by Qiu Xiaolong
In the case of its not being a botched mugging, however, the killer could have waited there and jumped out when Fu came into sight later that night – with no people moving around at the time.
Chen started examining the scene more closely. Five or six steps away, there was a lone toppled wall – less than half of it – still standing in the debris. It was an area designated for new construction, with most of the old houses already razed down, only a couple of them still recognizable in the dark like gigantic ‘nails’, which were so-called because of their inevitable removal by force. He bent to pick up two cigarette butts from the littered ground. It had not rained for days so they had not yet been destroyed. He put them into a small plastic bag.
It was hard for him to conceive of someone standing or squatting under the crumbling wall in that spot, smoking for a long while without a secret, murderous mission in mind. He rechecked the report, in which Detective Ding mentioned some cigarette butts, even the brand, Double Happiness, so Detective Ding might have been thinking along the same lines, though without going into details. Chen wondered whether anything had been done about the fingerprints. But then, in the case of someone without a history, not much could have been expected from them.
Who would have chosen to ambush Fu at this locale?
Someone who knew he was going to the restaurant that night. According to Liu, Meihua could have known about it, but why would she have done that?
For an alternative scenario, someone who had followed Fu all the way to the area.
There came a night bird, flying around a broken pillar and eventually perching on it and flapping its wings furiously against the surrounding gloom.
Detective Ding woke up in the office, stretching his stiff neck, letting the fragmented dream images about the crime scene fade in the light.
It had been such a hectic day, and then a half-night too, until he had dozed off over the desk.
Now still a bit disoriented from the dream, he lit a cigarette, the bitter taste getting worse in his mouth in the morning.
He wanted to go over several confusing and contradicting aspects of the investigation one more time. Sipping a second or third cup of strong black tea, he fought off another wave of sleepiness and checked his watch in the morning light. Almost eight thirty. As he was about to make himself another cup of tea, he was surprised to see Chen stepping into his office.
‘Morning, Chen. What wind has brought you in so early this morning? Oh, the tapes. I remember, you must have listened to them, and …’ Detective Ding said, accepting a cigarette from Chen instead of finishing the sentence.
‘Yes, I’ve listened to the tapes from beginning to the end. With the information from them, I’ve also tried to check further – like an apprentice doing the homework in accordance with your instruction.’
To his surprise, Chen moved on to brief him about the contents of the evening talk in front of Red Dust Lane.
But that all sounded too coincidental, Detective Ding observed at the end of Chen’s fairly detailed account. Just like the anonymous friend who had helped to establish Fu’s identity, now another childhood friend of Chen’s just happened to have lived in that lane and was familiar with the evening talk. While some of the information appeared interesting, Detective Ding did not see the possibility of it leading somewhere any time soon. Like others, neither the Jiangxi handyman nor Meihua had a convincing motive, about which he agreed with Chen.
But Chen was trying to put his finger into this pie, Detective Ding was convinced.
‘It’s done for the sake of money, no question about it,’ Chen went on. ‘But it does not add up for the Jiangxi handyman to make a move at the present stage. He should have waited until after Meihua had got hold of everything. As for the unlikely scenario of a love triangle, the murder of Fu would not guarantee her returning his passion—’
‘You are talking like a real cop, Chen.’
‘I’ve been translating the procedure booklet, you know. Some terms may have come up conveniently—’
The phone rang, interrupting their talk. It was his assistant Liao.
‘Where were you last night, Ding? I called your home several times. Nobody answered.’
‘I stayed here in the office. Too late to catch the last bus home.’
‘Some real progress, Ding. Pei’s in custody this morning. It’s just a matter of time for him to confess. We don’t have to worry now.’
‘What? Hold on – Chen is here with me in the office. I’ll put him on the speakerphone. He is eager to learn how to investigate like a real cop.’
‘That’s good,’ Liao said with a chuckle. ‘Last night, after calling your home without success, I dialed Party Secretary Li. Pei lied about his alibi. The movie theater did not show Little Flower that night.’
‘He stammered when trying to answer my question about the name of the movie,’ Ding said. ‘I immediately sensed something suspicious. How could he have forgotten about a movie seen just over a week ago?’
‘I called Ouyang too. After your phone call, the neighborhood cop gathered more information about Pei. Pei has been going downhill really fast for several years. What he did during the Cultural Revolution became an unwashable political stain. Despondent after his divorce, he abandoned himself to cups, taking sick leave with his pay badly cut, complaining about his being as poor as a rat, and blaming Fu and others for all his troubles.’
‘He’s desperate.’
‘And for once, our Party Secretary Li moved so quickly. After listening to my report and talking to some city office officials, he had Pei put into custody earlier this morning, saying that a speedy conclusion to the investigation is in the interest of the Party authorities.’
‘Yes, Party Secretary Li’s under pressure from above. With Fu’s connections overseas, the news about his murder has been spreading internationally,’ Ding said slowly, looking sideways at Chen. ‘With Pei’s motive found, and his alibi gone, we’ll move ahead at full speed.’
Putting down the phone, Detective Ding turned to Chen. ‘That’s a breakthrough. We made a couple of lists yesterday. One of the possible beneficiaries of Fu’s death. The other of those with a grudge or hatred against Fu. Of the second list, we came to focus on Pei, the ex-Red Guard. You may not think that his motive is such a convincing one, but at this moment, we cannot afford the time to check into those not-that-possible leads. Because of the city government pressure and all that, you know. We’ll focus on Pei first for the moment. A speedy solution, as you have just heard, serves the political need of the Party authorities.’
‘Political need, I totally understand. So you have moved really fast.’
Chen was not convinced.
There was a certain measure of justice in having an ex-Red Guard like Pei punished. The fact that Pei had had the nerve to demand part of Fu’s fortune spoke volumes about his twisted, unremorseful mind. But that did not necessarily cast him as a murderer.
But what could Chen do? Detective Ding – or rather the city government – seemed to have said the last word. As Liao had put it, ‘it’s just a matter of time for him to confess’. The bureau had ways and means to make sure of it. He could try to point out some inconsistencies in the scenario, but he was in no position to turn the table. Not unless he could succeed in pointing his finger at the real murderer.
At noon, Chen went down to the crowded canteen, where he failed to see Detective Ding nor his assistant Liao. Dr Xia walked over to his table for a few polite words, having just finished his portion of wok-fried pork liver, and Chen stuffed down his portion of Yangzhou-style fried rice without finding a single shrimp in it.
After spending another two unproductive hours on the translation in the reading room, Chen took out the copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being. It was truly a masterpiece, with some metaphysically disturbing questions scattered throughout the book, but he found himself incapable of concentrating on that book, either.
It was not his case. No heaviness of responsibilit
y as far as he was concerned. In fact, he had already done more than was expected of him. In accordance with a Chinese proverb, ‘Only without a real official position, does one enjoy the whole lightness of being.’ In the bureau, he was literally marginal, but he felt so depressed instead of light-hearted.
He decided to leave the bureau for another visit to the lane.
In the audience in front of the lane the night before, a middle-aged man nicknamed ‘Red-nosed Zhang’ seemed to know Pei well, Chen recalled. Zhang might be able to provide more information about the suspect in custody.
But when Chen got there, it was hardly four thirty. It started drizzling. People would not come out that early for the evening talk in weather like that. He did not know Zhang’s full name, or his address. Unlike Detective Ding, Chen could not contact the neighborhood committee for help in any official capacity. Nor did he want to appear suspicious to people like Old Root by snooping around the neighborhood.
He walked around the lane aimlessly, hoping to run into someone he had seen the previous evening, but he was disappointed to not recognize anyone.
Near the mid-entrance of the lane, however, he caught sight of an elderly hunchbacked man hurrying out with a bright red armband. He was struck with a feeling of déjà vu, yet without any exact clues.
As he circled the lane for the second time, drawing close to the back entrance, he saw two elderly men playing a game of Chinese chess in an unoccupied booth in the street food market. The booth was a well-chosen one with a bamboo awning overhead, so the two players did not have to worry about the drizzle. They were absorbed in the battle on the chessboard marked with the border of Kingdom Han and the river of Kingdom Chu, as if having won and lost the ancient world in their present games. From a distance, however, there was something comic about the two players – one stripped to the waist, with his bony chest grooved like a worn-out washing board; the other in a motley pajama top with unmatching pants, one slipper missing. Moving over, Chen joined several onlookers around the booth.
As the two players prepared to start a new game, Chen looked up across the street to note the saleswomen of the market beginning to display on their counters the unsold food from the morning. He was reminded of something else he had learned last night: Meihua’s occasional visit to the market for the discounted food in the late afternoon. So he might well stay on beside the booth, like one of the onlookers. If nothing happened, he would move back to the front entrance of the lane around seven.
After one and a half chess games, and three cigarettes, Chen heard a flurry of chinking steps from the lane. Meihua was walking out in the wooden sandals of hers, carrying an empty bamboo basket.
He followed her footsteps down to the street food market, not too sure about what he was going to say or do. But he had to try, sorting through a confusion of thoughts swirling in his head. He kept himself at a fairly close distance behind. Apparently, she was unaware of anybody following her.
Across Fujian Road, she put a bunch of not-so-fresh green vegetables into her basket. Half a block further on, she picked up a five-cent bunch of scallions from a peddler on a stool, bargaining for a small piece of ginger thrown in for free. She appeared to be really practical; Chen could not help thinking of the description of her in the evening talk. At the corner of Zhejiang Road, she came to a stop, looking around before she turned back.
Chen walked up to her.
‘You’re Meihua?’
She nodded in surprise.
He took out his police ID – the first time he had done so since his entrance into the force. She studied it, even more surprised.
‘I do not want to approach you as a cop in that shikumen house, and I think you can guess the reason. You too may have heard of the gossip and speculation among the neighbors in the lane.’
‘Thank you, Comrade Chen, for your understanding.’
‘How about having a talk with me here?’ He pointed at a shabby snack eatery on the street corner.
It was the time of day when few Shanghainese would care to spend money on snacks. Chen and Meihua stepped in, found themselves the only customers there, and chose a slightly shaky corner table.
The old waiter put down on the table a platter of fried mini buns, lukewarm yet with the bottom crust still crispy, and two bowls of spicy beef soup. She took a bite of the bun. He observed without immediately starting to question. A speck of white sesame stuck to her upper lip, she was not without charm, possibly more than enough for an old man to feel helplessly drawn toward her. But what about her own feelings – a young woman in her mid-to-late twenties – sitting beside an old man in his seventies?
He helped himself to a spoonful of the oily soup, and added a pinch of chopped green onion to it.
‘What do you want me to tell you?’ she started, putting down the chopsticks.
‘Tell me the story between you and Fu.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t get me wrong. The Fu case is under police investigation. We have a list of suspects, but it’s far from conclusive. You were the one with Fu in the last years of his life. Whatever you tell me may greatly help.’
‘There’s no story between me and Mr Fu. Who am I? A poor, ill-starred woman from a poor, backward Jiangxi village. After bumping around in the city for months like a headless fly, I was lucky enough to meet with Mr Fu, who kindly gave me a job, and shelter too. His neighbors, and particularly his children, may have wild speculations about me. What could I have done about it? I’m nothing but a maid in his household, a “provincial sister” to the people in the lane.’
‘Let me rephrase it, Meihua. Tell me about your experience working for Mr Fu. From the very beginning, please.’
‘From the very beginning, I knew my job was mostly about cooking. He was so well informed about it. It could be a really useful skill, I soon realized. So I learned a lot from him. A kind, patient, instructive employer he was, and he paid me good money too. In five or six years, I thought I might be able to save enough to try my hand at something different in the city—’
‘In five or six years, you thought—’
‘No, that’s something he mentioned, saying his days were numbered, and that it would not be a life job for me to help in his household. He suggested that I might try to work as a chef or start a small eatery for myself “in five or six years”. He also said he knew a number of people in the circle, and that I did not have to worry about it.’
‘But Fu needed you, and he was only in his seventies. People live longer nowadays. What about himself by that time?’
‘Possibly in a nursing home, when he could no longer take care of himself, at least that’s what he said to me. He did not want to be too much of a burden to …’ she broke down with a sob.
‘You had been doing an extraordinary job for him, I’ve heard.’
‘For the money he paid me, I had to do my best.’
‘But his children have made things difficult for you?’
‘I knew why they were so worried, but they worried for nothing.’ She added reflectively, ‘The son is not too unreasonable, but the daughter can be hysterical. During one of her visits, when Mr Fu was not at home, she made a terrible scene, screaming and scratching at my face. Afterward, her husband Song came over to apologize to me in person. If I had told Fu about it, it could have led to another big family fight; Song was worried about that. But Song’s a strange man too, asking me a lot of irrelevant questions about Mr Fu.’
She might not be telling him everything, Chen reflected. Why should she? He was not even a cop assigned to the case, and holding few cards in his hand. Nevertheless, he had to go on, trying to do his utmost, improvising as he proceeded.
‘Fu put you into the city residence register like a family member of his, I’ve also heard.’
‘It was just accidental. According to the city regulation, for someone like me to stay here, Mr Fu had to report my temporary residence once a month. Several months ago, somebody from one of those government o
ffices paid him a courtesy visit—’
‘The office of the United Front Work?’
‘Yes, that’s it. Mr Fu told me that he complained to the visitor about the inconvenience of filing for me every month, and about a month later, the neighborhood cop had my name added to the Fus’ residence register. It’s beyond me how his complaining could have made such a difference.’
‘Well, nothing but politics. I happen to have a friend working in that office. According to him, in China’s effort to attract foreign investment, Fu could have played a symbolic role. The official actually made a hard bargain with him. Fu had to agree to a newspaper interview, stating that the city government had been taking good care of a retired entrepreneur like him, in exchange for the city government to grant your residence permit.’
‘He never told me anything about it,’ she said, another catch in her voice. ‘He said that it was just for the sake of his convenience, but it was more than that, I know, it was for me to stay in the city as long as I like.’
He could see an emotional change flashing across her face.
‘He thought so highly of you that he was willing to do that. As you may not know, the government office had been pushing him hard for months, but he did not agree until that day.’ Chen went on, taking out a cigarette without lighting it, ‘Yesterday I was at the evening talk in front of the lane, you know. It’s such a sad story, that life story of Fu’s. In fact, Red Guards also came to my family at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution, subjecting my parents to horrible suffering and humiliation. So I want to bring justice for him. That’s also what you want, I believe.’
‘Yes, you have to do something for a good man like him.’
‘According to some of your neighbors, he looked like a changed man after your arrival at the shikumen. You’ve done an incredible job, taking good care of him head and foot.’
‘I think I can guess what they have been telling you. Among other things, foot-washing for him, right? But it’s nothing. Back in the village, people make a point of washing their feet in hot water before going to bed for better sleep. When I first arrived in Shanghai, I worked at a foot salon for weeks. So I know a thing or two about the practice. I quit because most of the foot salon clients never sat still, pawing and touching me all the time, and talking dirty too. But if I had done that for others, why not for him? And it was so different with him, a decent, old-fashioned gentleman. Not for once did he say or do anything indecent to me. And he took good care of me too. One evening, I had a bad attack of diarrhea with high fever, and he sat by my bed for half of the night, feeding me the porridge he himself made with Chinese herbs, and washing me – head and foot too.’
