Chapter 12: Descendants of the "White Guards"

After discovering this photograph, Zhou Sen naturally shifted his focus to the relationship between Old Father Anthony and Sherkin. Although this might not necessarily be related to Sherkin’s murder, he was eager to understand the connection between Old Father Anthony and this so-called Russian Patriotic Alliance, and the hurried letter he found in the secret compartment, which was almost like a last testament. There seemed to be secrets here he was unaware of.

To dig up more relevant information, Zhou Sen had to find a way to get Guo Liu and the other two out of the way; otherwise, how could he explain his actions to them? As he sorted through the books and materials taken from Sherkin’s study, he searched for what he needed and made sure to register everything properly. These items didn’t belong to him yet—he was only holding them temporarily in his capacity as an investigator. Strictly speaking, they were all evidence.

He wasn’t worried about the ordinary, but about the unexpected. If Sherkin’s descendants suddenly appeared, or if the Japanese caused trouble… He had to consider these possibilities, something his predecessor never had the foresight for. Having written professionally in this field, Zhou Sen’s sensitivity to such matters was keen.

Shedding his thick black woolen coat, Zhou Sen nearly buried himself amid the pile of books and documents. He was searching for useful clues while also organizing the chaotic manuscripts and books. Anything too old he put aside—he neither had the time nor energy for them at the moment, though perhaps in the future he would. He selected Sherkin’s writings and manuscripts from the past three years and set them aside. These would be his main focus next.

He hoped to find some traces among these manuscripts, for he suddenly realized that his understanding of Old Father Anthony was not as straightforward as his predecessor had imagined. Perhaps there was a missing segment of memory, hidden away—it was entirely possible. Sherkin’s connection to Old Father Anthony made Zhou Sen want to learn more about the Russian Patriotic Alliance indirectly through Sherkin.

Suddenly, the warehouse door swung open. Wind and snow swept in—it was Guo Liu and Ye San’er. Their eyebrows and beards were white, and their shoulders dusted with snow. Once inside, they stamped their feet and rubbed their hands, frozen stiff as radishes. “Boss, the snow outside is getting heavier. Why don’t you head home early? We’ll take care of the rest.”

“No need. I’m almost done. I’ll be leaving soon,” Zhou Sen replied, stepping over to pour hot water from the kettle for each of them. “Come, warm yourselves with a drink.”

“Thanks, brother.” Ye San’er took his cup, tried to sip it, and recoiled from the heat. “Where’s Wuen? Hasn’t he returned?”

“With the snow this bad and his home so far, I told him to return the carriage and go home after work. No need to come back,” Zhou Sen explained.

“But I live pretty far too…” Ye San’er muttered.

“If you feel it’s too far, you can head home early as well,” Zhou Sen said, not indulging him. Ye San’er was flighty and needed firm guidance, or he’d never learn restraint.

“Hehe, I was just saying,” Ye San’er replied sheepishly.

“Alright, help me move these onto the shelves. I’ve labeled everything—just follow the tags,” Zhou Sen instructed, then called to Guo Liu, “Liu, come here, I need a word.”

Guo Liu nodded.

“So, did you find anything at Susanna’s uncle’s house?” Zhou Sen sat down and asked.

“Susanna’s uncle, Barov, works as a cutter at the Old Batao Brothers Tobacco Factory. He has two children—the elder’s a girl, studying at Bingcheng Medical College; the younger is in secondary school…”

“Susanna used to live with her uncle’s family but recently moved out, renting a room on Xuefu Second Street. Even so, she still visited her uncle every Saturday for dinner. Last Saturday, she didn’t go. Barov got worried and searched for her the next day, only to find she hadn’t been to work for several days, nor was she at home. He reported her as missing immediately.”

“Xuefu Second Street? Isn’t that Old Cui’s patrol district?” Zhou Sen asked.

“Yes, it’s Captain Cui’s district.” Guo Liu nodded. Zhou Sen used to get along well with Old Cui—they were neighbors, but now, things were less certain.

“So Old Cui should know quite a bit?”

“Hard to say. Susanna’s Russian, and from the north. People like her have always been under Japanese surveillance. We’ve had similar reports before, and they always turned out to involve Japanese intelligence agencies. In the end, they all came to nothing,” Guo Liu cautioned Zhou Sen.

“You suspect Susanna was taken by the Japanese?”

“It’s not impossible. Boss, think about it: Sherkin was a reporter and editor for the Songjiang Daily, whose owner is Japanese. Sherkin was an active anti-Soviet agitator. To the Russians, he was hated to the bone—he’d be killed on sight!” Guo Liu said, troubled. “Boss, this case is deep water. Even if we discover the truth, what can we do?”

“If Sherkin’s death is likely tied to Soviet intelligence agents, why did Akiyama assign such a case to me? I neither have the experience nor the rank for it, and I’m not even with the Special Branch,” Zhou Sen frowned, voicing his doubts.

“Boss, it’s odd, indeed. Normally, this case should be handed to ‘White Rod’—he has men and close ties to the Japanese. We’re just a handful, good for catching petty thieves or stray cats and dogs, not a murder case like this. It’s like a pig trying to play an elephant,” Guo Liu complained.

“You even know elephants? Have you seen one?” Zhou Sen chuckled.

“I may not have eaten pork, but I’ve seen pigs run!” Guo Liu mumbled. “I saw elephants on postcards—big, ferocious, with long trunks. They look scary.”

Zhou Sen glanced out the window—the sky was darkening. “Liu, head home. Your wife and kids are waiting for you. I should go too.”

“Should we keep investigating Susanna?”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

Zhou Sen stuffed a stack of Sherkin’s manuscripts into a leather bag, intending to read them later that night. There were few ways to pass the long winter nights, aside from visiting those places of revelry and pleasure, but such amusements held little appeal for him now.

He used to be a regular at the Modern Hotel, the Manchukuo Officers’ Club, and the Asia Cinema—popular spots in Bingcheng. He knew plenty of drinking friends from those days.

The wind and snow outside gradually eased, but the temperature plummeted. Even with thick gloves, the biting cold seemed to pierce his palms. The snow on the streets had already reached his ankles; each step sank deep, and every few strides required a deep breath. The vapor from his mouth quickly froze into icy mist.

On nights like this, one really needed a stick to brave the cold for even a midnight trip outside.

Irina opened the door for Zhou Sen.

“Master Vasim, I wasn’t sure what you wanted for dinner, so…” Irina began hesitantly.

“You haven’t cooked yet? That’s fine, I’ll do it myself,” Zhou Sen replied, unconcerned. His predecessor always ate Irina’s cooking and was used to the flavors. But Zhou Sen didn’t particularly care for the high-calorie Russian fare, though admittedly, such food was necessary during the harsh winter.

“When did you learn to cook, and cook so well?” Irina asked curiously, watching Zhou Sen busy in the kitchen.

“When I was bored alone, I taught myself. Cooking is much like writing—practice makes perfect,” Zhou Sen replied, knowing he could never be exactly like his predecessor. The changes he underwent needed plausible explanations, at least enough to convince those around him.

Irina had worked in the household for many years and knew Zhou Sen always dreamed of becoming a great writer. But Old Father Anthony never approved of his artistic ambitions and sent him to Bingcheng Police Academy instead.

The Manchukuo police system had three types: Japanese, Baekje, and Manchu (Chinese). The Central Police Academy in New Capital mainly trained Japanese (and T-type) police, while local academies focused on Baekje and Manchu officers. For Zhou Sen, who had recently been promoted, it meant returning to school for another three to six months of retraining. That would likely happen next spring, since his promotion was rather exceptional. It wasn’t as though they’d open a special course just for him.

Spicy shredded pork, sweet and sour fish, and seaweed egg soup—appetizing dishes, served with a hearty bowl of mixed grain rice, a true feast.

After dinner, Zhou Sen went straight upstairs to his study.

He needed to reassess Old Father Anthony, for his predecessor’s memories were somewhat one-sided. And perhaps the murdered White Russian journalist and editor Sherkin could provide him with a different perspective on Old Father Anthony.

Especially since both had joined the Russian Patriotic Alliance, an organization Zhou Sen had never heard of. The house even had a secret room stocked with enough light weapons to arm a fireteam—could this be the home of an ordinary, respectable White Russian merchant?

As Zhou Sen read through Sherkin’s manuscripts one by one, his brows furrowed ever deeper, and his heart grew increasingly unsettled. Sherkin not only harbored intense hatred for the communist Soviet Union, attacking its policies, institutions, and people in vicious, biting language, he was also a fanatic advocating the restoration of the Tsarist regime!

Moreover, Sherkin carried another identity: a descendant of the White Army.

If Old Father Anthony were anything like Sherkin, Zhou Sen felt his scalp tingling and a cold sweat breaking out down his spine.

This was trouble, indeed.