Chapter 35: A Story (Please add to your collection and vote for me!)

When it came to verifying Susanna’s identity, Zhou Sen had absolutely no clue. There was no template or standard procedure for such a job; all he could do was begin by investigating her social connections, then keep her under his nose and observe.

Just observe.

As someone who was hoping to keep out of this mess, how could he honestly be expected to help Akiyama Susuke root out a “Soviet” spy? If he helped the Japanese, how could he ever shed the stigma of being a traitor? Did they take him for a fool?

The best strategy was to stall, to drag things out until the Japanese grew tired and realized he was just a hopeless case—mud that would never stick to a wall. That would be perfect.

He clung to one principle: Old Anthony was Old Anthony, and he was himself. Though there was a connection, they were two separate individuals. He didn’t want to get involved in Anthony’s affairs, nor did he want to know about them—unless Akiyama came to him directly. He would never ask questions on his own.

As for the family secret, he was still considering how to deal with the weapons in the hidden room—whether to find a safe place to hide them himself or hand them over to the Japanese. He hadn’t decided yet. For now, leaving them there posed no problem.

He would not retrieve anything from the Racecourse Club for the time being, especially since he suspected he was still under surveillance. As long as those items remained hidden, he could collect them whenever he wished.

As for inheriting Old Anthony’s mantle, such a notion had never crossed his mind. He didn’t believe a word of the Japanese lies. If he did take up the mantle, who knew how long he’d last before meeting a violent end?

He could do anything—except become a traitor. That was his bottom line.

...

“Boss, about that Feiya, I’ve found out a few things.” After sending Susanna off, Gu Laoliu finally reported the results of his investigation to Zhou Sen.

“Go ahead.”

“This Feiya is forty-seven this year. Her husband worked on the Chinese Eastern Railway, but they divorced a few years back—mainly because he was a drunk and abusive. Every time he got drunk, he’d beat his wife and child. They have a son who dropped out of school early. Two years ago, when the White Russian regiment was recruiting, the boy joined up. The family isn’t too badly off. Feiya has been working for Sherkin for about a year, and her neighbors all speak highly of her.”

“Does she send most of her earnings to her son?”

“Her son’s in the White Russian regiment, with food and board provided. She probably doesn’t need to support him,” Gu Laoliu replied.

“Check anyway. Does her ex-husband still have contact with her?”

“When they divorced, the son stayed with the father—after all, the man had a steady income and didn’t have to worry about food or shelter. Feiya didn’t even have a place to live. So, if she wanted to see her son, she had to go through her ex-husband…” Gu Laoliu had investigated thoroughly.

“Then look into her relationship with her ex-husband, especially whether there are any financial dealings between them,” Zhou Sen instructed.

“Boss, does this have anything to do with our case?” Gu Laoliu muttered, baffled. “Aren’t we just casting about blindly now—like looking for a needle in a haystack?”

“Otherwise, why don’t you go find out who in the underworld here is left-handed and skilled with a knife, and has turned up in Harbin recently?”

“Well…” Gu Laoliu had already tried that, even asking some old-timers around. There were a few who fit the description, but upon checking, they were either dead or in prison with no chance to commit the crime. That lead was a dead end.

“Which do you choose?” Zhou Sen grinned.

“I’ll stick to investigating Feiya and her ex-husband,” Gu Laoliu answered, looking defeated.

“Also, pass a message to Boss Qing of the Shuangqing Society—tell him I’m inviting him to lunch tomorrow, reserve a spot and let him know.” Zhou Sen added. He hadn’t forgotten that he’d been set up, but if he wanted to find out who was behind it, he couldn’t do it alone.

“Boss, why are you inviting him? Shouldn’t he be the one inviting you?” Gu Laoliu asked in surprise.

“You’ll see tomorrow.”

Gu Laoliu chuckled, knowing full well that he’d be included in the lunch.

...

The Shuangqing Society was a small gang within Zhou Sen’s patrol district. Harbin had plenty of minor gangs, and the Shuangqing Society had made a name for itself. It was mainly run by the Qing brothers, who managed a bunch of petty criminals—thieves, beggars, con artists, and street vendors scraping a living in the area, like cigarette sellers, fruit stall owners, newspaper stands, and the like. Every month, these people paid protection money, amounts varying by the line of work.

Naturally, there were also enforcers and collectors, but most of the protection money didn’t go into the gang’s pockets; the bulk of it was handed over to the police station.

In plain terms, every month the Shuangqing Society had to pay Zhou Sen, regardless of who was in charge of the district. That was the rule. Otherwise, the police would simply sweep them off the streets.

Zhou Sen couldn’t pocket all that money himself; he had to turn it over to the station, which would then allocate it as extra income beyond regular salary.

This was a decent source of income. Otherwise, with his base pay and the occasional supplement from Old Anthony, how could he afford to dine at luxury restaurants every day or frequent the likes of the Ningxiang House, a notorious den of indulgence? A single night of drinking there could cost a small fortune.

Usually, Gu Laoliu handled this business. Zhou Sen rarely got involved, nor did he intend to. With Gu Laoliu now busy on another task, Zhou Sen had to handle patrol duties himself—at least to ensure two men were on the job.

There was always plenty to deal with on the streets, especially trivial disputes that were excellent training for a man.

So that afternoon, he and Wu En took to the streets.

Generally, things were peaceful, but with the Lunar New Year approaching, the crowds were growing, and petty crimes and minor scuffles were on the rise. There were traffic police on the streets, but they were a separate department; Zhou Sen and his men only handled everyday disputes.

Most ordinary people preferred to settle things among themselves and avoided police involvement. By the time officers arrived, both sides usually had reached some kind of agreement.

Many disputes arose from family matters, but due to the prevailing belief that “family scandals should not be aired in public,” they seldom intervened and were reluctant to get involved in domestic quarrels. Even an upright official has a hard time settling family affairs, after all.

Aside from the backwardness of public opinion and the tense, even hostile, relationship between the police and the people, their work was not much different from that of ordinary police in later times.

Of course, as collaborators with the Japanese invaders, puppet police had work ethics and beliefs utterly incomparable to those of future policemen.

Yet, Zhou Sen knew that a conscientious officer could make life a bit better for his district’s residents. Still, that could never change the reality at hand. Only by driving out the invaders and overthrowing the current regime could this predatory world be transformed.

He had seen it with his own eyes: in broad daylight, Japanese men harassing Chinese citizens, molesting women, even slapping and beating people in the street. Even when the Japanese were clearly in the wrong, it was always the Chinese who had to apologize—and often pay compensation.

And as for freeloading, eating and drinking without paying, or outright robbery, such incidents were even more common. Even if someone was caught in the act, the case would usually go nowhere.

“Little girl, why are you running, heh heh…”

Zhou Sen had just been hoping he wouldn’t run into such trouble, unsure he could control his temper if he did, when suddenly he heard a burst of rapid Japanese from a nearby alley.

Just as he feared—trouble had arrived.

Before Zhou Sen could assess the situation, Wu En had already dashed off.

He had no choice but to follow.

A group of Japanese ronin, dressed in their distinctive garb, were chasing a young girl through the alley. Terrified, she ran for her life.

When she saw a policeman in a black uniform burst onto the scene, hope lit her face and she sprinted desperately toward Wu En, crying out, “Help me! Please help me!”

The four Japanese ronin showed no sign of backing down at the sight of the police. Instead, they shouted in their own tongue and continued the pursuit.

They weren’t afraid of the police—why would they be?

One of them, running fast, grabbed the girl and threw her to the ground, tearing her coat with a harsh rip.

She screamed, “Help!”

Wu En’s eyes widened with fury, and with a tiger’s roar, he lunged forward, leapt into the air, and brought his massive fist crashing down on the ronin’s head.

The Japanese went down like a sack of bricks. Wu En’s strength was frightening—how could such a frail opponent withstand it?

The other three ronin, seeing this, charged forward with drawn swords, surrounding Wu En and the girl.

Zhou Sen, scrambling to catch up, realized he was too late. Wu En had already acted, and today would not end peacefully.

The three ronin brandished their swords, intent on killing Wu En then and there.

But Wu En showed not the slightest fear. As the first sword came down, he dodged nimbly, seized the attacker, and slammed him to the ground.

With a thud, the second ronin collapsed, unconscious.

The remaining two exchanged glances—not with fear, but with a rage fueled by their comrades' defeat. They attacked Wu En together, one from each side.

Zhou Sen’s heart nearly stopped. Facing two armed men alone—could Wu En possibly win?

The result stunned him. Wu En’s eyes blazed coldly; with a swift step, he clamped his hand around one attacker’s wrist.

A sharp crack—the ronin’s arm went limp, and he was out of the fight.

The last ronin, terrified, turned and fled straight toward Zhou Sen.

But before he could reach him, a black flash streaked past—Wu En had picked up a fallen sword and hurled it, striking the man in the back of the head.

He went down, face-first, unconscious like his companions.

Zhou Sen was dumbstruck.

He knew Wu En was strong, but not this strong—not capable of dispatching four armed Japanese ronin so easily.

This was trouble.

These four weren’t just any thugs—they were dressed as ronin and carrying swords, surely men of some standing. They had all seen Wu En’s face.

Worse, Wu En’s police uniform made his identity clear—none of them would fail to recognize him.

At a time when Chinese people had to bow to Japanese on the street, and now, one of their own had beaten up Japanese men, even if those men had been harassing a woman, the Japanese would not listen to reason. Manchukuo’s laws were not meant for them. If the Japanese pursued the matter, Wu En was finished—he might even end up in prison.

And as Wu En’s superior, Zhou Sen would also be implicated. He didn’t fear that for himself—but what about Wu En? This moment of hot-headed bravery could bring disaster down on his head, and Wu En wasn’t alone; he had parents and a family to consider.