Chapter Four: Old Father Anthony

A Damascus knife rested on the rack. Its blade was so sharp that it nearly sliced through Zhou Sen’s finger, startling him into quickly placing it back. This was Old Anthony’s favorite possession; he also kept a full set of Cossack cavalry armor and tack. Anthony treasured these items, but Zhou Sen had little interest in them—hence, he rarely visited the study, except for those occasions when he was summoned for a reprimand after some misdeed. Since he’d come of age and become a police officer, his visits had become even rarer.

The original Zhou Sen had a fondness for literature, drama, and performance, feeling himself particularly artistic. If he’d been allowed to pursue his artistic inclinations, perhaps he might have become a literary master someday. Regrettably, his dreams of literature had been brusquely extinguished by Old Anthony. In his memories, he’d been forced to learn horse riding, wrestling, surveillance, driving, photography, psychology… As he recalled these things, strange images flooded his mind, all seemingly connected to Old Anthony.

Damn it, if he kept reminiscing like this, Zhou Sen wondered if he’d develop a split personality—so much of it seemed at odds with his own nature.

On the desk, there was a photograph of himself with Old Anthony, taken when he’d just entered police school. In the image, Zhou Sen stood behind Anthony, who sat in a chair, dressed in black police uniform. His favorite feature was the neatly trimmed mustache on his upper lip; he always said a mature and dependable man shouldn’t be without facial hair.

Old Anthony was a scholarly man, his study filled with books not only in Russian, but also in Chinese, Japanese, and English.

In the original Zhou Sen’s memory, he had been sold by his parents at an early age. Before the age of ten, he lived in a theatrical troupe, enduring harsh training, hunger, and frequent beatings. Later, he seized an opportunity to escape, wandering the streets until Old Anthony found him. It would be more accurate to say Anthony saved him—otherwise, Zhou Sen would have starved or frozen to death on the streets.

These memories had faded for Zhou Sen; unless he deliberately tried to recall them, they barely surfaced. Still, he forced himself to relive the original’s past, for his own survival depended on it.

His eyes were suddenly drawn to an oil painting on the wall opposite the desk. It was a portrait, the subject resembling Old Anthony—his father. A spirited old gentleman sat in a Russian-backed chair, dressed in vibrant aristocratic attire. His eyes shone with extraordinary vigor, especially striking was the ring on his left hand’s fourth finger: an emerald as large as a dove’s egg. The family claimed it was their sole heirloom.

Zhou Sen had heard of it but never seen it; presumably, Old Anthony had hidden it away. Such a treasure, if not priceless, was certainly valuable and liable to attract unwanted attention. The ring’s surface seemed unusually bright, contrasting oddly with the colors around it…

Curiosity got the better of Zhou Sen; he reached out and pressed the ring on the painting. Applying a bit of force, he felt the ring’s surface sink inward. A “click” sounded.

A mechanism!

His heart pounded wildly—this detail was absent from his memory. He turned; the sound came from the bookshelf behind the desk. One of the middle shelves slid aside, revealing a secret compartment.

From what he knew, Old Anthony was merely a somewhat affluent White Russian merchant—how could such a clever hidden mechanism exist in his home? What secret was concealed here?

Driven by intense curiosity, Zhou Sen reached into the compartment and pulled out a rectangular box. He placed it on the desk. The box was small, wooden, of indeterminate material, but it felt heavy and solid. It wasn’t locked, only secured with a simple brass clasp.

Zhou Sen hesitated. Should he open it? If Old Anthony had gone to such lengths to hide it, it must be something of great importance—could it be the emerald ring from the painting? If so, that would make sense.

After careful thought, he decided against it. Though not exactly a paragon of virtue, he had no desire to stoop to peeking at another’s secrets. He put the box back, hid it in its compartment, and breathed a long sigh of relief.

Old Anthony had left for Fengtian on business nearly three months ago, and no news had come. Fengtian was distant, and perhaps calling home was troublesome, but surely he could have sent a telegram? Such absences had occurred before, but rarely for so long.

His absence wasn’t entirely unwelcome—no one to supervise him. In these three months, “Zhou Sen” had been utterly free; otherwise, how could he have seized the nest for himself?

Enough; better to go back to bed. Tomorrow he’d have to deal with Lin Daguan, who was anything but easy to handle. Headache…

The Iberian Hotel stood on Central Avenue in Daoli—a Baroque structure adorned with exquisite reliefs, its façade luxuriously grand. The guests coming and going at the entrance were all elegantly dressed, lending the place a lively atmosphere.

Zhou Sen stepped down from a carriage, adjusted his black sable-topped hat, and exhaled a cloud of white breath—the cold was biting, and one could hardly step outside without bundling up. It was already past ten in the morning. Central Avenue, usually bustling, seemed sparsely populated; passersby hurried along with heads down.

He bought two packs of Shuangfu cigarettes from a street vendor—the half pack he’d filched yesterday from Bai Yulan had long been smoked away.

He entered the hotel’s lobby through the tall revolving door. As expected of a high-class establishment, the interior was sumptuous: spacious and bright, with carved columns like works of art. The polished floor reflected one’s image as clearly as a mirror; even by modern standards, the decor was impressive.

“Sir, do you have a reservation?” the lobby manager stepped forward to inquire.

“Police Special Services Division, Lin Daguan,” Zhou Sen replied.

The manager’s expression shifted to surprise, and he quickly said, “Ah, you’re Director Lin’s guest. Please follow me.”

“Thank you,” Zhou Sen nodded slightly and followed the manager upstairs.

“You must be Young Master Zhou Sen? Director Lin called ahead, please wait a moment—he’ll arrive shortly.” The manager opened a private room, ushered Zhou Sen in with a smile.

“Mm.” Zhou Sen nodded. “Please bring me a glass of water.”

“Of course, Young Master Zhou, please wait.” The manager replied respectfully and withdrew.

He removed his hat, coat, and scarf, hanging them on the rack. The private room was warmed by a stove, much cozier than outside.

Soon, a waiter knocked and entered, bringing him a cup of hot water, murmuring, “Enjoy,” before leaving.

He had just been promoted to Assistant Inspector, finally escaping the wind and rain of street patrols, with a chance to work directly in an office. That was a step many policemen found impossible—a regular officer might never get the chance in a lifetime.

This promotion had come unexpectedly, and its cause was a mystery even to him. The announcement was sudden two days ago; that night, he was coaxed by colleagues to the Fragrant Pavilion for drinks, and he had no idea how much he’d consumed. Nor did he remember how he ended up in Bai Yulan’s bed—he had no recollection of what transpired.

Fragrant Pavilion was a place for men to seek pleasure, but it differed from other brothels in Ice City. First, the women there were of high caliber, beyond the reach of ordinary patrons, and they could choose their clients. The more popular the woman, the greater her autonomy.

Second, the Pavilion’s owner, Bai Yulan, was known as the most beautiful woman in Daowai. She was no ordinary lady; she hadn’t been its first proprietor—the original owner was surnamed Ma, her husband. In fact, she should have been considered the proprietress. But the Ma boss was ill-fated—less than two years after marrying Bai Yulan, he died suddenly and mysteriously.

Bai Yulan took over the Pavilion—not only did she avoid the predicted failure, but after hosting a “Queen of Flowers” contest and winning the title herself, her fame as Daowai’s foremost beauty spread far and wide. The once modest Pavilion became Ice City’s most renowned den of pleasure, rivaling the Qunfang House on Peach Blossom Lane and the Qunxian Club on North Road.

Such a woman, desired by countless men for her beauty and wealth—how had Zhou Sen, a mere policeman, become entangled with her? The thought was unsettling; surely there were hidden depths to this matter.

To die beneath the peony, even as a ghost, would be a romantic fate—but he’d rather be a ghost who understood how he died.

He didn’t believe Bai Yulan was genuinely interested in him; there had to be more to this, but he had no time to investigate.

Today’s banquet was unlikely to be pleasant…

As Zhou Sen pondered these matters, footsteps sounded outside the door. He quickly pushed aside his distractions and stood up.

The man who strode in was Lin Daguan—his large head unmistakable. Three others followed, all in the uniform of the Manchukuo police.

One was a Chief Inspector, two were Assistant Inspectors—all outranked Zhou Sen. Members of the Police Special Services Division in Ice City gave face to no one but the Japanese; their arrogance was evident in their gait and expressions.

The original Zhou Sen’s memories quickly supplied their identities. The Chief Inspector at Lin Daguan’s side was Zou Shuxun, Action Squad Leader—nicknamed “Zou the Cripple.” Once a bandit, he’d been recruited into the regular forces. After his left leg was injured and the Japanese occupied Ice City, he sold out, becoming a traitor and Lin Daguan’s chief enforcer.

Li Shaotang, Director of Criminal Affairs in the Judicial Division—dark-skinned, perpetually dour, as if everyone owed him money. Nicknamed “Li the Mule,” he was an expert in interrogation and Lin Daguan’s sworn brother, utterly loyal.

The last was plump, bespectacled Wu Shuqing, with small, shifty eyes. Only a few years older than Zhou Sen, he was the Special Services Division’s Japanese interpreter. Lin Daguan always brought him when dealing with cases or the Japanese, as Lin’s own Japanese was limited—adequate for greetings, but hopeless for serious matters.

He couldn’t imagine how Old Anthony had become involved with Lin Daguan, a notorious traitor. Then again, perhaps it was understandable—Old Anthony was White Russian, and “traitor” had little meaning for him.

“Uncle Lin,” Zhou Sen quickly greeted.

It was clear now—Old Anthony was a man of secrets.

For a moment, Zhou Sen’s mind was in turmoil. Lin Daguan’s approach was clearly ill-intentioned, but Zhou Sen had no choice but to comply.