by Qiu Xiaolong
“And you can bring your friends to dinner here,” she went on. “The best chef in China, he used to cook exclusively for Mao. Five Ways of Eating an Australian Lobster is today’s special.”
“Is that included in the monthly fee?”
“You must be joking, sir.”
He was not joking. There was no point in pretending any more about potentially belonging to this different world. The Nike shoes had started pinching his feet terribly.
Detective Yu took out a picture of Ming and asked, “Have you seen this man here?”
She took a look at the picture, and the brochure nearly dropped from her hand.
“You aren’t really interested in becoming a club member here, are you?” She regained her composure, looked over her shoulder toward the gate, where the security stood like a statue.
It was not the time for a confrontation. Not only was he not authorized to investigate here, but he wasn’t supposed to let anyone know of his interest. Any misstep would jeopardize the whole thing.
He whipped out a wad of money without counting it and pushed it into her hand-like a really rich man, the way he had seen in an American movie, putting a finger to his lips.
“Well, you have never asked me any questions, and I have never seen you here,” she said nervously, inserting the money into the brochure. She cast a glance-or so he thought-toward those white villas across the golf course.
That wasn’t an answer Yu had expected, but it wasn’t a simple “No” either. It meant something, he reflected. If she had never seen Ming, she would have simply said no. Rather, she initially appeared nervous, nearly panicked, and that, together with her insistence on having not met the detective or heard the question, was more than suggestive: she not only knew Ming, she also knew how critical the knowledge was.
But for the moment, there was no point his staying here and pushing any more. He rose and left.
Out of the club, he found he had less than twenty yuan in his pocket. Not enough for a taxi home, or even to the subway station. It was an area with very few people walking. It took him five minutes to find someone, from whom he learned the way to the nearest bus stop. He had to walk quite a distance.
As he dragged his steps along his long way home, the initial excitement over the hostess’s reaction began ebbing. Whatever the possible interpretations, there was hardly anything he could do. It was impossible for him to obtain a search warrant for the high-class club without evidence or a witness, even if he was officially assigned to the investigation. Perhaps he had better not call Chen about it unless he made further progress. Only he had no idea how.
And his steps grew heavier, almost lead-laden, as he visualized a stormy evening waiting for him at home. He had not done anything Peiqin had wanted him to. On the contrary, he had spent Qinqin’s English camp money, plus his own savings, on a cup of tasteless teabag tea.
He then found a little comfort in a new idea. Peiqin would be overjoyed to learn the value of their present room unit. Consequently, his failure with the day’s responsibilities was less significant. After all, they could have exchanged their room at an enormous disadvantage without his visit to Gu. And Yu might be able to pay the camp fee the next day. That meant he had to get the money from other sources. Difficult, but not impossible. As a last resort, he could turn to Old Hunter. The old man would probably approve of anything done for the sake of the chief inspector. So Yu did not have to tell Peiqin the exact truth.
He quickened his steps again. If he were lucky enough, he would be still able to buy the fresh noodles, which cost less than two yuan at a small store near home.
The bus stop came into sight.
22
BY EIGHT THIRTY. EVERYBODY in the delegation had heard about the tragic death of Little Huang.
The telephone kept ringing in Chen’s room like a funeral bell.
Bao was the first to come rushing into his room, declaring in a thundering voice, “It’s absolutely unacceptable. How could something like that have happened to a Chinese delegation? We have to hold the Americans fully responsible.”
“They have been working on the case,” Chen said. “I met with a local cop assigned to the case last night.”
“We have to inform the Chinese embassy of the case.”
“I’ve already done that. The embassy people are contacting Huang’s family. They may fly over as early as tomorrow.”
“We have to report this to the Foreign Ministry in Beijing. It’s a serious diplomatic incident.”
“Yes, we’ll do that, but the embassy must have notified Beijing.”
“Now what are we supposed to do here?” Shasha cut in, in her terry robe and slippers, her toenails painted like blood.
“We may have to stay here for the time being. To cooperate with the police. The American investigators will come for our statements.”
“That’s absurd,” Zhong said, striding into the room. “The American government has invited us over. One of us was murdered here, and we are going to make statements to their cops?”
“Don’t worry about the statement. Nothing but routine questions. It doesn’t mean that you are a suspect.” Chen added, “That’s also the opinion of the Chinese embassy-that we should cooperate in whatever way possible.”
“In addition to giving statements,” Zhong said, “what else can we possibly do?”
“It will be hard to continue the delegation activities as scheduled. The news must have attracted negative media attention and the university is concerned about it. So we’ll wait until further notice. In the meantime, we have to be careful.”
“Who will serve as our interpreter then?” Shasha said.
“I’ll help as much as I can,” Chen said. “I’ll talk to the Americans about it.”
Chen spent the next half hour making phone calls, making explanations, and making notes whenever he had a minute. The two local institutions originally responsible for the day’s activities were universities. One of them, Washington University, with a Chinese department, promised to send over help for interpretation.
Shortly before nine, the front desk called up, saying Detective Jonathan Lenich had arrived at the hotel in the company of a new interpreter. They were both waiting in the lobby. Chen and Bao immediately went downstairs.
“Oh, you must be Mr. Chen Cao,” a young blond woman in a white blouse and blue jeans stood up, speaking in Chinese. “I am Catherine Rohn. The university sent me over as your new interpreter. You speak English too, I know.”
“Oh, Catherine-” Chen was practically speechless at the meeting, before he realized her self-introduction in Chinese was not meant for him. “Thank you for your help, Miss Rohn.”
It was clever of her to have announced her temporary identity as an interpreter-escort. There must have been a reason for her to be sent over in that capacity. It was a sensitive case; at least so it must have seemed to some people here. Otherwise a marshal wouldn’t have been dispatched incognito.
For Chen, there was no point revealing their former relationship, either, though it could be the very reason that she was assigned here. It would have led to unnecessary speculation among the Chinese. For the moment, it was nothing but business. He’d better not mention anything to her, not even in English.
Whatever the reason was, she was someone he thought he could trust. But then again was he really so sure-after all the silence?
So many days, where have you been-
like a traveling cloud
that forgets to come back,
unaware of the spring drawing to an end…
“You must have heard of the situation,” Bao started sternly. Because of the linguistic barrier, he had been unable to say anything as the Party secretary of the delegation. A barrage of questions came from Bao, but they were neither here nor there. It was hard for her to answer them-or not to answer them.
“I’ve heard there was an accident,” she said, handing over her business card to Bao. “ Washington University called me early th
is morning to provide interpretation service, but they did not tell me anything else. You will have to speak to Detective Lenich about it.”
“She is a temporary interpreter,” Chen said to Bao, glancing at the bilingual business card, which declared her as a senior interpreter from a local translation agency. “We don’t have to discuss the case with her.”
Catherine translated his remark to the detective.
“I’m in charge of the case,” Lenich said. “You can discuss it with me.”
But Bao’s questions sounded too official, as if echoing from his office in Beijing. Talking about responsibility did not help at this stage, Chen thought. With Bao occupied with his official talk, however, he stole another glance at Catherine. She looked hardly changed from his memory-tall, slender, her face animated with an inner glow, and her hair cascading halfway to her shoulders. But in that instant, he thought he also saw one tiny difference. The color of her eyes appeared to be brown instead of blue, though as serene, vivid as he had remembered. Because of the sunlight in the hotel lobby?
It is difficult to meet. A line from Li Shangyin came to assume a different meaning. Difficult not so much in terms of distance, but what to say to each other at the moment of their meeting? Perhaps just like in that Tang dynasty poem: what is not said speaks much more than what is said.
She was busy translating for Bao and Lenich, occasionally looking back at him with a familiar yet not so familiar smile.
Other writers came down. They, too, started questioning the Americans. She had a hard time interpreting for all of them.
“I like China. Not too long ago, I made a trip to your wonderful country. I had a memorable experience with an excellent escort. So I will do my best. Trust me.”
She made the statement for him, he knew. It was also a reassuring one for the other writers, who now had to depend on an American instead of Little Huang.
“An unlucky trip from the very beginning. Doomed,” Zhong commented. “Remember the unexpected health problem of Yang? Problems even before the beginning of the trip.”
Chen tried to talk more with Detective Lenich, but it was difficult for them with others continuously cutting in. The hotel manager approached them. A group of agitated Chinese talking in the lobby did not present a pleasant scene, especially with the prospect of journalists coming over soon. So the manager offered to provide them a conference room with a small enclave attached to it.
“You have a lot to do, Miss Rohn, with so many Chinese writers on your hands,” Chen said before moving into the cubicle with his American counterpart. “I’m glad you are here. We appreciate all you are doing for us.”
“Call me Catherine. I’d love to help, Mr. Chen.”
The discussion with Detective Lenich did not produce anything new. The American cop held onto his earlier assumption: it was a street homicide case, in which the victim happened to be a Chinese delegation member. He had his assistant checking the alibis of the possible suspects in the area, and he wanted to start interviewing the writers in the hotel.
So the writers had to come in, one by one, to give a statement. Zhong was the first interviewee and Catherine followed him in. Chen and the rest of the delegation remained in the larger room. They did not talk much. Chen made several more phone calls. Eventually, Zhong emerged with a livid face. Then it was Bao’s turn. Presently Chen heard loud voices from the smaller room. Catherine must have had a hard time interpreting so, after a while, Chen went in too. For Detective Lenich, it might be a matter of formality, but Bao fought back by talking about the Americans’ responsibility all the time. Chen’s effort to intervene was far from successful.
Unable to break the impasse between the two, Chen recommended a pause.
“Well, it’s time to have a lunch break,” he suggested.
“Let’s eat here,” Bao said. “It’s not safe outside the hotel, is it? There is a Chinese carry-out down at the mall. They’ll deliver.”
With a sideways look at Chen, Catherine translated Bao’s suggestion selectively. Chen and Lenich agreed to the idea of having Chinese food delivered to the conference room. When Chen spoke to the writers, however, Shasha asked if they could have lunch in their respective rooms instead and take a short break afterward.
After briefly conferring with Lenich, Chen agreed. “You can all head back to your rooms,” Chen said. “I’ll stay here with the Americans.”
When the food was delivered, Detective Lenich decided to take his back to his office, promising to return in an hour. Catherine and Chen were left alone in the room, the long conference table between them. He sat with a portion of sweet and sour shrimp with walnuts, and she, a portion of Chinese barbequed pork. Their moment alone overwhelmed them in awkward silence.
“How did you come to be an interpreter today?” Chen asked, disposable chopsticks in his hand.
“I’ve been studying Chinese for years,” Catherine said. She sounded not so pleased with his question-the first of their reunion. “You didn’t tell me about your visit.”
“I tried-several times-but either your line was busy, or others interrupted. There are delegation regulations, you know. Yesterday afternoon I called you again, but I got your machine. I didn’t leave a message because I forgot my room number.”
“You weren’t calling from your hotel room?” she asked sharply. Without waiting for an answer, she went on, “I thought you must have forgotten about me.”
“No. Of course not, but I did wonder if it was a good idea for me to contact you, being what I am.”
“That’s so considerate of you,” she said, taking a drink from her cup. “Anyway, they approached me for information about you-being what you are.
“Oh, they… I should have realized that.”
“As the delegation head, you must have a lot of responsibilities-special responsibilities, since you were appointed on such short notice.”
“Oh? You heard about that? You know a lot-” Chen stopped midsentence.
They were certainly being mistrustful of each other again, he thought, just as they were the first time they met in Shanghai. It wasn’t difficult for him to pick up that much.
Still, how would he react in her position?
But there was something she hadn’t told him either. Surely, she wasn’t assigned to the Chinese delegation just because of the homicide case.
“I’ve missed you,” he resumed on a different note. “You remember Mr. Gu of the Dynasty Karaoke Club, where you were introduced as my girlfriend?”
“Yes, I remember. That sly businessman.”
“I talked to him about you, and he wanted me to bring you something- to my ‘beautiful American girlfriend.’ It’s in my room upstairs.”
“What did you say to him about me?”
But before he could respond, they were interrupted by Bao, who returned carrying a large portion of fried dumplings, declaring he had more questions for her.
“Comrade Bao is a well-known Chinese writer, as well as the Party secretary of our delegation,” Chen said by way of explanation, barely able to conceal the frustration in his voice. It was no surprise that Bao showed off his official responsibility from time to time, but he seemed to make a point of not letting Chen out of his sight for very long. It was all the more exasperating now with Catherine here. “He has to show his concern for the case-even during the lunch break.”
“When a case like this happens,” she said, “everybody must be concerned.”
“Really. What is the American government’s response?” Bao said. “How could you have allowed this to happen to a Chinese delegation?”
“There’s no point repeating these questions to her, Bao. How can she answer for the American government? She’s been busy working all morning,” Chen said curtly. “Catherine, if you want, I’ll show you to my room and you can take a short break there.”
But his room was still being examined by two American cops. Little Huang had taken a bath there before stepping out. Chen had to think of some other excus
e for them to be alone.
“We’d better speak to the hotel security,” he said. “I am not familiar with the hotel management here. You have to help me, Catherine.”
“Let’s do that,” she said.
But that didn’t work out either. His cell phone rang. It was a call from the Foreign Ministry in Beijing. A call of diplomatic formalities, but he had to listen and answer attentively. She stood at a distance, leaning against the wall with her ankles crossed, the same way she did back at the Peace Hotel in Shanghai. Then Detective Lenich returned to the hotel, wanting to speak with Chen again. Then Shasha showed up in the lobby and started to talk to Catherine.
As it turned out, the American cop had a new scenario: the murderer was a delegation insider, or at least was connected to an insider. Detective Lenich’s theory was based on a detailed analysis of the crime location. He took out a city map and started drawing red and blue lines across it. It was not uncommon for a tourist to stroll around upon arrival in a new city, but usually not very far. A couple of blocks, a breath of fresh air, and a first glimpse of the city landmarks. The hotel location made such a supposition quite plausible. The hotel opened onto Market Street, a prosperous street in the downtown area, with the Arch not far away to the east. It was reasonable to assume that Little Huang got out to Market Street and turned right in the direction of the Arch. But his body was found on a shady street quite a distance from the hotel, farther to the south. As a tourist, how could Huang have ended up in such a desolate area? He might have gotten lost, but with so many high buildings nearby, it was hard to imagine he would have strayed so far in that direction.
Based on that analysis, Inspector Lenich developed a new theory. Huang might not have been murdered on that shady side street, but rather somewhere closer to the hotel. As further evidence for this, foreign fibers were found on his clothes, possibly from a car in which his body had been moved.
