The Mao Case

by Unknown

“A witch riding a broom?” Chen said. “Like in an American cartoon?”

  “Yes. I don’t think she has tried her hand at a cartoon before. Nor have I noticed such a surrealistic streak in her work.”

  “That may be something, but I’m no art critic. Anything else, Mr. Xie? Anything you can think of that may help me — and help you too?”

  “That’s really about all I can think of.” Xie added in earnest, “Don’t worry about an old, useless man like me, Mr. Chen. But Jiao is a good girl. So young, and beautiful. She thinks highly of you. You’ll do whatever possible to help, won’t you?”

  Xie might have taken Chen’s offer to help as coming out of a romantic motive. Chen, too, thought well of Jiao, but that was irrelevant.

  His cell phone rang before he managed to say anything in response. He pressed the button. It was Gu.

  “Thank god. You have finally come back, Chief,” Gu said. “I’ve called you so many times.”

  “What happened?”

  “Can you come to the Moon on the Bund this afternoon? There’s a cocktail party there. I’ve something important to tell you.”

  “Can’t you tell me now, Gu?”

  “I’m on my way there. It’s urgent, involving both the black way and the white way. I’d better tell you in person. You’ll meet some people there too.”

  Gu could occasionally be overdramatic, but Chen had no doubt about his connections with the black way — the Triad world.

  “I’ll see you there, Gu.” Chen turned to Xie, turning off the phone. “I have to go, Mr. Xie. I’ll contact you again. Not a single word to anyone about our talk today, not even to Jiao.”

  “No, not a single word.” Xie rose, grasping his hand, “Please do something for her, Mr. — Chief Inspector Chen.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  CHEN STEPPED OUT OF the elevator and into the corridor that joined the two wings of the Moon on the Bund on the seventh floor, just as the big clock atop the Custom Building near the restaurant started striking out its melody. He was startled, looking up out of a corridor window, as if he had heard a cannonball. Perhaps he was too strung out, he thought, remembering the warning Dr. Xia had given him.

  For several years after the Cultural Revolution, the melody played by the big clock had been a nameless one, light, pleasant, but it had been changed back to “The East Is Red,” the same tune it played during the Cultural Revolution, as hummed by Comrade Bi in the Central South Sea.

  The restaurant was built like the converted top floor of an office building on the corner of Yan’an and Guangdong Roads, with a rooftop garden that commanded a magnificent view of the Bund, the Huang River, and the new skyscrapers east of the river. The business was run by a Canadian entrepreneur, who enlisted her chefs and managers from overseas, adding a suggestion of authenticity to the restaurant’s upscale image. The price was high, but the restaurant was a huge success among the newly rich, who came here not just for the food or the view but also for a sense of being among the successful elite of the city.

  In the Glamorous Bar, Chen greeted several people, talking to them briefly, before he spotted Gu shaking hands with others, holding a glass of sparkling wine.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” Gu greeted Chen aloud, striding over with a smile, as though overjoyed at a chance encounter.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” Chen said, responding in the same fashion.

  “I’ve checked and double-checked,” Gu whispered, drawing Chen aside into a recess behind the mahogany coat check. “The thugs that attacked you are professionals, but they don’t belong to an organization. So it was difficult to find out. A couple of days ago, however, I heard that someone was looking for professional help again, with an emphasis on competence and reliability — payable after delivery.”

  “A few days ago —” Chen repeated. “Competence and reliability!”

  “Yes, when you were away on vacation. So I followed the lead. From what I learned, it might have something to do with a real estate company. For development opportunities in the city, land in a premium location is as good as gold.”

  “Well, that’s possible.” Chen could have ruffled feathers with the real estate company that was trying to take over Xie’s house. Was it possible that they had targeted Song as well? The emphasis on competence and reliability made sense in that they hadn’t delivered on the job with Chen. But Song had done nothing against the interests of the company, not unless he had done something in the last few days, of which Chen had no knowledge. “But why did you want me to come here?”

  “Hua Feng, the major shareholder of the company, is here this afternoon,” Gu said, shifting his glance to a tall, stout man at the other end of the room. “Connected with the black way.”

  It was a clue to follow, but perhaps too much of a long shot at the moment. With Internal Security ready for “tough measures” as early as the next day, Chen might not have the time to start exploring that direction. Still, he followed Gu over to Hua, who had a round face and flabby cheeks and was sporting an extensive grin.

  “So you are Gu’s friend. My name is Hua,” Hua said, extending his hand. “Are you also in the entertainment business?”

  “My name is Chen. I’m not a businessman,” Chen said guardedly. “A writer, an entertaining one.”

  “Ah, a writer, I see,” Hua said, a light flicking in his eyes. “There are so many fashionable writers moving around the city.”

  “With the city changing so fast,” Chen said, not knowing what Hua was driving at, “and so many new buildings replacing old buildings, writers can’t help moving around.”

  “I admire writers, Mr. Chen. You build houses with your words, but we have to build them with concrete and steel.”

  Chen sensed a subtle shift in Hua’s repartee, to something like hostility, though it was fleeting, only a quick flash. He debated with himself as to how much time he should spend talking here. It probably wasn’t leading anywhere — not anytime soon.

  A blond waitress approached them light-footedly, carrying a glass tray. Hua picked up a tiny roast duck pancake pierced by a toothpick. An exceedingly slender woman in a white summer dress sidled up to Hua, and Chen excused himself.

  He saw that Gu was busy talking to others, so Chen left without talking to anybody else. Outside, it was a glorious afternoon on the Bund. He took a deep breath and walked on, trying to think about the latest developments. It might be too late, he admitted to himself. Too late in spite of his efforts and all the help from Old Hunter, Detective Yu, and Peiqin. What he had earned so far concerning the Mao Case were nothing but scenarios without substance. Nothing to prevent Internal Security from taking action the next day.

  He took out his cell phone, yet didn’t dial. The sound of a siren came trailing over from the river, reverberating into the imagined signal.

  It hadn’t been his case to begin with. So why not let them take it off his hands? He would have no responsibility or involvement. No worry about the black or white way.

  Nor about Mao.

  It would not be realistic for an investigation to expect a breakthrough each and every time. There was no point in him being stuck with one particular case. And an absurd case too, for that matter.

  Following a flight of stone steps to the raised waterfront, he looked out over the expanse of the shimmering water. Several gulls glided above, their white wings flashing in the afternoon sunlight, as in a dream.

  Chen headed toward Bund Park, with a cruise ship sailing into the view, its colorful banners streaming in the breeze. “Confucius says on the bank, / ‘Like water, time flows on and on.’ ” Those were the lines Mao had written after swimming in the Yangtze River before the outbreak of the Cultural Revolution. When Chen had read the lines for the first time, he was still a middle school student, walking along the Bund, before or after school. There weren’t many classes at school in those years.

  It took him only a few minutes to get to the park. Entering through the vine-wreathed gate, he strolled along the bank
, which had been recently expanded with colored bricks along the borders.

  To his frustration, he failed to find a seat there. A row of cafés and bars seemed to have sprung up overnight along the embankment, like gigantic matchboxes with shining glass walls. It wasn’t a bad idea for the park to have a café with a view to the river, but was it necessary to have so many of them that they left no space for the green benches once so familiar to him? Looking in through the glass, he saw only a couple of Westerners sitting and talking inside. The price marked on a pink menu standing outside was staggering. He could afford it, but what about the people who couldn’t?

  In his middle school textbook, he had read about the park once having at the entrance a humiliating sign: No Chinese or dogs allowed. That was at the beginning of the century, when the park was open only to Westerners. After 1949, the Party authorities used the story as a good example for lessons in patriotism. Chen wasn’t so sure about the authenticity of the story in his textbook, but now it was pretty much true: No poor Chinese allowed.

  Finally, when he reached the back of the park, he succeeded in finding something like a stone stump, which was placed there to connect the links of a chain along a winding trail. For him, it served as a seat. Not far away, a young mother was sitting on another such stump with a baby sleeping in an old, worn-out stroller beside her. She had kicked off her shoes, her bare toes grazing the edge of the green grass. Gazing at the baby with affection, in profile she bore a slight resemblance to Shang.

  Had Shang come here with Qian? Perhaps Shang didn’t sit on a stone stump, and her baby didn’t sleep in a ramshackle stroller but had she been as happy, contented?

  After all, meaning and essence for each individual life doesn’t depend on something divine or imperial. The unfortunate life of Shang an emperor’s woman, was an example.

  Chen took out a cigarette, but he didn’t light it, casting another glance at the baby. The unlit cigarette between his fingers, he felt as if the park had been exercising a subtle effect on him, felt himself thinking with greater clarity.

  Yu had sometimes joked that the park must be a place with auspicious feng shui for the chief inspector. As early as the seventies, Chen had started studying English in the park, an experience that led to many things in his life. He didn’t believe in feng shui, but that late afternoon, tapping the cigarette on the back of his hand, he wished he could see some signs of it in the park.

  He got up and moved over into the shade of a flowering tree, where he dialed Liu.

  “What’s up, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen?”

  “Among the people Song approached in the last few days, was there someone in the real estate business?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Or someone surnamed Hua?”

  “I’m not sure. Song talked to a number of people. How am I supposed to remember all of them offhand?”

  “Can you check for me?”

  “Well, I’m not in the office…”

  Wherever Liu might be at the moment, Chen thought he heard music flowing like gurgling water and girls’ laughter like drifting boats in the background.

  “Please find out for me as soon as possible, Comrade Liu.”

  “I will, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen,” Liu said with an edge in his voice. “But we’ve discussed our plan, haven’t we?”

  For Liu, Chen’s request must have sounded like another tactic for stalling.

  “Yes, we have,” Chen said, “but you haven’t gotten the search warrant yet, have you?”

  Afterward, Chen made his way back to the curved walkway above the water, breathing in the air with its characteristic tang from the river. He had done everything possible. Internal Security would take action the next day. Barring a last-minute miracle, the chief inspector would have no choice but to walk away from the case.

  He turned around slowly, facing the sight of the pyramid-shaped tower of the Peace Hotel across Zhongshan Road. A gothic-style hotel built by Sassoon, a legendary Jewish businessman in the twenties, it was a soaring symbol of the then most sumptuous building in Shanghai. In the fashionable nostalgia of the city, stories about the extravagances associated with the hotel were becoming elaborate myths. He wondered whether the notorious jazz band of Shanghai Old Dicks would perform in the hotel bar that night. After nearly two weeks at Xie’s place, he had little interest in going there.

  Then his cell phone rang, the sound almost lost in the siren coming from near the river. It was Peiqin.

  “What’s up, Peiqin?”

  “I’m at Jiao’s place, preparing another dinner — for two, that’s my guess.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes, to night. Jiao said she won’t be back until after eight.”

  Chen glanced at his watch, almost mechanically. “You’re sure about the time of her return.”

  “I have to make sure that the rice remains warm until she gets back. She was quite particular about that.”

  “That’s something, Peiqin,” he said, thinking of what he had discussed with Old Hunter, who swore that he had seen a man in Jiao’s room — though only in a fleeting glimpse — the last time she had “a dinner for two” at home. “Have you told Old Hunter about it?”

  “I have. He’ll be patrolling the area to night. He told me that the information could be important to you.” She added, “Oh, I’ve made a list of what’s unusual in her place. Do you think it might be useful?”

  “Of course. Really useful. Can you fax it to my home?”

  “Yes, a copy shop can fax it for me.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Peiqin.”

  “Don’t mention it. I don’t know anything about your investigation, but working at her place, I’ve learned a few new recipes. Come to our place this weekend.”

  “I’ll think about it, Peiqin.”

  “Take good care of yourself, Chief. Bye.”

  Peiqin was concerned about him. He could guess why. He hadn’t been to their place for weeks. But his heart sank at the thought of the weekend, by which time her generous help would have come to nothing. He lit the cigarette he had been holding for a long while, inhaling deeply. He was bothered by a feeling of having missed something in the Mao Case. Something elusive, but essential. Peiqin’s phone call had intensified the feeling.

  Perhaps the park was really an eventful place for him, whatever the feng shui. He had hardly put the phone back into his pants pocket when it rang again. It was Ling, from Beijing.

  “Where are you?” she said, sounding so close, like water lapping at the shore. “I called your hotel, but you had checked out.”

  “I had to rush back to Shanghai. Sorry, I didn’t have time to say goodbye to you, Ling. I took the night train, and it was too late to call when I got on it at the last minute.” He went on, grasping the phone, “I’m at Bund Park. The park we visited the last time you came to Shanghai, remember? I really appreciate your help. It made a huge difference to my work.”

  “I’m glad it made a difference to your police work. You can be exceptional in what you choose to do, Chief Inspector Chen. So be an exceptional policeman,” she said, her voice suddenly distant again. “Perhaps it’s like the poem you wrote, in imitation of a British poet as I remember, about the urgency of making a choice,” she said. “You have to choose your play / Or time will not pardon —”

  “I’m so sorry, Ling,” he said, aware of her resignation, after all they had gone through, to his being a cop first, before anything else.

  “Keep in touch when you are not that busy. And take good care of yourself.”

  “I’ll call you —”

  A click. She already hung up.

  But what choice did he have? Again, a cicada chirped in the verdant summer foliage behind him. Sad it’s no longer sad, / the heart hardened anew, / not expecting pardon, / but grateful, and glad / to have been with you, / the sunlight lost on the garden.

  That was the last stanza of the poem she had just mentioned on the phone. In the end, he
had no choice except to redeem himself by being a cop.

  It came as an answer, however, and not just to that question. In a dazzling illumination of the instant, a new possibility presented itself to him.

  He turned and set out for the park security office in haste, where he showed his badge to a gray-haired man sitting at a long desk.

  “I’ll need to use your fax machine. Someone will fax something here,” he said, starting to copy the number.

  “No problem, Comrade Chief Inspector,” the gray-haired man said. “We know you.”

  He called Peiqin on his cell phone, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Are you still at Jiao’s apartment, Peiqin?”

  “Yes, I’m leaving.”

  “Leave the key under the doormat when you go.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, and don’t tell anybody about it.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Fax your list to this number in five minutes.”

  “I will.”

  The moment he finished with Peiqin, he called Gu. “I need your car for the night. It’s a new Mercedes, right?”

  “It’s yours, it’s a Mercedes, 7 Series. Did you find out anything at the cocktail party, Chen?”

  “Have your chauffeur pick me up at Bund Park in ten to fifteen minutes. I’ll explain it all to you later, Gu. I appreciate all that you have been doing for me.”

  “You don’t have to explain anything to me, nor to thank me for it. What’s a friend for?”

  Since their first acquaintance during another a case somewhat related to the park, Gu had declared himself a friend to the chief inspector, and he acted like one too. A shrewd businessman, Gu might have seen Chen as a valuable connection. On several occasions, however, Gu had generously exerted himself.

  “whatever you are going to do,” Gu went on, “you aren’t doing it for yourself, that much I know.”

  Chief Inspector Chen was going to do something he had never done before, that was about all he knew. He had to be there himself — in Jiao’s room.

  It wasn’t like the visit to Mao’s room, Mao being dead such a long time.