Death of a Red Heroine [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 01]

by Qiu Xiaolong

  He explained the problem he had with his library research.

  “With your connections, maybe you can help. Of course, only as long as you are not too busy at the moment.”

  “I’ll look into it,” she said. “I’m busy, but not that busy.”

  “Not too busy for me, I know.”

  “When do you need it?”

  “Well ... as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “I’m in the library. Beep me.”

  He resumed his reading. For the next twenty minutes, however, he did not come across a single issue containing Wu’s work, and he had to wait again. So he started reading something else. A collection of Bian Zilin’s poems. A brilliant Chinese modernist, Bian should have enjoyed much more recognition. There was a short one entitled “Fragment” Chen especially liked—”Looking at the scene from the window above, / You become somebody else’s scene. / The moon decorating your window, / you decorate somebody’s dream.” He had first read it in the Beijing Library, together with a friend. Supposedly it was a love poem, but it could mean much more: the relativity of the things in the world.

  Suddenly his beeper sounded. Several other readers stared at him. He hurried out into the corridor to return the call. “Have you got something for me already, Wang?”

  “Yes, I contacted the Association of Photographers. As a member, Wu Xiaoming has to fill in a report every time he publishes something.”

  “I should have thought of that,” he said. “You’re so clever.”

  “Too bad I’m not a detective,” she said, “like that cute little girl in the French movie. What’s her name—Mimi or something? Now, how can I give the list to you?”

  “I can come to your office,” he said.

  “You don’t have to do that. I’m on my way to a separator factory in the Yangpu District. I’ll change to Bus Number Sixty-one on Beijing Road. If the traffic’s not too bad, I’ll be there in about forty-five minutes. Just meet me at the bus stop.”

  “How far is the factory from there?’

  “Another fifty minutes, I think.”

  “Well, see you at the bus stop.”

  Chen then dialed the bureau’s car service—a privilege he was going to enjoy for the first time in the investigation.

  It was Little Zhou who answered the call. “Comrade Chief Inspector Chen,” Little Zhou said, “you have hardly used our service at all. If everybody were like you, we’d all be out of a job.”

  Little Zhou, a former colleague of Overseas Chinese Lu, had applied for a position in the bureau at the beginning of the year. Chief Inspector Chen had put in a word for his friend’s friend. That was not the reason, however, Chen hesitated to use the bureau car. All the bureau cars were used—theoretically— only for the official business of high cadres. As a chief inspector, Chen was entitled to a car. With the snarl of traffic everywhere, and buses moving at almost a snail’s pace, it could be a necessary privilege. He was aware, however, that people were complaining about high cadres using the cars for all kinds of private purposes. But for once, Chen felt justified in requesting a car.

  “You’re so busy, I know. I hate to bother your people.”

  “Don’t mention it, Chief Inspector Chen. I’ll make sure you have the most luxurious car today.”

  Sure enough, it was a Mercedes 550 that arrived at the entrance of the library.

  “Superintendent Zhao is attending a meeting in Beijing,” Little Zhou said, opening the door. “So why not?”

  As the car pulled up at the bus stop on Beijing Road, he saw a surprised smile on Wang’s face. She moved out of the line of passengers waiting there, some squatting on their heels, some eying her with undisguised envy.

  “Come on in,” he said, reaching out of the window. “We’ll drive you there.”

  “So you’re really somebody nowadays.” She stepped in, stretching her long legs out comfortably in the spacious car. “A Mercedes at your disposal.”

  “You don’t have to say that to me.” He turned around to Little Zhou, “Comrade Wang Feng is a reporter for the Wenhui newspaper. She has just compiled an important list for us. So let’s give her a ride.”

  “Of course, we should help each other.”

  “You’re going out of your way,” she said.

  “No, you’re going out of your way for us,” he said, taking the list from her. “There are—let’s see—four pages in the list. All typed so neatly.”

  “The fax is not that clear, with all the magazine names in abbreviation, and things added here and there in pen or pencil. So I had to type them out for you.”

  “It must have taken you a lot of time.”

  “To tell you the truth, I have not had my lunch yet.”

  “Really! I, too, have had only a sandwich for the day.”

  “You should learn to take care of yourself, Comrade Chief Inspector.”

  “That’s right, Comrade Wang,” Little Zhou cut in, turning over his shoulder with a broad grin. “Our chief inspector is a maniac for work. He definitely needs somebody to take good care of him.”

  “Well,” he said smiling, “there’s a small noodle restaurant around the corner at Xizhuang Road. Small Family, I think that’s the name. The noodles there are okay, and the place is not too noisy. We may discuss the list over there.”

  “It’s fine with me.”

  “Little Zhou, you can join us.”

  “No, thank you,” Little Zhou said, shaking his head vigorously, “I’ve just had my lunch. I’ll wait for you outside—taking a good nap in the car. We had a mahjongg game until three this morning. So enjoy yourselves.”

  The noodle restaurant had changed. He remembered it as a homely place with only four or five tables. Now it appeared more traditionally fashionable. The walls were paneled with oak, against which hung long silk scrolls of classical Chinese painting and calligraphy. There was also an oblong mahogany service counter embellished with a huge brass tea urn and an impressive array of purple sand teapots and cups.

  A young, fine-featured waitress appeared immediately, slender and light-footed, in a shining scarlet silk Qi skirt with its long slits revealing her olive-colored thighs. She led the way to a table in the corner.

  He ordered chicken noodles with plenty of chopped green onion. She decided on a side dish of fried eel with plain noodles. She also had a bottle of Lao Mountain spring water. She slipped her blazer from her shoulders, put it on the chair back, and unbuttoned the collar button of her silk blouse.

  There was no ring on her left hand, he observed.

  “Thank you so much,” he said.

  He did not open the list in his hand. Enough time for him to read it in the library. Instead, he put it down and patted her hand across the table.

  “You know who Wu Xiaoming is,” she said, without taking back her hand.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And you’re still going on with the investigation.”

  “I’m a cop, aren’t I?”

  “An impossibly romantic cop who believes in justice,” she said. “You cannot be too careful with this case.”

  “I’ll be careful,” he said. “You’re concerned for me, I know.”

  Her eyes met his, not denying his message.

  At that hour, they were the only customers, sitting in the corner as if enclosed in a capsule of privacy.

  “They should have put candles on the table,” she said, “to match your mood.”

  “What about dinner at my place tomorrow night?” he said. “I’ll have candles.”

  “A dinner to celebrate your enrollment in the seminar?”

  “No, that’s in October.”

  “Well—a lot of people may wonder what our chief inspector is doing—over a candlelit dinner.”

  She was right, he admitted to himself. An affair with her was not in his best interest at the moment.

  “What’s the point of being a chief inspector,” he said, “if I cannot have a candlelit dinner with a friend?”r />
  “But you have a most promising career, Comrade Chief Inspector. Not everybody has your opportunity.”

  “I’ll try to be discreet.”

  “Coming to a restaurant in a bureau Mercedes,” she said, “is not the best way of exercising discretion, I’m afraid.”

  The arrival of the noodles forestalled any reply he was going to make.

  The noodles were as good as he had remembered. The green onion in the soup smelled wonderful. She liked it too, wiping the sweat from her brow with a pink paper napkin.

  Afterward, he bought a pack of Kents at the counter.

  “Not for me,” he said to her.

  He handed the cigarettes to Little Zhou.

  “Thanks, but you don’t have to, Comrade Chief Inspector,” Little Zhou said. “By the way, Superintendent Zhao is going to retire toward the end of year. Haven’t you heard?”

  “No, but thanks for your information.”

  In the backseat, they were sitting close to each other. Feeling her nearness, he was content with a light brushing of her shoulder as the car bumped along. They did not talk much. She let him take her hand. The car passed the black dome of the new city stadium, then swung around Peace Park. Little Zhou explained why he had to make such a detour. Several streets had just been declared one-way.

  It would take them much longer to get there, but Chief Inspector Chen had no cause for complaint.

  But she was already telling Little Zhou to pull up. In front of them was the separator factory, about which she was going to write a report.

  “Thank you,” she said, “for the lift.”

  “Thank you,” he said, “for the opportunity of giving you a lift.”

  When he got back to the library, it was already three thirty. He sent Little Zhou back to the bureau. He had no idea how long it would take him to work on the new list.

  An impressive list it was, including most of the influential journals and newspapers, containing detailed information with dates and page numbers. In addition, it noted a number of awards Wu had won.

  The late afternoon research was much more effective. Three hours of reading produced quite a revelation. Wu Xiaoming was apparently a productive photographer who had published widely, from the top magazines to the second or even the third-class ones. Wu’s photographs also showed a broad range of subjects, but could be classified into two major categories.

  The first was the political. With his family background, Wu had obtained access to a number of powerful people who had no objection to seeing the publication of their pictures, which could be symbolic of their stay in power, and, in turn, contribute to Wu’s career.

  The second consisted of what might be called the artistic, which showed remarkable professional expertise. One feature in this category was Wu’s characteristic arrangement: a group of pictures with the same subject taken from different perspectives. Wu seemed to enjoy producing so-called “subject sequences.”

  A group of Guan’s pictures in the Xingming Evening Post, for instance, could be seen as such a thematic sequence. These were pictures of Guan at work, at meetings, and at home. There was one of her cooking in the kitchen. Wearing an embroidered apron around her waist and scarlet slippers, Guan was frying fish, with beads of sweat visible on her brow. The kitchen apparently was somebody else’s: bright, spacious, sporting a dainty half round window above the sink. The picture focused on the soft, feminine side of a national model worker, balancing the other pictures in the group.

  Most of Wu Xiaoming’s subjects were also well known in their respective fields. Chen particularly liked the group of Huang Xiaobai, a celebrated calligrapher. The pictures showed Huang in the act of brush-penning the different strokes in the formation of the Chinese character cheng—a horizontal stroke, a dot, a slant stroke, a vertical stroke—as if each stroke represented a differentphase in his life, culminating in the character meaning “truthful.”

  What came as a surprise was a sequence about Jiang Weihe, an emerging young artist, whom Chen had met on several occasions. In one of the photographs Jiang was working on a statue. Wearing short overalls, standing bare legged, she was absorbed in the effect. The statue portrayed a nude photographer, having nothing but a camera held in front of him, focusing at her. The title was “Creation.” The composition was original.

  In addition to these pictures, there were also some pieces for fashion magazines. Most of the subjects were young beautiful girls. Semi-nude or even nude photos were no longer censored in China, but still they were controversial. Chen was surprised at Wu’s extraordinary journey into the field.

  In a small provincial magazine called Flower City, Chen saw a sleeping nude on her side. Melting into the background of the white sheet and white wall was her soft body with all its soft curves. A black mole on the back of her neck was the only accent, enhancing the effect. Somehow the woman in the picture struck him as familiar, though he could not see her face. Then he remembered. Frowning, he put down the magazine.

  Chen had not finished his research at the library’s closing time. He borrowed the copy of Flower City. The librarian was gracious, offering to put all the other magazines on hold, so that Chen could resume his work without waiting the next day. He thanked her, wondering if he could afford to spend another day in the library. Besides, he found it hard to concentrate there. Something subtle in the atmosphere disturbed him. Or in his subconscious? Chief Inspector Chen did not want to analyze himself—not in the middle of the case.

  It could be the first important breakthrough in the investigation, but he was not lighthearted. Wu Xiaoming’s involvement was leading to something more than Chen had expected.

  It meant a confrontation with Wu.

  And quite possibly, with Wu as a representative of the HCC— high cadres’ children.

  Back in his office, he made a call to Wang. Luckily she was still there.

  “Thank you so much for your help.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Wang’s clear voice sounded close. “Any progress?”

  “Some,” he said. “Are you alone in the office?”

  “Yes, I have to meet a deadline,” she said. “I’ve also done some additional research on your suspect, but you may already know a lot about him.”

  “Tell me.”

  “In terms of his position, Wu’s just a member of the staff of Red Star in Shanghai, but he may be far more important. As everybody knows, the magazine is the mouthpiece of the Party Central Committee, which means he has direct contact with some people at the very top. What is more, the publication of these people’s pictures puts him in close relationship with them.”

  “That much I suspected.”

  “Also, there is some talk about him being promoted to a new position—acting cultural minister of Shanghai.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. People say Wu is both ‘red and expert’—young, talented, with a degree from an evening college. He is also on the list for the same seminar you’re going to attend.”

  “Well—as an ancient saying goes,” Chen said, “‘foes must meet in a narrow path.’ I’m not worried about that, only—”

  “Only—what is the problem?” She was quick to catch him.

  “Well, let me put it this way. In an investigation, one important link is motive. There must be one reason or another for people to do something, but I cannot find it.”

  “So without the motive, you cannot go forward in the investigation?”

  “Yes, that’s it,” he said. “Circumstantial evidence may point to Wu, but there’s no convincing theory explaining why he would act in such a way.”

  “Maybe we should have another cup at the Riverfront Caf é ,” she said, “to talk more about the case.”

  “At my place, tomorrow evening,” he said. “You haven’t said no to my invitation, have you?”

  “Another party?”

  “No, just you and me.”

  “With romantic candlelight?”

  “If there’s a power failure.”
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  “You never know,” she said, “but I’ll see you.”

  * * * *

  Chapter 17

  M

  onday morning Chief Inspector Chen had a meeting at the city hall.

  On his way back to the bureau, he bought a piece of transparent rice cake from a street vendor and ate it without really tasting it.

  Detective Yu was not in the large office. Chen picked up a manila envelope delivered that morning containing a cassette tape that bore the following label: Examination of Lai Guojun held at Shanghai Police Bureau, 3:00 p.m., June 2, 1990. Examining Officer Detective Yu Guangming. Also present at examination, Sergeant Yin Wei.