by Qiu Xiaolong
“At a close distance.”
“Do you think an ordinary mugger could have hit like that? One single blow delivered from behind, the victim unaware of the approaching danger.”
“That’s a good point, Mr. Chen. For a poet, you seem to know a lot about homicide.”
“I have translated American mysteries.”
“No wonder you speak English well. Killers can be desperate or demented, different from the people in your poems,” Detective Lenich said. “My colleague is making a list of people with a history in the neighborhood. I’ll start checking their alibis early tomorrow morning-or rather, this morning. Then I’ll come to speak to your delegation members.”
“What can I do?”
“Go back to your hotel. I’ll come over later in the morning.”
***
By the time Chen got back to the hotel, it was almost four o’clock. The first gray light came filtering in through the blinds. He slumped across the bed, worn out yet intensely wakeful, like a bulb before exploding.
The murder had happened while he was serving as the delegation head, and he had to hold himself more or less responsible. If no one had been allowed to go out alone, the tragedy might have been avoided. Bao had grumbled about Chen’s laxity in enforcing delegation regulations, though as the Party secretary, Bao would share equal responsibility.
But what if there was something else behind the homicide? What if one of the Chinese writers was involved?
Chen got up, took a cold shower, and started making notes in an effort to brainstorm. He started by ruling out possibilities.
Little Huang seemed to have gotten along well with the writers. He knew his position, so to speak, and he showed proper respect to everyone. It was true that his English occasionally caused miscommunications. Shasha had once declared that she didn’t trust him, but her remark could have been made for Chen’s benefit. Bao was perhaps the only one who had seriously complained about Little Huang, claiming that the interpreter curried favor with Chen. Even so, it would be hard to imagine that Bao or any of the others would have committed murder because of such grudges-unless there was something else between Little Huang and them that Chen didn’t know about.
In another scenario, Little Huang might have had an antidefection mission for the delegation. In that event, someone with such an intention might have panicked and killed Little Huang. But defection was less common in the nineties, and Chen didn’t see why any of his fellow writers would have any reason to do so.
Chen composed a fax requesting Little Huang’s detailed file from the Writers’ Association in Beijing. He also made a long-distance call to Fang Youliang, one of his former schoolmates now teaching at the Beijing Foreign Language University. Some interpreters were enlisted by the Foreign Liaison, Chen knew, as early as their freshman year. Fang promised to provide any information about Little Huang from the college.
Of course, there was one more direction, Chen reflected, but he didn’t want to think too much about it for the moment. It was already nearly six A.M. He reminded himself that there were more phone calls to make-as delegation head.
21
AT HOME, DETECTIVE YU looked at an ashtray that was already full in the morning and made himself a cup of extra-strong Uloon tea.
He had taken the day off for a number of reasons. Peiqin had been busier than ever, working at a state-run job as well as a private-run job, leaving home before six, so it was up to him to take care of some things at home. He had to pay Qinqin’s English camp fee at the district school office. He had to buy fresh noodles for the evening. Most importantly, he had to check into a room-exchange proposal. Someone had offered to exchange a new two-bedroom apartment with bathroom and kitchen for their one-and-half room unit without bathroom or kitchen. The deal sounded too good to be true. Peiqin attributed it to the possibility of their area being turned into a high-end commercial complex in the near future. Still, a bird in hand is worth two in the woods. She was greatly tempted by the offer. After all, there was no telling what would happen next in China. She wanted Yu to take a close look at the apartment, lest there was something wrong with the feng shui of that new building. In Shanghai, most people were still dependant on government housing like Yu, so a room-exchange decision could be a very important one, in spite of the fast-developing new housing policy.
But for Yu, it would also be a day for him to think about what he could do for Chief Inspector Chen.
He had a hunch that the murder was somehow related to the Xing investigation, though it occurred thousands of miles away. He did not have anything to prove it but, as a cop, he didn’t believe in coincidence. As with An’s death. He couldn’t shake off a feeling that, for some reason, Chen hadn’t told him everything. People like Jiang could have hardly ordered a murder, even in the United States. So someone at a much higher level might be involved. It was a matter of life and death for Chen-to be exact, for both Chen and Yu.
But the only real help Yu had provided-together with Peiqin-was in moving Chen’s mother out of danger temporarily. Still, time was not on their side. Yu might not be able to keep the old woman in hiding for long. Party Secretary Li had already approached him about the whereabouts of the old woman.
“You don’t know where she is?” Li said sarcastically. “It’s like the sun rising in the west.”
In the bureau, Kuang had gone so far as to taunt Yu with Chen’s connection to An in front of other cops.
“Your boss has really enjoyed the peach blossom luck,” Kuang declared in the main office of the bureau. “A tit-tat meeting with that beautiful anchorwoman in a ‘Lovers’ Nest’-a couple days before her death.”
Yu ignored it as a joke, which it wasn’t. Kuang must have heard something, or he wouldn’t have had the guts to speak of Chen like that.
But the only thing Yu had so far was An’s cell phone record, which he had studied for days without discovering anything substantial. It was out of the question for him to approach those officials. He had thought about doing research on them, but he would have to get special access permission for the bureau computers. And that might not be a good idea, as others might trace his work. Everybody knew about his relationship to Chen.
He didn’t have a computer at home. Among his friends, no one had one at home. Not even Chief Inspector Chen.
Spitting out a loose tea leaf, he remembered he had seen a laptop in Chen’s home. Not Chen’s, but one lent to him for a translation project by an upstart named Gu-a computer as well as the college girl, White Cloud, as a “little secretary,” who was “lent” to Chen’s mother this time.
It wasn’t difficult to guess why Gu had befriended Chen. It was an investment for future return. But since the shrewd businessman saw potential in the chief inspector, Gu might help his assistant as well.
Yu took a taxi to the Dynasty Karaoke Club. He still had many things to do afterward, so on the way there, he got the money for Qinqin’s English camp out of the bank.
As soon as Yu sent in his business card, Gu came out and welcomed him into a spacious office. A tall man in a Western-style suit with Chinese-style cloth-heeled shoes and green jade neck decoration, the entrepreneur was gracious to the detective. Yu lost no time explaining the purpose of his visit, though he refrained from mentioning any specific details.
“It’s something important for Chen, Mr. Gu, or I would not have come to you like this.”
“You don’t have to explain,” Gu said, picking up the phone on his desk and giving instructions to his secretary outside the office. “We haven’t met before, but Chen has talked such a lot about you. It’s like I have known you for years too.”
A young waitress in a pink cheongsam came in with a new laptop still in the box, and another, in a green cheongsam, with a platter of fruit enveloped in a mirage of spiraling mist. “Tropical rainforest,” she said. She also had a bottle of foreign wine in an ice bucket and opened the wine with a pop.
“If you are not in a hurry,” Gu said, raising the cup
, “I’ll have one of our best K girls for you in a private room. My treat. You have really given me face today.”
“Thank you, but I’m really in a hurry. Next time, Mr. Gu.”
There would be no next time, Yu was sure. He had heard of stories about K girls in private rooms and he had to think of Peiqin. That was the bottom line.
“It’s an honor that you thought of me, Detective Yu. I am a businessman, but a man of yiqi too. I am willing to have my chest pierced with knives for a friend.”
It sounded sort of like triad jargon. Detective Yu was confounded that someone with triad connections would make such a statement to a cop.
“We have already cooperated,” Gu went on warmly. “Between your wife Peiqin and White Cloud. What a masterstroke Peiqin made in the water shop.”
As Yu was about to leave the club with the laptop, Gu said casually, as if in afterthought, “You have a room in the Luwan District, close to the intersection of Huaihai and Madang Road, right?”
“Yes…”
“Don’t exchange it with others. There are huge potentials there. If you really want to move to a larger apartment, let me know. I’ll give you a new three-bedroom apartment in a decent area-plus a hundred thousand yuan in cash.”
“No kidding!”
“Think about it. You don’t have to give me an answer right now. Not a single word about it to anyone else, of course. You are my friend and I’m not an unscrupulous businessman who would rip off a friend like you.”
Probably not, Yu observed. Stepping out of the Dynasty, he thought about calling Peiqin, but he saw no sign of a public phone booth there.
Connections and corruptions, Detective Yu pondered, walking. It could be hard to draw a clear-cut line between the two. In fact, he had got the room through Chen’s help-with the inside information from Chen’s connection. Still, Chen got nothing for himself, and Yu deserved a room-even according to the official housing committee of the bureau. So Yu could say that he had done all that, like Chen, not for himself…
He decided not to think about those things anymore.
***
Back home, Yu started searching on the computer. The computer provided more detailed information about the people An had contacted in her last few days, yet invariably in official language. According to the government-controlled media, these officials, instead of being crooked, were actually communist models. When he gathered everything together from various sources, he was still unable to make any use of it.
Then the phone rang. It was from Peiqin.
“You are still at home, Yu?”
“I’ve just got the money from the bank. Everything will be taken care of. I’m leaving soon.”
“Don’t forget your lunch. Make a purple seaweed soup for yourself. There’s a pack of it in the kitchen cabinet.”
“I won’t forget.”
Peiqin had left several steamed buns at home. He warmed two up in the microwave, but they turned out to be drier, and harder too. A mistake. He should have resteamed them, remembering what Peiqin had done. He tore a sheet of the purple seaweed to pieces, poured in hot water and soy sauce, making a palatable soup with chopped green onion and sesame oil floating on the surface. He washed down the buns without much difficulty, when he realized, picking his teeth, he had forgotten to tell her the news about their unit’s value. She would not come back until the evening. He was tempted to light another cigarette, but he thought the better of it. Cigarette smoke could be bad for the computer, he recalled.
Occasionally, Peiqin could be like Chen, with leaps and bounds in her thinking. Yu admitted she had helped in her way-her decision to move Chen’s mother was timely and effective. Still, he had not thought much of what she said about Apricot Blossom Village. Perhaps Yu was too used to the company of Chen, who threw poetry in his speech like pepper in a hot Sichuan soup.
Now on the computer search, Yu thought of Peiqin and typed in Apricot Blossom Village. It turned out to be a new, exclusive club, not like the Dynasty, but one with elite members and expensive fees. From one of the links, he found an article about the lavish parties held there-including Xing’s parties. Xing had entertained in fancy restaurants or hotels in Shanghai. But at Apricot Blossom Village Xing held three consecutive parties where his guests included high-ranking cadres from Beijing. The article had been published before Xing had gotten into trouble.
Yu continued his research about the club. The general manager was surnamed Weici, a man of mysterious background. No information about the founding of this club with exorbitant membership fees. In fact, it was the first time Yu had read about such a club. According to the introduction, people had to pay an unbelievable membership fee-fifty thousand yuan as a down payment and then a monthly fee of three thousand yuan. The monthly fee was equivalent to the combined monthly income of Peiqin and Yu. Rich people burned money.
So it was a place Detective Yu should check into. Apricot Blossom Village could have a special connection to Xing, and to Ming too. If so, Bi’s quote had been a hint to An. It was a long shot, but one worth trying. With pictures of Ming in his hand, Yu might be able to ask some questions there, though not as a cop, which would only alarm people. He’d better go there like a would-be club member-with the English camp money, plus his secret nest of three hundred yuan he had saved from his pocket money by quitting smoking periodically.
But another problem arose. Even with all the money, he did not look like a likely visitor there. In the club pictures, the members appeared elegantly dressed. Yu was dressed in a three-year-old shirt with a dispirited collar and faded black pants. He could even be barred from entering the place.
It was out of the question for him to call Peiqin for suggestions. Those swell places were just as foreign to her. His only suit was bought in the eighties-for his wedding-and was now too small. Earlier this year, for the dinner at Xinya, he had tried to put it on; Peiqin had joked about him looking like a bursting bag.
Then his glance fell on a magazine Qinqin had brought home. In that magazine, he remembered a picture of a movie star playing golf. The club boasted one of the largest golf courses in China. Yu might dress himself up like a golfer. He dug out the magazine. To his relief, the movie star was dressed in a simple way. A white T-shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes.
Simple, but of expensive brands. There was a logo of a man riding a horse on his T-shirt. Yu happened to have one with a similar logo, a knock-off. It could pass, he thought. The shorts he dug out did not look much different. Only he did not have tennis shoes. Then he thought of Qinqin’s favorite shoes, Nike. They were the only brand-name shoes Peiqin had bought for her son, insisting on them in spite of the ridiculously high price. Yu failed to see anything special about the shoes worth nine hundred yuan-except something like a red check. But she didn’t want Qinqin to feel inferior at school and the boy wore the shoes only on special occasions. The father and son wore the same size.
Finally, he finished grooming himself with the magazine spread out before him. He found the image in the mirror not so different from the star, but drastically different from Detective Yu. It was a weird sensation.
He also chose his route carefully-the bus, the subway, finally a taxi. He had to arrive there in a car, but he did not have to take it all the way. Nor could he afford to.
***
Apricot Blossom Village was located in Fengyan Country, a large complex surrounded by high walls and tall trees. Yu got out of the car. A uniformed security guard at the entrance bowed to him. People were driving in and out in their own luxurious cars, apparently club members. The only section of the club open to nonmembers was a large reception hall adjacent to the entrance. There was also a bar there, where people could drink, talk, and enjoy a tantalizing look at the magnificent golf course that stretched into the distance. Yu saw a row of white villas beyond the lush meadow.
He took his seat at a table and picked up the menu. The minimum was five hundred yuan. Perhaps nothing to a genuine would-be member, which he had to p
lay for a short while. He had no choice. He would never become a man, he knew, “catching up with the trend”-an old phrase with a new connotation, suddenly popular in the newspapers-so he did not bother about things other than his job in the changed world. Still, a cup of black tea for two hundred fifty, with a tea bag instead of real tea, proved too much for him. It tasted odd, and he had a hard time not scowling.
A model-like hostess walked lightfooted over to his table, her hair highlighted like a golden dream, her willowy figure fetching, as if copied out of a fashion magazine. She carried a large club brochure in her hand.
“Yes, tell me something about your club,” he said simply.
So she put a map of the club on the table-tennis courts, swimming pool, golf course. Her blue-painted fingernails flipped like butterflies over the drawing. She talked about the benefits of being a member here.
“It’s a super heavenly place. For a busy and successful man like you, only in this club can you totally relax and enjoy the precious moments of your life.”
“Really!” It took him about two hours, not to mention the bus, subway, taxi fare, to reach the place. He could have taken a nap at home and dreamed of heaven-if there were indeed one.
“The best golf course in Asia. Shanghai is the most happening city in the world, as an American magazine just voted. Look at the splendid meadow, the bosom of the nature. Such a golf course membership card is a must for people like you,” she went on glibly. “The golf course alone is worth the money. Not to mention all the rich and successful people you’ll meet there. Nothing’s like that for building your relationship network.”
In truth, Yu had never touched a golf ball before. It was said to be symbolic of one’s social status in new China. The rich might need something for them to believe they were really rich. The white ball worked like nothing else for that purpose. But, more than that, for people like Xing or Ming, the lush meadow was also super for cultivating their connections of corruption.
