Shanghai Redemption

by Qiu Xiaolong

  “Yes, he should have called you.”

  “I assumed that, instead of contacting me, he’d hurried back to Shanghai. This afternoon, I called his office, and his partner, Jiang, was no less puzzled. Fei hadn’t come back, nor had he contacted him.”

  “This morning, I talked with Jiang too,” Chen said, “and he told me that he’s worried. He mentioned that Fei has a daughter in Beijing, but he doesn’t have her number.”

  “I have it at home. She did a summer internship here two years ago. I’ll give her a call tonight.” Gong added reflectively, “But it’s all really strange.”

  “Anything specific that struck you as strange?”

  Gong shook his head in dismay.

  “I’m just so worried, Chief—”

  He was interrupted by Huang returning to the table, his phone in hand. Huang slumped into his seat, took a large gulp at the beer, and mentioned that he’d made several phone calls. Then he turned to Chen.

  “By the way, I’ve just double-checked, Chief Inspector. Your friend is still here, still alone, still in the same old dorm building. Here’s the new number,” Huang said, writing down the number on a paper napkin and pushing it across the table.

  Chen thought he knew what number Huang was talking about, and he put the napkin in his pants pocket, nodding his appreciation.

  “I’ll call his daughter,” Gong repeated, “and some other people he may have contacted.”

  “And you have my number, Gong,” Chen said. “Call me if you learn anything about Fei. I usually stay up late. I’m taking the train back to Shanghai in the morning.”

  Chen had decided to come on the spur of the moment, and while he hadn’t expected miracles, the trip to Wuxi had been a disappointment.

  After dinner, Huang drove him to the hotel.

  “Call me if there’s anything you want me to do,” Huang repeated as he started the car. “I know you can always pull off a masterstroke.”

  How there could be anything like a masterstroke from him? Chen wondered.

  The hotel wasn’t fancy, but it was located close to the lake. Nothing about the neighborhood seemed even vaguely familiar. When he got the room key, Chen asked the front desk for a map of the area, though it was too late for him to go out. Then it hit him.

  The hotel was close to Shanshan’s dorm. Huang had told him at the restaurant that she was still there. That was why Huang had picked this hotel.

  Only he was in no mood to visit Shanshan tonight. He’d heard, since his last trip to Wuxi, that she was still single but was applying to study in UK. What was the point seeing her while he was in the midst of all this trouble?

  Back in his room, he checked the train schedule for the morning. There was a fast train leaving for Shanghai at eight thirty. He dialed the front desk and asked them to book a ticket for him.

  He felt tired, yet his mind was far from ready to take a break. He didn’t want to start working in the hotel room, which struck him as stuffy, so he changed his mind about going out. He left the hotel and walked over to the lake.

  The lake looked dark green under the starlight. Here and there, he could still see patches of algae. A lone waterbird flapped off into the darkness.

  Perching on a rock by the waterfront, he went over what had happened that day, making notes in his memory. It had been a long day, but he’d succeeded only in exhausting himself, like so many times before, without getting anywhere.

  Afterward, he was barely aware that he had started walking again, absentmindedly, along the shore, following an unexpected turn, heading toward the dorm despite his earlier decision. The dorm building appeared little changed, silhouetted against the night. He came to an abrupt stop, thinking he recognized a lit window in the distance, before he walked into a deserted pavilion by the shore.

  He also thought he recognized the pavilion with its antiquated vermilion-painted balustrade and white stone-topped bench. It was here that Shanshan had told him an anecdote about when she’d first moved into the dorm. It was quite late, the darksome water lapping against the shore under the moonlight. It would be his last chance to go and visit. No one knew what would befall him tomorrow. Reflexively, he reached for the napkin with the number on it …

  But he grabbed his vibrating phone instead. It was after ten, he noticed, glancing at the time before pressing the accept button.

  “I had to call you this evening.” It was Peiqin. “Yu was suspended from the police force for leaking information about Liang to the press without first reporting it to Party Secretary Li. They questioned whether you had conspired with him, controlling him behind the scenes.”

  So Yu’s investigation had rattled them. The hastiness of the move suggested that that Li and the people above him were responding helter-skelter. But was it just about Liang? Chen hadn’t thought Yu would last long as the head of the Special Case Squad. Promoting him was nothing but a gesture. However, that Yu had been removed so quickly was a surprise.

  Peiqin went on to give a detailed account of the interview Yu had conducted with Wei before his suspension.

  “Yu has a feeling that she knows something about Liang’s murder,” Peiqin concluded. “She is heartbroken, but she chose not to say anything.”

  “So Liang may have been a scapegoat of some kind. Killed and buried under the waste, lest he speak out against somebody high above him.”

  “We’ve also learned that someone in Beijing pointed his finger at the people in Shanghai, recommending you as the one to investigate the recent high-speed train incident. Then the city government arranged for you to be removed from your position in the police bureau. That’s unverified, of course. It comes from a so-called ‘hostile’ Web site.” Peiqin then added, “Yu also went to the law firm for Liang’s company, a prestigious one for which Kai is a special advisor.”

  “They felt that to be another strike at them, I believe.”

  Stories on the Internet may not be reliable, but Yu’s move must have been in the right direction. What would be next move for the ex–chief inspector?

  Wei might know something. But clearly she also knew it was useless for her to talk, particularly now that Yu was suspended and possibly under surveillance. A push in that direction no longer seemed sensible.

  “There’s something else,” Peiqin continued. “About the American. We found some more info online…”

  “We?” It was the second time Peiqin had used the plural pronoun this evening. He was worried about Yu, who had enough trouble already.

  “Your friend, another filial son, came to the restaurant for our noodles, so we compared notes regarding our wall-climbing efforts. Strangely, the American’s death has become a topic of conversation on various Web sites, not just in Chinese but in other languages, too.”

  Melong, it seemed, had joined forces with Peiqin.

  “Here’s a short bio of the dead American. His name is Daniel Martin. He came to Shanghai after having been a student at a college in Beijing. That was more than a decade ago. He was clever and industrious and took on all kinds of odd jobs. He was a representative for an American company, consulted on business opportunities in China, dabbled a little in the export-import business, and at one point, even ‘played’ as a ‘special CFO’ for a textile company, making occasional appearances to show off the strength of their joint ventures. Anyway, he muddled along like so many other expatriates, with no specific skill or large amount of capital. Then he suddenly seemed to have made a huge fortune. He bought properties in both Beijing and Shanghai, and he married a Chinese ex-model. He set up a consulting office in Shanghai, and with the local housing market on fire, he successfully brought various multinational corporations into the city—he acquired government-owned land for them through his connections. In addition to his consulting office, he apparently had a side business helping the children of Chinese officials study abroad. Before his sudden death in Sheshan, he was said to be a healthy man, rarely drinking or smoking.”

  “That’s quite comprehensive. Tha
nk you, Peiqin.”

  “But we have no idea whether all this is relevant or will be useful.”

  Chen already knew the death of Daniel Martin was suspicious. Martin was the very reason Chen was in Wuxi, tracking down the local cop who secured the scene of Martin’s death. But the Party might do anything and everything to protect its interests when a potential international scandal was involved. He decided not to tell Peiqin he was currently in Wuxi instead of Suzhou.

  After the prolonged phone call, he lit another cigarette. He needed time to digest this latest information, and he had an acute headache even before he started.

  It was a little chilly at this hour of the night. He couldn’t help looking over at the dorm building once again. In the distance, the solitary window was still lit.

  There was no walking back into that favorite poem of his: “Such stars, but it’s not last night, / for whom you stand against the wind and dew?”

  His phone rang again. It was not a night for poetry.

  “Are you still up, Chief Inspector?” It was Gong.

  “Yes.”

  “Can I come over to the hotel?”

  “Well, actually, I’m at a deserted pavilion two or three blocks east of the hotel.”

  “That’s no problem. You can never tell about a hotel room nowadays. I’m on my way.”

  About fifteen minutes later, Gong stepped out of his car.

  “I couldn’t fall asleep, so I took a walk and ended up here,” Chen said.

  “Nor could I,” Gong said. “I called his daughter in Beijing. Fei hasn’t contacted her either. That’s alarming. She is young, probably busy with her own life, but Fei calls her at least every other day. His wife passed away years ago, so he brought her up single-handedly.

  “I went over the details of this trip of his, reviewing it like a movie in my mind. There are things that are not right. He came here to help the Wuxi police with a suspect from Sheshan because he had background information on the suspect. But was that necessary? A phone call or an e-mail would have been enough. In fact, Fei himself seemed to be puzzled.

  “Then there was his reticence about it. We’re both cops, we know what to talk about and what to be discreet about, but between two old friends, there should be at least a word or two about what we’re doing, right? But no, he didn’t say anything at all about his assignment here.

  “After the phone call he got in the hotel cafeteria, Fei did something else puzzling. He asked me whether I’d told my colleagues about our meeting. He seemed relieved when I told him I hadn’t. And then, he insisted that I not walk him out to the car because my face was ‘red like a cockscomb.’ I don’t think that was something that mattered…”

  “That’s a good point,” Chen said nodding. “Anything else he said or did after he got the phone call?”

  “No, nothing except—he went into the restroom for a minute or two. Then the car arrived, and he looked like he was going to say something, but he gave me a pack of cigarettes instead. Supreme Majestic. ‘Just opened on the train,’ he said. ‘Some of the residents in Sheshan are real Big Bucks.’ And then he left in a hurry.” Gong paused and looked around nervously before he continued, a catch in his voice. “Unable to sleep this evening, I opened the pack, and I found a mysterious note tucked in there: ‘Jiang: If something happens, you may have whatever was left behind, with your nose stuffed or not.’”

  “That’s strange indeed. Can I have the note, Gong?”

  “Of course, you take it. Let me know if you find anything. I’m really worried sick.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  CHEN RETURNED TO THE Sheshan neighborhood police station the next morning. Jiang seemed like he was waiting for Chen. The moment he walked in, Jiang went over and hung an “out of office” sign on the front door and closed it after him.

  As Chen took a seat at the other end of the desk, Jiang started talking.

  “I’m so glad you’re back, Chief. I went to Fei’s home yesterday,” Jiang said hurriedly. “I was hoping against hope, you know. He’s not back yet, but according to the neighborhood committee, there was a break-in at his apartment. Since his only daughter works in Beijing, they believe that someone in the neighborhood must have noticed that no one was home and took the advantage of the situation.”

  “Even though they know Fei’s a cop, someone in the neighborhood broke in? That doesn’t add up.”

  “Exactly. After I came back to the office, I also noticed some suspicious signs here, as if someone had done a secret search of the office. But the lock wasn’t damaged, and the windows weren’t broken. Whoever got in must have had a key. Without any hard evidence, it would be a joke to try and report it to the district office,” Jiang said. With a bitter smile, he added, “Perhaps I’m imagining things due to all the tension.”

  “No. It’s another inside job.”

  “But what are they looking for?”

  “Something left by Fei.”

  “You mean something from the scene at the hotel?”

  “Yes, that’s a possibility.”

  “What it could be is beyond me. There was another ‘coincidence’ yesterday. Internal Security came to the office in the late afternoon, asking a lot of questions about what Fei had said to me after we left the hotel. But as I’ve told you, he didn’t say anything to me.”

  “Did they believe you?”

  Jiang didn’t answer.

  “I’ve told you about Liang, who disappeared so conveniently.” Chen went on after a deliberate pause, “Well, I went to Wuxi yesterday. Fei hasn’t been seen or heard from after he met with Gong at a hotel. Gong tried to contact him numerous times, without success. He’s called you, and last night he called Fei’s daughter, who also hasn’t heard from her father.”

  “So you think Fei has disappeared, just like the other man?”

  “But that’s not the end of it, Jiang. Suppose they’re after something they believe was in Fei’s possession, something they failed to get from him. That’s why he disappeared. And that’s the reason for the break-in at his apartment, and the professional search of this office. What will happen if this item in question is still out there?”

  “What will happen then?” Jiang asked. He added, “I’ve heard a lot about your brilliant investigations, Chief Inspector.”

  “With only Fei and you at the death scene in the hotel room that day, it’s not difficult to imagine what will happen next.”

  Again, Jiang appeared to be momentarily tongue-tied.

  “I was only in that hotel room for ten minutes or so,” Jiang finally managed to say, “and Internal Security was there the whole time.”

  “But what about afterward? The only way out for you,” Chen said slowly, “is to make them give up looking for whatever it is.”

  “But how can that be possible? I don’t have any idea what it is.”

  “If it turns up somewhere else, they’ll be still worried, but they won’t be focused on you.”

  “I’m confused, Chief Inspector.”

  “Here is a note to you from Fei, written before he was taken away in Wuxi.”

  Jiang stared at the scrap of paper for several minutes. The note was unambiguously ominous.

  “‘Jiang: If something happens, you may have whatever was left behind, with your nose stuffed or not.’ What does this mean?”

  “According to Gong, that note was slipped into a pack of cigarettes Fei gave him just before he drove away in the car. If anyone can get to the meaning of the note, it’s you.”

  “If something happens—”

  “His disappearance probably counts as ‘something,’”

  “It is something—but even if we figure out what Fei ‘left behind,’” Jiang said deliberately, “I’m afraid these people still might not let us go.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s related to his examination of the American’s death scene, right? Now, you have no idea what ‘it’ is, but somebody else does.”

  Jiang pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Let me think.�
��

  “What’s he referring to with ‘your nose stuffed or not?’” Chen murmured.

  “Wait a minute—” Jiang jumped up and rushed into the back room. He came back with a glass jar in his hand.

  “What’s that?”

  “Fei’s parents came from Ningbo. I don’t think he’s ever been to Ningbo himself, but he’s crazy about Ningbo food. Particularly the stinky fermented tofu. He keeps a whole jar of it in our mini refrigerator. We got along well together in this small office, except for our constant squabbles over this jar. We both bring our lunches with us and eat them here. Once he takes out the stinky tofu, however, I have to flee the building. Except for rainy days, when I simply have to stay inside and stuff my nose with my fingers.”

  “If that’s the case, you can step outside and smoke a cigarette. I’ll take a look at the jar in here.”

  If there was really something in the jar, as long as Chen didn’t tell Jiang and he didn’t see it, then Jiang wouldn’t be responsible for the consequences.

  The moment Jiang sidled out, Chen picked up the jar. It was quite large, with seemingly nothing but fermented tofu inside. There were at least thirty small pieces immersed in the amber-colored liquid, some of them with a grayish fuzzy surface.

  He wrenched open the lid with a pop, and an overwhelming smell surged out. Jiang wasn’t to blame for the reaction he’d described. For people from Ningbo, however, stinky foods were considered delicacies, and fermented tofu was probably the most popular of them.