by Qiu Xiaolong
“That’s possible,” Chen said. He was thinking of what Yu had told him about the local Fujian cops’ poor work. “But there could also be a leak on our side.”
“Well, any other information from Inspector Rohn?”
“The Americans want to have the trial as scheduled. They are anxious about our progress.”
“Any other news from Fujian?”
“No. Detective Yu has a difficult job there. The Flying Axes seem to be popular, and the local police are no match for them. They have no clue whatsoever. Nor are they eager to crack down on the gangsters. So what can Yu do—except knock on one unfriendly door after another?”
“The popularity of the triad tradition in the area, I understand. You did the right thing to send Detective Yu there.”
“Now for my work here, I’m going to interview some of Wen’s possible contacts. Inspector Rohn wants to join me,” Chen said. “What do you think, Party Secretary Li?”
“I don’t think that is part of her mission here.”
“She said she got permission from her headquarters.”
“Wen is a Chinese citizen,” Li said deliberately. “It is up to the Chinese police to look for her. I don’t see any necessity for an American officer to join our effort.”
“I can tell her that, but the Americans may suspect that we are simply trying to cover up. It would add to the tension if we keep her out of our investigation.”
“The Americans always look at others askance, as if they were the world’s only police.”
“That’s true, but if she has nothing to occupy her here, Inspector Rohn will insist on going to Fujian.”
“Urn, you have a point. Can’t you let Qian conduct the interviews while you keep her entertained with tourist activities?”
“She will insist on joining Qian then.” He then added, “And Qian does not speak English.”
“Well, I don’t think it can do much harm for her to interview some ordinary Shanghainese with you. I don’t have to repeat: the safety of Inspector Rohn has to be our top responsibility.”
“So you think it is okay for her to work with me?”
“You have full authority, Chief Inspector Chen. How many times have I told you that?”
“Thank you, Party Secretary Li.” Chen continued, after a pause, “Now about the other case. The body in Bund Park. I am planning to look into some potential triad connections here. They may also know something about whether Wen is in Shanghai.”
“No, I don’t think so. If you start asking questions, the Flying Axes will soon hear of it. Your efforts will only stir up a sleeping snake.”
“We need to do something about the Bund Park murder case, too, Party Secretary Li.”
“No hurry. Detective Yu will be back in a couple of days. It can be a job for him. At this moment, with Inspector Rohn staying here, you mustn’t do anything foolish to bring a hornet’s nest down about your ears.”
Li’s response did not really surprise him. The Party Secretary had never been enthusiastic about his investigating the Bund Park case, and Li always had his reasons, political reasons, for doing or not doing something. His reaction to Feng’s phone call was also understandable. To Li, it seemed to be much more important to place responsibility on the Americans than to find the missing woman. The Party Secretary was a politician, not a policeman.
After he finished his talk with Li, Chen hurried out of the bureau to a meeting with Old Hunter, Yu’s father.
Earlier in the morning, the old man had phoned him, suggesting they have tea together. Not in the Mid-Lake Teahouse in the City God Temple Market where they had met on several occasions, but in another one called Moon Breeze, closer to the area where the old man performed his daily activities as an honorary advisor for the Traffic Control Office, wearing a red armband. The retired cop received little in pay, but he got a great kick out of the official-sounding title, imagining himself a staunch pillar of justice whenever he stopped a bike illegally carrying a baby on the back rack or a private taxi displaying an outdated license plate.
The Moon Breeze was a new teahouse. There seemed to be a revival of interest in tea among the Shanghainese. He saw a number of young people drinking with gestures made fashionable by the new movies, before he caught sight of Old Hunter slouching in a corner. Instead of southern bamboo music in the background, a waltz could be heard. Incongruously, strains of “The Blue Danube” rippled through the teahouse. Clearly this was a place for young customers who, though not yet adapted to Starbuck’s coffee, needed some space in which to sit and talk. At a neighboring table, there was a mah-jongg battle going on in full swing, with the players as well as onlookers chattering and cursing.
“I have never been here before. It’s so different from the Mid-Lake,” Old Hunter said rather sadly.
A young waitress came over, light-footed, in a scarlet cheongsam with high slits revealing her ivory thighs, bowing in Japanese fashion. “Do you need a private room, sir?”
Chen nodded. That was one of the advantages of visiting modern teahouses, in spite of the mixture of services.
“It’s the bureau’s expense,” he said as they entered the room. It would be out of the question for the retired cop to pay for the room out of his meager pension. Being a chief inspector with a special budget had its advantages.
Most of the furniture in the private room was in classical style, but there were soft, comfortable cushions placed on the mahogany armchairs, and a dark purple leather sofa matching the color scheme of the room.
Putting the menu on the table, the waitress introduced the house special, “We have the special bubble tea.”
“What kind of tea?”
“It’s very popular in Hong Kong. You’ll like it, sir,” she said with a hint of mystery.
“Fine, bubble tea for me and Mountain Mist tea for him,” Chen said. After she left, he asked, “How are things with you, Uncle Yu?”
“Like other old men. I’m just trying to make myself useful to society, like a piece of coal that still burns, giving off its last remaining heat.”
Chen smiled. The simile was familiar; he remembered hearing it in a movie in the seventies. Times had changed, but not the old man’s mind.
“Don’t overwork, Uncle Yu.”
Old Hunter started with one of his customary rhetorical questions. “You know why I wanted to meet you today, Chief Inspector Chen? I gave Yu a thorough dressing down before he left for Fujian.”
“Why?” Chen was aware of the old man’s other nickname, Suzhou Opera Singer. It was a reference to a southern dialect opera known for its performers’ tactics of producing drama out of the air, prolonging the tale through endless digressions, and pouring on classical references like black pepper.
“He had reservations about the job, and I said to him, ‘In normal circumstances, I would advise you to avoid investigating those gangsters like the plague, but if Chief Inspector Chen wants to fight this battle, follow him through water and through fire. He has more to lose than you, hasn’t he? It is a crying shame for us that a corpse killed by triad gangsters has turned up in Bund Park. With a few more honest Party cadres like him, things would not have gotten into such a mess.’”
“Yu and I are good friends. He is the more practical, down-to-earth one. I really depend on him. Now that he’s in Fujian, I have a hard time doing my job alone.”
“Things are falling apart! The beast of corruption is moving in all over the country. Good people lack conviction. To accomplish anything in today’s society, they have to go about in two ways—the black way and the white way. I used to patrol the markets, but now it’s the black way—those gangsters—in control. Remember Jiao, the dumpling vendor who carried a miniature kitchen on her shoulders?”
“Yes, the woman selling dumplings close to the Qinghe Lane. She helped us. What happened to her?”
“That’s a good location for business. Some people wanted to drive her away from that corner. Her kitchen was smashed one night. The neighborhood po
lice could do nothing. There’s no clue as to who did it, they told me. In some new businesses, the gangsters are even bolder. For instance, those karaoke girls and private rooms. A really lucrative business. Five hundred Yuan for one hour in the late evening, the golden time period. Not to mention the tip and extra money. The club owners maintain a good relationship with us because we can make things difficult for them, but they have better relationships with the gangs because they can make things impossible. The girls may be stabbed, the rooms may be damaged, and the owners may be kidnapped—”
Old Hunter’s lecture was interrupted as the waitress came back into the room bearing a lacquer tray with an exquisite white china teapot and a single cup. The bubble tea came in a long paper cup with an extra thick straw sticking out of a plastic lid.
The Mountain Mist tea looked good. Chen could tell by the green tea color in the white cup. He took a sip of the bubble tea through his straw. A tiny sticky ball rolled on his tongue. The size of a small marble, but with the rich taste of milk, soft, slippery, almost sensual. But was this really tea?
Perhaps he, too, was antiquated, like Old Hunter, who spit a tiny tea leaf into the cup before continuing. “How can things get into such a mess? Pure and simple. Some of our high-ranking cadres are black-hearted. They take money from the gangsters, and cover up for them in return. Have you heard a story about Party Secretary Li’s brother-in-law?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, that brother-in-law had a bar on Henshan Road. The diamond area of the city. A swell business. How he got the license and lease, people never knew or asked. One day, someone got drunk, smashed a table, and slapped him. The next day, the drunkard came back, knelt on the floor, and slapped his own face hundreds of times. Why? The Blue is behind it. That triad has more power in this city than the government. If the drunkard had not done that, his whole family would have been killed. After this, no one has dared to make any trouble in the bar.”
“It could be a gesture to Li,” Chen said reluctantly, as he was aware of Old Hunter’s grudge against Li. The two had joined the force at about the same time. One did nothing but police work, and the other did nothing but politics. After thirty years, the gap between the two had grown huge. “Yet Li himself might have nothing to do with it.”
“Possibly,” Old Hunter said, “but you never know. Things are really out of control.” The old man continued in indignation, chewing at a tea leaf with his tea-stained teeth, “Now about the dead body in Bund Park. It’s unusual. If it happened in those coastal areas close to Hong Kong, or in Yunnan Province where the drug traffic moves across the borders, I would not be so surprised. Since President Jiang was formerly the Mayor of Shanghai, the gangsters keep a low profile here. They do not want to twist the tiger’s whiskers. Before this, I cannot remember having heard of any blatant triad killing in Shanghai.”
“It may have been the work of organizations from outside Shanghai.” Chen nodded, taking another long sip of his tea. “Perhaps to send a message to people here.”
“So I suggest you have another story placed in the newspaper. Give vivid details concerning the ax wounds to the body. See if a snake will crawl out of the cave.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“If you’re going to deal with those gangsters, Chief Inspector Chen, you cannot do it in your white way only. You have to be very flexible. It is necessary for you to get whatever help you can. Say, from someone familiar with both the black and white ways, and with street connections, too.”
It was the old man’s way of offering help, Chen realized. The retired cop was an old hand, with contacts of his own. “I cannot agree more. In fact, I was thinking of asking for your help, Uncle Yu.”
“Whatever I can do, Chief Inspector Chen.”
“I have two cases on my hands. They are not related, but each may have something to do with the black as well as the white way. I doubt that Qian Jun is experienced enough to do a good job, and Party Secretary Li, as you know, won’t want to become involved for his always politically correct reasons.”
“Give me all the details. Forget about Party Secretary Li.”
“First, with respect to the victim in Bund Park, we have not identified him yet, but the initial report from Dr. Xia supports our hypothesis.” He handed a copy of the report to Old Hunter. “He was killed shortly after having had sex with someone, still in his pajamas. So possibly he was killed at home or in a hotel. If in a hotel, I don’t think it could have happened in a state-run five-star one, which would have had to report, but there are so many private places, massage parlors and the like.”
“And underground brothels, too, Chief Inspector Chen. You will not find anything about these places in the bureau’s data files.”
“Second, there is Wen Liping’s case. Yu is working on it in Fujian. A former educated youth from Shanghai, Wen may have come back to the city.” He produced a picture of Wen. “If she’s not staying with a relative, those cheap private hotels without a business license would also be her choice.”
“Good, I will check all the possible places. I’m old, but I can still do something.” Then the old man added seriously, “Don’t ever underestimate these thugs. They can haunt you like demons lurking in the dark, striking at a moment you can never anticipate. Last year, an old colleague of mine disappeared in the middle of a gang investigation. His body has never been found.”
“I’m sorry to drag you into it, Uncle Yu.”
“Don’t say that, Chief Inspector Chen. I’m glad to be useful. I have nothing to worry about, a bag of old bones. Whatever comes, it’s not a bad bargain at my age. You are young, and you still have a long way to go. You cannot be too careful with the triads.”
“Thanks. I will be very careful.”
After he parted with Old Hunter outside the Moon Breeze, Chen called Inspector Rohn. “We are going to interview Wen Liping’s elder brother, Wen Lihua, tomorrow morning.”
“So the answer is a straightforward yes?”
“According to Confucius, ‘A man is not fit to stand if incapable of keeping his word.’”
“ ‘So you start panting for breath,’” she said, laughing, “ ‘the moment people say you’re fat.’”
“Oh, you know that Chinese expression too!” It was an idiomatic one he had heard only once among old Beijingese. Inspector Rohn had an exceptional command of Chinese proverbs.
“When do we start?” she said. “I’ll wait for you in front of the hotel.”
“No, you don’t have to do that. Traffic can be terrible. Around eight, but I’ll call your room.”
“Fine, I’ll be waiting.”
As he turned off the phone, something he had just said flashed across his mind.
Traffic.
Because of the terrible traffic in the area around the Peace Hotel and strict speed limits, vehicles literally crawled. And it was there, that morning, as they stood on the corner of Nanjing and Sichuan Road, that the motorcycle had come out of nowhere, racing right at her. Sichuan Road was not a street frequented by motorcyclists. He seemed to remember having heard a sputtering sound as they stood talking there on the street corner. The motorcycle had nearly run her down. It must have started up nearby, which made the incident even more suspicious. If the rider had just started his engine, why else would he have accelerated like that?
Inspector Rohn had just arrived in Shanghai. Only three people were aware of her mission. Could the Fujian triad have struck so fast? What was he confronting in his search for Wen? For the first time, he had an ominous feeling about this investigation.
Was it because of Party Secretary Li’s emphasis on Inspector Rohn’s safety?
Or because of Old Hunter’s lecture on the black way?
He was disturbed by the memory of clutching Inspector Rohn, to keep her out of the reach of a crazy motorcyclist. If it was no accident, what further threats to Inspector Rohn’s life might there be?
* * * *
Chapter 8
S
tanding by a Mercedes, Chen saw Catherine Rohn stepping out of the hotel’s revolving door wearing a white dress, like an apple tree blossoming in the April sunlight of Shanghai. She looked refreshed and she broke into a smile at the sight of him.
“This is Comrade Zhou Jing, our bureau’s driver,” Chen introduced her. “He will be with us for the day.”
“Nice to meet you, Comrade Zhou,” she said in Chinese.
“Welcome, Inspector Rohn,” Zhou said, looking over his shoulder with a broad grin. “People call me Little Zhou.”
“They call me Catherine.”
“Little Zhou is the best driver in our bureau.” Chen took his seat beside her.
