Chapter 48: Surgery for the Beauty First

Chen Jiehua swiftly shattered a window, then picked up a shard of glass with his left hand and sliced the back of his right, letting blood drip as he ran toward the door. He replaced the glass on the sill and wrapped his hand with a scarf.

“Who goes there! Do you intend to break into the private home of a Japanese officer?” Chen Jiehua shouted in Japanese as he walked.

Hearing the Japanese, the policemen at the door became noticeably less aggressive.

“I just bought this house today! What do you want to search for?”

“Sir, we’re chasing a killer. The blood trail leads up to your house and disappears. We’d like to have a look inside.”

One policeman had already noticed the trail of blood from the yard up the villa steps. He craned his neck to see further inside and caught sight of Chen Jiehua’s scarf-wrapped right hand.

Chen Jiehua walked further in, relieved that his suitcase was still unopened in the main hall. Fortune, it seemed, was on his side.

He moved beside the suitcase, opened it, took out his Japanese officer’s ID, and offered it to the nearest policeman. The officers who had followed inside weren’t fools—seeing the uniform, the insignia of a lieutenant colonel on his collar, they shuddered and didn’t dare take the ID. A lieutenant colonel! And judging by the luggage, freshly arrived in Shanghai, buying such a grand house immediately—clearly a person of importance, not someone to provoke.

“Hurry up and look around—if you find nothing, leave at once! I just bought this house and already cut myself on the glass! I need to get to a clinic!”

One officer considered going upstairs but, seeing the broken glass and bloodstains by the stairs and hearing Chen Jiehua’s words, thought better of it. This was someone not to be trifled with—he seemed injured and irritable. Making trouble here would bring disaster. Best to withdraw!

The lead policeman saluted Chen Jiehua, then hurried his men away.

Chen Jiehua shut the door, pressed his ear to the wall to listen, then dashed upstairs to check from the window. Satisfied that the police were gone, he hurried to the second-floor bedroom. The young lady needed immediate attention!

As soon as he opened the bedroom door, a slender, pale hand brandishing a scalpel pointed at him.

“Damn! You startled me again! Awake already?”

Before he finished his string of exclamations, the young woman rolled her eyes and collapsed backward.

“Hey, don’t—!” Thankfully, he moved quickly and caught her.

Once more, Chen Jiehua laid the woman in black on the bed. He searched for a zipper but, finding none, simply cut open her jacket with the scalpel. Fortunately, a strip of cloth still shielded her chest. The wound beneath her left breast was revealed—it was indeed a bullet wound, likely from a pistol. Had it been anything larger, not even a miracle could have saved her; the bullet was only a centimeter from her heart.

Surgical bullet extraction under anesthesia was Chen Jiehua’s specialty. He swiftly cleaned the wound, poured in a vial of penicillin, bandaged it with medical gauze, then moved to treat her leg.

What on earth had this young woman done to deserve two gunshot wounds? The one on her leg was from a rifle, the bullet lodged deep—but that didn’t faze Chen Jiehua. It would hurt, perhaps more than a little. In fact, it would hurt terribly. The pain jolted the woman awake.

The first thing the woman in black did was check her chest. Thank goodness, the cloth was still there. She then examined the bandaged wound, the bloodied bullet lying beside her—and fainted away again.

Chen Jiehua, busy with her leg, hadn’t noticed her brief return to consciousness. He extracted the bullet from deep in her muscle, finished up with penicillin and gauze, providing thorough care.

He washed his hands in the bathroom, using his scarf as a towel since there wasn’t one available, and gently wiped the blood from the woman’s body.

Then he pulled up a chair by the bed, gazing at the young woman—whether she was sleeping or unconscious, he couldn’t tell—and sank into thought.

In this era, did they really have such advanced scalpels? Or had that German master crafted more and sold them to others? He compared the blade to the ones in his own private collection—they were nearly identical. He had only ever given out three of these blades.

The first was to William H. Parker, the second to John Anderson (in Chapter 30), and the third to Zhou Yongsu.

The only reason Chen Jiehua hadn’t harmed the woman when she entered was because she held a scalpel that should never have existed in this time—a blade of his own design.

He’d gone to great lengths, even injuring himself, to confuse the scent and pattern of the blood.

After a moment’s thought, it suddenly struck him—the woman’s black outfit was now nothing but strips of cloth, all thanks to his handiwork. In this era, a woman would be mortified. He hurried downstairs, found some of his own clean clothes, and draped them over her.

To a doctor, there is no distinction of gender. He felt nothing particular, though he admitted she was rather beautiful (her face mask had fallen off at some point).

He considered going out to buy supplies and some women’s clothes, but thought better of it. He didn’t understand the temperament of Shanghai’s police in this era. If they were lurking in the dark, waiting for him to leave before sneaking in, the thousands of kilos of rice he’d brought would be lost.

Fortunately, as he stood at the window observing the night outside, the young woman awoke.

Fujiwara Mio came to with a wave of pain, opened her eyes quickly, and first saw the man’s clothing covering her. Next, she saw the man standing at the window.

Where is my scalpel? She tried to reach for it.

The faint sound didn’t escape Chen Jiehua’s notice.

“Are you looking for this?”

Seeing Chen Jiehua holding her scalpel, Fujiwara Mio lay back down. She realized that, apart from the clothing covering her, her original outfit had been reduced to rags.

If she moved, the covering would fall away—how much more awkward could it get?

Chen Jiehua looked at her face. “We’ll discuss your scalpel later. For now, let’s solve the problem at hand.”

“I only bought this house today. I was about to go out for supplies when you arrived.”

“Do you see any familiar shops nearby? Should I go buy you some clothes?”

“Thank you, sir. My name is Lin Mio. May I ask your name?”

Well, this woman is quite composed—introducing herself, speaking with such decorum. How did she end up as an assassin?

But now wasn’t the time for such questions. Now she was asking his name! Should he tell her the truth or make something up? He’d never been in this situation before. If only someone could advise him, though there was no rush.

“You can call me Aoki Jo.”

“Aoki? Are you Japanese?”

“I’m from Japan.”

“If you’re Japanese, why do you speak Chinese so well?”

“If you’re Japanese, why buy such a grand house in Shanghai the moment you arrive?”

Lin Mio became a curious child, firing off questions one after another.

“Miss Lin Mio, I don’t think this is the right time for such talk. You’ve just recovered from unconsciousness, night is falling, and you’re still lying in bed. There are no supplies in the house, and nothing to eat!”

“Mr. Aoki Jo, I don’t think it’s wise for you to go out right now. The police here are crafty—I fear they’re hiding nearby, waiting for you to leave before rushing in. In my current state, I couldn’t deal with a squad of policemen.”

“Ah, Miss Lin Mio, are you imitating my way of speaking?”

This Lin Mio was truly clever—her considerations were thorough.