford a bowl of hot soup?
"Master, this is already not bad—at least it's filling," Wu En replied, scratching his head in embarrassment.
Zhou Sen wasn't sure when the Japanese would implement strict grain rationing, but for now, rice and white flour were still readily available in the market, provided one had money. However, the supply channels were all controlled by the Japanese.
"Just this—can you last all night?"
"Uh..." Wu En's face was sheepish. Though the bowl of mixed rice was substantial and filling, by midnight, he'd be hungry again.

"I told Ye San to inform you: while you stay here, meals are an official expense—you don't need to economize for me," Zhou Sen said. "If you save me money, do you think I'll pocket it?"
"Master..." Wu En was even more embarrassed.
"Don't call me 'Master.' From now on, call me 'Brother' like Ye San, or 'Boss' like Old Six," Zhou Sen chastised him. Wu En, so grateful, upright, and principled, was a subordinate worth cultivating—even if he couldn't act independently, he could be a reliable assistant.
"Brother..." Wu En forced the word out after a moment, his face red.
"Alright, that's settled. Listen, you must protect Miss Suzanna for me; nothing must happen to her. Of course, if anything unusual occurs, you must inform me at once," Zhou Sen said in a low voice.
"Yes, Brother, I understand."
"Alright, I'm off. If you feel cold, ask the proprietor for a brazier, but be sure to leave the window slightly open—never close it tight."
Every year, in this city of ice, families died from carbon monoxide poisoning; it was not uncommon.

...

He returned home; it was nearly eight o'clock.
Zhou Sen asked Irina to heat some water—he wanted to take a bath, to drive away the chill and wash off the smell of alcohol.
Besides the missing segments from the film negatives, portions of Sherkin-related manuscripts had also disappeared, their absence coinciding with the missing negatives.
During that period, Sherkin hadn't published anything in the newspapers, nor were there any manuscripts left behind.
As a journalist, he wrote something every day—even if only an essay or a note, there would always be traces.
It was a habit, one not easy to break unless forced by circumstances.
Or perhaps everything he wrote during that period was taken away.
What happened to Sherkin during that time? Zhou Sen puzzled over it—should he visit the Songjiang Daily office again?
He found it hard to decide.
He could pretend not to have noticed; after all, whoever killed Sherkin meant nothing to him. He had no duty to hunt down the murderer and avenge him.
What he really wanted to understand was Akiyama's intentions. By giving him Sherkin's case, was he truly testing his ability?
And what about old Anthony's death—a mysterious Japanese mission—what exactly was it?
He yearned to uncover that as well.
Akiyama certainly knew, but he wouldn't say, and Zhou Sen had no means to force him.

"Master Vasim, Mr. Ivanovich called this afternoon. He said he'll visit you tomorrow," Irina brought a cup of milk into the study and informed Zhou Sen.
"Tomorrow?" Zhou Sen was surprised. He'd been thinking of finding a chance to see Ivanovich himself, but the man was coming first.
"Tomorrow happens to be your day off, Master—you haven't forgotten, have you?" Irina said.
"I'm off tomorrow?" Zhou Sen had indeed forgotten; his job as a policeman had made him see himself as a 'public servant.'
But could he actually rest at home on this day off?

"Did Uncle Ivanovich say what time he's coming?"
"Nine o'clock in the morning."
"Alright, I understand." Zhou Sen nodded. This would be his first time, since replacing his predecessor, to meet someone close to old Anthony.

...

Irina was merely the housemaid; she couldn't possibly know Anthony's secrets. Even if she knew a little, it would be very little.
But Ivanovich was different—he was not only Anthony's subordinate but a close partner, perhaps even a like-minded comrade.
How to face him? Zhou Sen was genuinely nervous. Anthony had been strict and meticulous, but in the original memories, Ivanovich was a gentle, graceful man.
The original Vasim admired Uncle Ivanovich, hoping to be as elegant and urbane as he was.
For a long time, he'd studied Ivanovich's ways—liking suits, shoes polished to a shine, clothes always neatly pressed, hair perfectly combed before going out.
Now, Zhou Sen was far more casual.

The next morning, Zhou Sen woke, washed his face, brushed his teeth, shaved, and even applied a touch of hair gel to fix his hair.
He chose a gray checkered suit, custom Italian shoes, and men's cologne.
The scent was pleasant; a little wouldn't hurt, but he'd gradually use less, until none at all.
After breakfast, everything was ready. He sat in the living room, reading the newspaper and waiting for Ivanovich to arrive.
Sure enough, Ivanovich was punctual. At nine, the sound of a carriage bell came from outside.
Irina opened the door; Zhou Sen, holding Lucy in his arms, went out to greet him himself.
"Uncle Ivanovich!" Zhou Sen opened the carriage door and saw a Western-faced middle-aged man, under one meter seventy, step down.
First a greeting, then a firm embrace.
"Vasim, I heard you've been promoted to police lieutenant. The factory's been so busy these days, I haven't had time to congratulate you!" Ivanovich laughed.
"Uncle, please come inside," Zhou Sen thanked him and invited him in.
"Certainly."
Inside, Zhou Sen seated Ivanovich in the living room and asked Irina to serve black tea.
"I should have visited you, but I've been tied up with a case and couldn't get away. Having you come in person is my fault," Zhou Sen began, lowering his posture.
"Vasim, your father has been gone for three months, hasn't he? Did he send any telegram or letter to the family?" Ivanovich sipped his tea and asked.
"No."
"That's strange—whenever your father was away more than two weeks, he'd always send a telegram or letter home. Why has he been gone so long without a word?" Ivanovich frowned.
"Uncle, I never ask about business matters, and Father rarely tells me. He went to Fengtian for business this time—you probably know more than I do. I was thinking of asking you about it." Zhou Sen promptly shifted the burden back.
"What now? With your father gone, many things can't be handled..." Ivanovich frowned.
"Uncle, I don't understand business either. You should take charge. When Father returns, you can report to him."
"But without his authorization and private seal, I can't handle some company affairs," Ivanovich said.
"Didn't Father leave you his private seal, Uncle?" Zhou Sen was surprised. He had hurriedly left a letter with instructions, but Ivanovich, his right-hand man, had received nothing at all?
Could it be...