Chapter 8: Into the Maelstrom

In Ice City.

In the depths of winter, with the temperature outside dropping to minus thirty or forty degrees, it was nearly impossible to endure the night without a drink. It was too cold—by the time Wuen had escorted Zhou Sen home, his toes, tucked inside leather boots, were numb as if encased in ice.

“Wuen, are you sure you can get back alone?” Zhou Sen asked with concern. Wuen lived with his family in Guxiangtun, Daowai, quite a distance away.

“Don’t worry, young master. I’ll be fine. I know the roads of Ice City so well I could walk them with my eyes closed,” Wuen replied.

“All right, just be careful on your way back,” Zhou Sen said, reassured, and didn’t press further, offering a final reminder.

…

Upon entering, Zhou Sen removed his heavy leather boots and slipped his feet into slippers Irina had set out in advance, though his toes remained numb.

“Young master, dinner is ready…”

“Irina, I’ve already eaten out tonight. You go ahead and eat by yourself. Later, could you boil some water for me? I’d like to take a bath,” Zhou Sen instructed.

“Yes, young master.”

In truth, he’d wanted a bath for some time, but had hesitated to ask, not yet accustomed to ordering others about—even those closest to him.

…

The tub was filled with hot water.

He undressed and sank in, the heat opening every pore, bringing exquisite comfort and a respite from all his troubles. Small wonder northerners were fond of bathing.

This wasn’t a public bathhouse, so the water cooled after a quarter hour. Drying off, he donned a thick robe and entered his room. The fireplace blazed, rendering the room’s warmth incomparable to the world outside.

By his reckoning, he had been living in place of the original Zhou Sen for nearly three days. Though still unfamiliar with some aspects, he knew his situation was far from ideal.

He had brought back the case file on Sherkin’s murder. Though aware the case was deeply entangled and would face countless obstacles, he wanted to study the facts and prepare himself.

In the study, Zhou Sen switched on the desk lamp, opened the file envelope, and took out the documents.

A document inventory.

A dossier on Sherkin: age, background, education, political leanings—all very detailed, though a transcript, not the original.

There was a lengthy statement from Sherkin’s household servants. Zhou Sen skimmed it, setting it aside for thorough analysis later.

Next came the police incident report and photographs. The report listed the responding officers, the timeline, and the traces found at the scene—including fingerprints in Sherkin’s bedroom and evidence of someone climbing inside the chimney.

The photographs, black and white and very clear, showed Sherkin’s eyes wide open in death—whether from terror at dying or from seeing something or someone terrifying in his final moments, it was hard to say.

The wound was on the right side of the neck, about three inches long. Judging by the angle, the killer must have wielded the knife with the left hand. Was the murderer left-handed?

The last document was the autopsy report.

The report, written in Japanese, was perfectly intelligible to Zhou Sen. It detailed Sherkin’s time and cause of death, focusing particularly on the throat wound. The cut was swift, ruthless, and precise, leaving the victim no chance to struggle or resist. After severing the carotid artery, the killer immediately covered Sherkin with the quilt, pressing down hard to silence him, so all the blood soaked into the bedding.

The killing was decisive and efficient; apart from the traces in the chimney, no clues were left behind.

The murderer was obviously a professional—an old hand.

Faced with such a desperate character, even police veterans with decades of experience would flinch, let alone a young officer like Zhou Sen. Even if the killer’s identity were known, capturing him would be no easy feat.

Staring at the documents on the desk, Zhou Sen fell into deep thought.

Sherkin’s murder had first been investigated by the Police Bureau’s Special Branch—that in itself was unusual. Later, the case was transferred to Nangang Precinct. Was Lin Dakuan really so accommodating? And Akiyama, of all people, entrusted the investigation to him. Was it merely because the crime had occurred within his patrol district and he had surveyed the scene? The reasoning felt flimsy.

Moreover, the Sungchiang Daily’s attitude towards Sherkin’s murder was oddly indifferent, as if maintaining a deliberate distance.

All signs pointed to this being no ordinary homicide. Some hidden secret lurked beneath the surface.

But why him, of all people?

No—why Zhou Sen’s original self? Did he possess some unique trait?

A sudden chill of unease swept through Zhou Sen, beads of cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. When one’s own life is at stake, who wouldn’t be tense?

No one wants to die.

He glanced toward the secret compartment in the bookshelf.

Should he open the wooden box?

He had tried hard to uphold his principles—not to covet others’ secrets, not even those of a loved one.

Now, that resolve was wavering.

Look, then! At worst, when Father Anthony returned, he could punish him as he saw fit. For now, this box was the only hope of unraveling the mystery.

He pressed the switch, opened the secret compartment, and took out the wooden box, placing it on the desk. After a moment’s hesitation, he gritted his teeth and unfastened the brass clasp.

There were no hidden mechanisms. The box opened easily.

Inside lay a brass key atop a letter.

He unfolded the letter—it was from Father Anthony to his former self, that is, to him.

The handwriting was hurried and untidy.

It was addressed to “My dear Vasim.” Father Anthony preferred using his Russian name, though Zhou Sen liked his Chinese name better; he was Chinese, through and through.

The letter was written in Russian.

It was brief, filling only half a page. In essence, Father Anthony said he had urgent business to attend to and might be gone for a long time. If he failed to return to Ice City after half a year, Zhou Sen was to take the key and retrieve what he’d left at the Ice City Jockey Club.

Father Anthony loved horse racing. He’d spent a fortune on a Turkmen horse, “Black Rose,” stabled at the club. Though not outstanding among the other racehorses, it had brought him considerable profit.

Zhou Sen played with the brass key. Horse racing was, in truth, gambling—originally popularized in Ice City by White Russian nobles and the wealthy, then adopted by the Chinese, and later dominated by the Japanese.

The racing season spanned April to October. Now, in the dead of winter, the club was deserted, and all the horses were kept at the stables, cared for by professional grooms.

The Jockey Club was located at Fujiajian, a half-day’s journey there and back.

Should he go tomorrow?

Father Anthony’s instructions were clear: only if he had been absent for more than half a year should Zhou Sen fetch the item. It had only been three months…

He was torn.

Clang!

A sharp sound startled Zhou Sen. He hurriedly placed the letter and key back in the box and returned it to the secret compartment.

It was safer hidden away.

“Irina…” Zhou Sen, shod in slippers, opened the door and headed downstairs.

“Young master Vasim, I woke you,” Irina apologized, running from the kitchen in her nightgown.

“What happened?”

“It must be Lucy again—she’s broken another plate in the kitchen!” Irina said with a wry smile.

“Lucy, Lucy…” Zhou Sen called. He hadn’t seen the little creature since he’d returned—who knew where she’d hidden herself away.

Meow!

A flash of white darted from a corner, leapt onto the banister, and then into his arms.

Her round eyes blinked up at him, imploring, clearly seeking forgiveness for breaking the plate.

“Irina, never mind about the plate, leave the mess for tomorrow. Go get some rest,” Zhou Sen said in Russian.

“Yes, young master Vasim,” Irina replied, turning back to her room.

Zhou Sen was about to return to the study when Lucy wriggled out of his arms, meowed, and scampered downstairs.

“Lucy…”

She paused, looked back at him, and meowed again.

Though Zhou Sen didn’t speak cat, he felt certain her expression was urging him to follow.

Whether from curiosity or something else, he went after her.

It was a storage room, filled with seldom-used odds and ends, rarely visited.

Lucy led Zhou Sen inside. He turned on the light. Two rows of shelves lined the walls, dust gathering on the objects they held.

Most conspicuous were the scattered cat paw prints—clearly, this was Lucy’s playground, her domain.

He glanced over the shelves, but nothing seemed noteworthy, just the usual forgotten belongings.

Meow!

Lucy suddenly sat down and scratched at a wall, meowing.

Zhou Sen found himself doubting his own sanity—since when did he follow the lead of a cat? He reached out to pick her up.

“Lucy, it’s filthy here. Come, let’s go to bed, all right?”

Yet his arms closed on empty air; Lucy dodged him, meowing at the wall again, more urgently.

Was there something about this wall?

Remembering the mechanism behind the painting in the study, Zhou Sen was convinced Father Anthony was no ordinary merchant. Could there be another secret hidden here?

He scrutinized the room’s layout. Though cluttered, the area from the door to the wall was clear—no shelves or items obstructed the space.

He examined the wall, rapping it lightly, but detected nothing unusual. He was about to leave when his gaze landed on a black lamp bracket.

Could the secret lie there?

He reached out, gripped the cast iron fixture, and discovered it rotated.

Delight flashed across his face as he twisted it hard.

The wall before him pivoted open, revealing a small hidden chamber.