Chapter 047 The Masked Beauty Is Shot

In the year 1929, on March 3rd, a passenger liner from Lüshun, China, was about to dock in Shanghai.

Chen Jiehua sat in a booth in the first-class café of the liner, watching as the distant skyline of Shanghai drew nearer, gradually reining in his wandering thoughts.

The last time he’d come to Shanghai, he’d only passed through after delivering medicine, sneaking aboard a ship with barely a moment to appreciate the splendor of this bustling metropolis. City of the Orient, City of Demons—here I am again!

Over the past two months, after tying up loose ends in the Northeast, Chen Jiehua had phoned “Uncle Okamura,” then serving as Assistant Section Chief of the Army Ministry’s Personnel Bureau. Okamura Ninji had instructed him to seek out Senior Brother Toihara, who was still working at the Fengtian Intelligence Office.

They were all protégés of the Aoki school, brothers in arms—there was no need for fratricidal conflict. The Aoki faction must remain united, no infighting allowed. That was Okamura Ninji’s view.

Chen Jiehua had more or less figured it out. Uncle Okamura, after confirming with Aoki Ichiro, was convinced that Aoki Qiao—alias Aoki Qingxuan—had not been replaced by an imposter. He was at ease, believing that Senior Brother Toihara had simply misunderstood. Because of Toihara’s erroneous, unsanctioned investigation, Aoki Qiao’s pharmaceutical operations had suffered, causing economic loss to both the Emperor and the Army Ministry.

Though the Army Ministry’s warning did little to dispel Toihara’s suspicions, at least it kept him from overtly pursuing investigations into Aoki Qiao’s businesses. In truth, there wasn’t much left to investigate. The “Aoki Grand Pharmacy” franchises, along with the Blue Gale “Fleetfoot” network that had once flourished across the Northeast, had appeared suddenly and vanished just as quickly.

The “Fleetfoot” operatives missed those days—at least if they could run, they could live like human beings. The military police missed them too; who didn’t relish lining up every month for extra pay?

All of this, with the departure of Aoki Qiao—Chen Jiehua—became a fleeting episode in the Northeast’s history, unlikely to ever be recorded.

Okamura Ninji, knowing Toihara’s temperament and wishing to prevent further strife among his own, used a change in position to transfer Aoki Qiao to Shanghai as a Special Military Attaché, responsible for overseeing all Army Ministry affairs in Shanghai. Upon receiving his orders, he set out immediately.

The title of Special Military Attaché was, in essence, that of an intelligence officer—one whose authority could be as expansive or as idle as he wished. He could devote himself to his duties or simply coast along.

Disembarking with his suitcase, Chen Jiehua stood on the dock, deliberating whether he should rent or buy a place in the Japanese expatriate quarter of the HK district, or look for property elsewhere. Once bitten, twice shy—this time, he resolved to think it through, rather than rushing in as he had in Lüshun, impulsively buying a place next to the command headquarters.

Of all Shanghai’s famous streets, only one came to mind—Avenue Joffre. Number 76! I’ll buy a place on Avenue Joffre. Would it do to be near Number 76?

“Mister, would you like a rickshaw ride?”

This time, Chen Jiehua wasn’t in Japanese military uniform; he wore one of the era’s most fashionable and dashing Western suits. A sharp-eyed rickshaw puller approached.

“Very well, take me to Avenue Joffre.”

“Right away! Hop on!”

The rickshaw puller deftly loaded Chen Jiehua’s suitcase onto the rickshaw. In truth, Chen Jiehua had only mentioned Avenue Joffre on a whim; his thoughts had been interrupted. The local dialect was endearing, and he was happy to give the puller some business, so he simply went along.

It was barely more than three kilometers from the Shiliupu dock to Avenue Joffre, but the puller was happy to take the fare. As the rickshaw moved briskly through the streets, Chen Jiehua drank in the sights of Shanghai with greedy eyes.

Greedy—that was the right word. He wished he could absorb every view of these streets into his memory. In just a few years, this place would become a living hell, and these scenes would vanish forever.

At the intersection of Avenue Joffre, the rickshaw puller asked which house he wanted. Chen Jiehua thought he might as well get out and wander around. He handed the puller a silver coin, but the man hesitated to accept.

“Mister, this coin is too much. I can’t make change.”

“Take it, it’s yours.”

“I can’t possibly accept so much. How about I walk with you, show you around?”

Chen Jiehua had little sense of local prices—the silver coin was the smallest denomination he had, but it would have paid the puller’s wages for a week.

“That works. Saves me the trouble of lugging my suitcase around.”

The rickshaw puller proved to be a shrewd and observant local, leading Chen Jiehua along at a leisurely pace, pointing out who lived in which house, which ones were vacant, and which were for sale.

This was exactly what Chen Jiehua wanted. At last, he stopped in front of Number 73.

A standalone villa, European in style, with high gates and a grand courtyard—he was instantly enamored. He didn’t hesitate to ask the puller to find the owner, while he wandered around the property, even taking a detour to look at Number 76, which was, at present, simply a massive garden villa (the residence of Chen Diaoyuan, chairman of Anhui province and president of the Military Advisory Council).

Once the house was his, Chen Jiehua set down his luggage and excitedly explored every corner, inside and out. (The process of buying the house is omitted, lest it drag on.)

The old problem arose again—though the house was fully furnished and had bedding, Chen Jiehua was a stickler for cleanliness (hardly unusual for a doctor). He’d need to buy his own household items. So out he went, eager to get acquainted with the neighborhood.

Just as he opened the iron gate, a young woman in a black bodysuit and mask slipped inside in a flash. The masked woman pressed a blade to his throat.

“Shut the door, quickly!”

Chen Jiehua closed the door at once. In truth, with his skills, he could have evaded her blade and subdued her easily, but he did nothing of the sort.

Leaning against the door, his face calm, he regarded the woman before him. Even masked, her figure, hair, and face shape betrayed her beauty—a classic beauty, by any standard.

“Such a lovely lady—why turn to thievery?” The words slipped out before he could stop himself. Too many movies.

“Silence!” The woman pressed the blade closer to his neck.

“Careful, miss. That knife is rather sharp. If you accidentally kill me, no one will be able to save you.”

Chen Jiehua noticed blood seeping from below her left breast and her right thigh—she’d been shot.

As he spoke (the familiar movie trope), the woman’s body sagged, and, as she was about to collapse, Chen Jiehua deftly dodged the scalpel and caught her with one arm.

He quickly set her down by the courtyard wall, opened the gate for a quick look outside, wiped up the few drops of blood near the entrance with his scarf, camouflaged the stains with leaves, then shut the gate and carried the woman inside.

He brought her upstairs and laid her on the bed. There was no time to worry about germs; first, he’d have to remove the bullets and treat her wounds. But he couldn’t begin at once—military police would arrive soon, and if they burst in during surgery, it would be game over.

So, the woman would have to bleed a little longer.

Chen Jiehua had just finished cleaning up the blood on the stairs when a pounding sounded at the door.

“Open up! Open up! Quickly!”

“Police inspection!”