A Loyal Character Dancer - [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 02]

by Qiu Xiaolong

  “When would you like it?”

  “What about between eleven thirty and twelve?” Pan said. “I’ll come to your hotel as soon as I have finished things here.”

  “That will be fine.”

  Yu contemplated informing Sergeant Zhao of the change, but he thought better of it. For the past few days, Zhao had been of little help. Sometimes Yu even had a feeling that interviewees chose not to talk because of Zhao. So he phoned Zhao, saying that Pan could not come in the afternoon, and that he himself would stay in the hotel for the day, writing a letter home, doing some laundry, and drafting a report to the bureau. Zhao readily agreed. Yu had heard a rumor that Zhao had a profitable business sideline; perhaps he was glad of some time free of police-work to devote to it.

  Yu considered it too wasteful to have his laundry done by the hotel when he could save two Yuan a day by doing it himself. Kneading the dirty clothes on a wooden washboard in a concrete sink, he thought of his years like the foaming water dripping away through his fingers.

  In his childhood, he had nurtured dreams about a career in the police force, listening to his father’s stories about solving cases. A few years after he himself became a cop, however, he had few illusions left about his career.

  His father, Old Hunter, though an experienced officer and loyal Party member for so many years, had ended up a sergeant at retirement, with too meager a pension to indulge in a pot of Dragon Well Tea. Detective Yu had to be realistic. With his lack of education and social connections, he was in no position to dream of a great career in the force. Just one of the insignificant cops at the bottom, making the minimum wage, having little say in the bureau, forever at the end of the waiting list of the housing committee—

  And that was another reason he had not been keen on this assignment. There would be a housing committee meeting late this month in the bureau. Yu was on the waiting list. If he stayed in Shanghai, he might be able to push the committee members a little, perhaps in imitation of a recent movie, by sleeping on his bureau desk as a gesture of protest. He believed he had every reason to complain. He’d had to stay under his father’s roof for over ten years after his marriage. It was a crying shame for a man approaching forty not to have a home of his own. Even Peiqin occasionally complained about it.

  The housing shortage had a long history in Shanghai, which he understood. It became a burning issue for people’s work units— factories, companies, schools, or governmental bureaus—which got an annual housing quota from the city authorities and made assignments based on an employee’s years in service as well as other factors. It was especially difficult at the Shanghai Police Bureau, where so many cops had worked all their lives.

  Nevertheless, Detective Yu took his job seriously, believing he could make a difference in other people’s lives. He had developed a theory about being a good cop in China now. It depended on one’s ability to tell what could and what could not be done effectively. It was because there were many cases not worthy of hard work as the conclusion was predetermined by the Party authorities. For instance, the outcome of those anti-government-corruption cases, in spite of all the propaganda fanfare, would be only to swat a mosquito but not to slap a tiger. They were symbolic, only for show. So, too, this investigation, though not part of a political campaign, seemed to be merely a matter of form. And that was perhaps true of the Bund Park case, too. The only effective action would be to uproot the triads, but the authorities were not ready to do so.

  But Wen’s case had started to interest him. He had never imagined that an ex-educated youth could have led such a wretched life. And what had happened to Wen, he shuddered to think, could have happened to Peiqin. As an ex-educated youth himself, he felt obliged to do something for the poor woman, though he did not know what or how.

  Shortly after he finished his laundry, Pan arrived at the hotel. A man in his early forties, extraordinarily tall and thin, like a bamboo stick, Pan had an intelligent face, adorned by a pair of frameless glasses. He talked intelligently, too. Always to the point, specific, not losing his way in details.

  The interview did not provide any new information, but it gave a clear picture of Wen’s life during her factory years. Wen had been one of the best workers. There, too, she made a point of keeping to herself. As it seemed to Pan, however, it was not because she was an outsider, or because the other workers were prejudiced against her. She had been too proud.

  “That’s interesting,” Yu said. The difficulty of reconciling the past to the present. Sometimes people retreat into a shell. “Did she try to better her circumstances?”

  “She had no luck. She was so young when she fell into Feng’s hands, and then it was too late by the time Feng met his downfall, “ Pan said, stroking his chin. “ ‘Heaven is too high, and the emperor is too far away.’ Who cared for an ex-educated youth in a backward village? But you should have seen her when she first arrived here. What a knockout!”

  “You liked her.”

  “No, not I. My father had been a landlord. In the early seventies, I would not have dreamed of it.”

  “Yes, I know all about the family background policy during the Cultural Revolution,” Yu said, nodding contemplatively.

  Yu knew that perhaps he alone had reasons to be grateful for that notorious policy. He had always been ordinary—an ordinary student, an ordinary educated youth, and an ordinary cop, but Peiqin was different. Gifted, pretty, like those characters in The Dream of the Red Chamber, she might never have crossed his path but for her black family background, which had pulled her down, so to speak, to his level. He had once broached the topic to her, but she cut him short, declaring she could not have asked for a better husband.

  “When I became factory manager in 1979,” Pan went on, “Wen was literally a poor lower-middle-class peasant. Not only in her class status, but in her appearance. No one took pity on Feng. I took pity on her. I suggested that she come to work here.”

  “So you alone did something for her. That’s good. Did she talk to you about her life?”

  “Not if she could help it. Some people like to talk about their misfortunes all the time, like Sister Qiangling in Lu Xun’s story ‘Blessing.’ Not Wen. She preferred to lick her wounds in secret.”

  “Did you try to do anything else for her?”

  “I don’t know what you are driving at, Detective Yu.”

  “I’m not driving at anything. What about the work she took home?”

  “Theoretically, the parts and chemicals are not allowed to be taken home, but she was so poor. A few extra Yuan made a difference to her. Since she was the best in the workshop, I made an exception for her.”

  “When did you learn about her plan to join her husband in the United States.”

  “About a month ago. She wanted me to write a statement about her marital status for her passport application. When I asked about her plans for the future, she broke down. Only then did I learn about her pregnancy.” Pan said after a pause, “I was curious about Feng’s efficiency. It normally takes years before people can begin the process of getting their families out. So I asked some other villagers. And I learned he had a deal there—”

  There was a light tap on the door.

  Detective Yu rose to open it. There was no one outside. He saw a tray of covered dishes on the ground, with a card saying, “Enjoy our special.”

  “What great timing! This hotel is not bad. Have lunch with me here, Manager Pan. We can continue our talk over the meal.”

  “Well, I owe you one then,” Pan said. “Let me buy you Fujian wok noodles before you leave.”

  Yu took away the covering paper disclosing a large bowl of stir-fried rice, fresh and colorful, with scrambled egg and Chinese barbecued pork, a covered urn, and two side dishes, one of salted peanuts, one of tofu mixed with sesame oil and green onion. He was surprised to smell something like liquor as he pulled the paper lid off the urn.

  “Crab marinated in wine,” Pan said.

  There was only one pair of plastic c
hopsticks on the tray. Luckily, Peiqin had packed several pair of disposable chopsticks in his bag, so Yu handed a pair to Pan.

  Pan picked up a loose crab leg with his fingers.

  “I love crabs,” Yu shrugged his shoulders, “but I do not eat them raw.”

  “Don’t worry. There won’t be any problem. Soaking the crab in the strong liquor takes care of it.”

  “I just can’t eat uncooked crab.” It was not exactly true. In his childhood, a bowl of watery rice with a piece of salted crab had been his favorite breakfast. Peiqin had made him give up raw seafood. Maybe that was the price of having a virtuous wife. “You have all the crab, Manager Pan,” Yu reluctantly offered.

  The rice smelled pleasant, the pork had a special texture, and the small side dishes were palatable. Yu did not really miss the crab. They talked more about Wen.

  “Wen did not even have an account in the bank,” Pan said, “All her earnings were taken by Feng. I suggested that she keep some money at the factory. She did.”

  “Did she take it out before she disappeared?”

  “No. I was not in the factory the day she disappeared, but she took none of her money,” Pan said, finishing the golden digestive glands of the crab with relish. “It must have been a decision made on the spur of the moment.”

  “During all these years, has anyone come to visit Wen here?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Feng’s insanely jealous. He wouldn’t have encouraged visitors.” Turning the crab’s entrails inside out, Pan had something like a small old monk sitting on his palm. “The evil guy, you know.”

  “I know. In the White Snake legend, the meddlesome monk had to hide in the crab entrails—” Yu left the sentence unfinished as he heard a faint moan from Pan.

  Pan was already doubled over in pain, pressing a hand to his stomach. “Damn. It feels like a knife piercing me here.” His face was beaded with perspiration and had turned a livid color. He began to moan.

  “I’ll call for an ambulance,” Yu said, jumping up.

  “No. Take the factory pickup,” Pan managed to say.

  The pickup was parked in front of the hotel. Yu and a hotel janitor lost no time carrying Pan on to the truck. The county hospital was several miles away. Yu had the janitor sit beside him to give directions. Before he started the engine, however, Yu ran back to his room and picked up the urn of wine-soaked crab to take with them.

  * * * *

  Three hours later, Yu was ready to head back to the hotel, alone.

  Pan had to stay in the hospital, though he was pronounced out of danger. The doctor’s diagnosis was food poisoning.

  “In an hour,” the doctor said, “it would have been too late for us to do anything.”

  The result of the tests of the contents of the crab urn were highly suspicious. The crab contained bacteria—many times more than was allowable. The crab used must have been dead for days.

  “It’s strange,” the nurse said. “People here never eat dead crab.”

  It was more than strange, Detective Yu reflected, as he plodded along the country road. There was an owl hooting somewhere in the woods behind him. He spat a couple of times on the ground, a subconscious effort to ward off the evil spirits of the day.

  The moment he got back to the hotel, he checked at the hotel kitchen.

  “No, we didn’t send that food to you,” the chef said nervously. “We don’t have that kind of room service.”

  Yu dug out a hotel brochure. Room service was not mentioned. The chef suggested that the lunch might have been delivered by a nearby village restaurant.

  “No, we never got such an order,” the restaurant owner whined over the phone.

  They could have made the delivery by mistake, and were now trying to deny responsibility. But that was unlikely: the delivery man would have asked for payment.

  Detective Yu was sure that he had been the target. If he had stayed alone in the hotel and eaten all the food himself, he would have ended up in the hospital, or the morgue. No one would have bothered to test the leftovers in an urn. The gang would not have had to worry. Food poisoning accidents happened every day. The local police wouldn’t even have been called in. The schemer could not have known that Yu did not eat raw crab.

  So he was getting on someone’s nerves. Someone wanted to put him out of the way. This was now a battle for Detective Yu. He was determined to fight, though his enemy had the advantage of prowling in the dark, watching and waiting, striking out at any opportunity. Like the lunch—

  Suddenly, he detected an alarming hole in his theory. The gangsters should have seen Manager Pan come into his room. They should not have made the attempt. Had they received incorrect information that Detective Yu was alone in his hotel room?

  Nobody but Sergeant Zhao had known his plans for the day. He had told Zhao he would be alone. And the lunch tray was meant for one, with only one pair of chopsticks.

  * * * *

  Chapter 10

  L

  eaving Zhu Xiaoying’s place, Inspector Rohn started to grope her way down the stairs with Chief Inspector Chen in the lead.

  Following Lihua’s list, they had interviewed several of Wen’s schoolmates: Qiao Xiaodong at Jingling High School, Yang Hui at the Red Flag Grocery, and finally Zhu Xiaoying at her home. None of them provided any relevant information. People might have been emotional at their class reunion, but they were too busy with their daily lives to really care for a schoolmate with whom they had long lost contact. Zhu was the only one who had kept sending New Year’s cards to Wen, but she, too, had not heard anything from her for years. If there was anything new, it was about why Wen had failed to come back to Shanghai after the Cultural Revolution. Zhu attributed it to her brother Lihua, who had balked at the prospect of Wen having to squeeze in with his family in that same single room.

  Moving down the ancient staircase, Catherine raised one foot when a step suddenly caved in under her. She stumbled, lost her balance, and pitched forward. Before she could stop herself, she bumped into Chief Inspector Chen. He reacted by positioning himself in front of her, his hand grasping the rail. Pressed against him, she tried to steady herself as he turned back so that he was holding her in his arms.

  “Are you all right, Inspector Rohn?” he said.

  “I’m fine,” she said, disengaging herself. “Maybe I’m suffering from jet lag.”

  Zhu rushed down holding a flashlight. “Oh, those ancient steps are totally rotten.”

  One of the treads was broken. Whether Inspector Rohn had stumbled first, or that step had inexplicably crumbled, was not clear.

  Chen was about to say something, but checked himself. He ended up apologizing mechanically, “I’m sorry, Inspector Rohn.”

  “For what, Chief Inspector Chen?” she said, seeing his embarrassment. “But for your intervention again, I could have hurt myself.”

  She took a step and swayed. He put his arm around her waist. Leaning heavily against him, she let him help her down the stairs. At the foot of the stairs, as she tried to lift her damaged foot for a closer look, she winced at a sharp pain in her ankle.

  “You need to see a doctor.”

  “No, it’s nothing.”

  “I should not have taken you out today, Inspector Rohn.”

  “I insisted on it, Chief Inspector Chen,” she said a little testily.

  “I’ve an idea,” Chen said with a determined expression. “Let’s go to a herbal drug store. Mr. Ma’s. Chinese medicine will help.”

  * * * *

  The herbal drug store in question was located in the old town of Shanghai. A golden sign above the door frame displayed two big Chinese characters in bold strokes: “Old Ma,” which could also mean “Old Horse.”

  “Interesting name for a herbal drug store,” she said.

  “There is a Chinese proverb: ‘An old horse knows the way.’ Old, experienced, Mr. Ma knows what he’s doing, though he’s not a doctor or pharmacist in the conventional sense.”

  An elderly woman i
n a long white uniform came toward them and broke into a smile. “How are you, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen?”

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Ma. This is Catherine Rohn, my American friend.” Chen introduced them to each other as they moved into a spacious room furnished as an office. Its white walls were lined with large oak cabinets sporting numerous tiny drawers, each of which had a small label on it.

  “What wind has brought you here, Chen?” Mr. Ma, a white-haired, white-bearded man wearing silver-rimmed spectacles and a long string of carved beads, rose from his armchair.

  “Today’s wind is my friend Catherine, a wind from across the oceans. How is your business, Mr. Ma?”

  “Not bad, thanks to you. How is your friend?”

  “She has sprained her ankle,” Chen said.