Death of a Red Heroine [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 01] (36 page)

At the end of the side street, they caught sight of a dingy snack bar.

“Can you smell curry?” Chen sniffed the air appreciatively. “Oh, I’m hungry.”

Yu nodded his agreement.

So they made their way into the bar. Pushing aside the bamboo bead curtain over the entrance, they found the interior surprisingly clean. There were no more than three plastic-topped tables covered with white tablecloths. Each table exhibited a bamboo beaker of chopsticks, a stainless steel container of toothpicks, and a soy sauce dispenser. A hand-written streamer on the wall limited the menu to cold noodles, cold dumplings, and a couple of cold dishes, but the curry beef soup was steaming hot in a big pot. It was two fifteen, late for lunch customers, so they had the place to themselves. A young woman emerged from the back-room kitchen at their footsteps, wiping her flour-covered hands on a jasmine-embroidered white apron, leaving a smudge on her smiling cheek. She was probably the proprietress, but also the waitress and chef in one. Leading them to a table, she recommended the special dishes of the day. She brought them a complimentary quart of iced beer.

After unwrapping the paper covers from their bamboo chopsticks, and placing a generous helping of curry sauce in their soup, the proprietress withdrew to the kitchen.

“A surprising place for this area,” Chen said, chewing at the aniseed-flavored peas, as he filled Yu’s beer glass.

Yu took a deep draught and nodded in agreement. The beer was cold enough. The smoked fish head was also tasty. The squid had a special texture.

Shanghai was indeed a city full of wonderful surprises, whether in the prosperous thoroughfares or on small side streets. It was a city in which people from all walks of life could find something enjoyable, even at such a shabby-looking, inexpensive place.

“What do you think?”

“Wu killed her,” Yu repeated. “I’m positive.”

“Perhaps, but why?”

“It’s so obvious, the way he answered our questions.”

“You mean the way he lied to our faces?”

“No question about it. So many holes in his story. But it’s not just that. Wu had a prompt answer for everything, way too prompt—didn’t your notice? It echoed of research and rehearsal, just a simple clandestine affair would not have been worth all that effort.”

“You’re right.” Chen said, sipping at his beer. “But what could Wu’s motive be?”

“Somebody else had entered the picture? Another man? And Wu got insanely jealous.”

“That’s possible, but according to the phone records, almost all the calls Guan got in the last few months came from Wu,” Chen said. “Besides, Wu is an ambitious HCC, with a most promising career, and a number of pretty women around him— not only at work, I would say. So why should Wu have played the jealous Othello?”

“Othello or not, I don’t know, but possibly it’s the other way around. Maybe Wu had another woman or women—all those models, naked, from his work to his bed—and Guan could not take it, and made an ugly scene about it.”

“Even so, I still cannot see why Wu had to kill her. He could have broken off with her. After all, Guan was not his wife, not in a position to force him into doing anything.”

“Yes, that’s something,” Yu said. “If Guan had been found to be pregnant, we might suppose she was threatening him. I’ve had a case like that. The pregnant woman wanted the man to divorce his wife for her. The man couldn’t, so he got rid of her. But Guan’s autopsy report said she was not pregnant.”

“Yes, I’ve also checked that with Dr. Xia.”

“So what will be our next step?”

“To confirm Wu’s alibi.”

“Okay, I’ll take care of Guo Qiang. But Wu will have arranged things with him, I bet.”

“Yes, I doubt if Guo will tell us anything.”

“What else can we do?”

“Interview some other people.”

“Where are they?”

Chen produced a copy of the
Flower City
from his briefcase, and turned to a full page picture of a nude female reclining on her side. She showed only her back to the camera, but all her lines and curves were soft, suggestive, her round buttocks moonlike. A black mole on her nape accentuated the whiteness of her body melting into the background.

“Wow, what a body,” Yu said. “Did Wu take the picture?”

“Yes, it was published under his pseudonym.”

“That S.O.B. surely has had his share of peach blossom luck!”

“Peach blossom luck?” Chen went on without waiting for an answer. “Oh, I see what you mean. Luck with women. Yes, you can say that again, but this picture is a sort of artwork.”

“Now what’s that to us?”

“I happen to know who the model is.”

“How?” Yu then added, “Through the magazine?”

“She’s a celebrity, too. It is not surprising that Wu, a professional photographer, uses nude models, but why she chose to pose for him, I cannot figure out.”

“Who is she?”

“Jiang Weihe, a rising young artist.”

“Never heard of her,” Yu said, putting down the cup. “Do you know her well?”

“No, not really. I’ve just met her a couple of times at the Writers and Artists Association.”

“So you’re going to interview her?”

“Well, perhaps you’re a more appropriate officer for the job. At our previous meetings, we discussed nothing but literature and art. It would be out of place for me to knock on her door as a cop. And I would not be able to exercise the necessary authority, psychologically, I mean, in cross-examination. So I suggest you go to see her.”

“Fine, I’ll go there, but what do you think she will tell us?”

“It’s a long shot. Maybe there is nothing. Jiang’s an artist herself, so it’s no big deal for her to pose without a shred on. It’s just her back, and she thought no one would recognize her. But if people know that it is her naked body, it will not be too pleasant for her.”

“Got you,” Yu said. “So what are you going to do?”

“I’ll make a trip to Guangzhou.”

“To look for Xie Rong, the tour guide?”

“Yes, one thing in Wei Hong’s statement intrigues me. Guan called Xie a whore. It’s really something unusual for Guan, a national model worker, to have used such language. Xie, too, might be involved in some way, or at least she knows something about the relationship between Wu and Guan.”

“When are you leaving?”

“As soon as I can get a train ticket.” Chen added, “Party Secretary Li will be back in two or three days.”

“I see. A general can do whatever he wants if the emperor is not beside him.”

“You surely know a lot of old sayings.”

“I got them from Old Hunter,” Yu said with a laugh. “Now what about our old Commissar Zhang?”

“Let’s have a meeting tomorrow morning.”

“Fine.” Yu held up his brimming cup. “To cur success.”

“To our success!”

Afterward, Chief Inspector Chen was quick to grab the bill from the small tray on which it was presented, and to pay for them both. The proprietress stood smiling beside them. Yu did not like the idea of arguing in front of her. As soon as they got outside, Yu started explaining that the total bill amounted to some forty-five Yuan, so he insisted paying his share. Chen waved away the proffered twenty.

“Don’t say anything more about it,” Chen said. “I’ve just received a check from the
Wenhui Daily.
Fifty Yuan, for that short poem about our police work. So it’s proper and right that we use the money for our lunch.”

“Yes, I saw it on the fax sent you by the
Wenhui
reporter— what’s her name—it is really a good one.”

“Oh, Wang Feng.” Chen then said. “By the way, when you talked about peach blossom luck, it reminded me of a Tang dynasty poem.”

“A Tang dynasty poem?”

“This door, this day /
—
Last year, your blushing face, / And the blushing faces / Of the peach blossoms reflecting / Yours. This door, this day /
—
this year, where are you, / You, in the peach blossoms? / The peach blossoms still/here, giggling / At the spring breeze.”

“Does the expression come from this poem?”

“I’m not sure, but the poem is said to be based upon the poet’s true experience. The Tang poet, Cui Hu, was broken-hearted when he failed to see his love after his successful civil service examination in the capital.”

That was just like Chief Inspector Chen, rhapsodizing about a Tang dynasty poem in the middle of a murder investigation. Perhaps Chen had had too much beer. A month earlier, Detective Yu would have taken it as an instance of his boss’s romantic eccentricity. But he found it acceptable today.

* * * *

Chapter 21

ommissar Zhang had had a totally rotten day.

Early in the morning, he had gone to the Shanghai Number One Old Cadre Club to choose a gift for a comrade-in-arms’ birthday.

The club had come into being as a byproduct of the cadre retirement policy—an embodiment of the Party’s continuing concern for the revolutionaries of the older generation. The old cadres, though retired, were reassured that they did not have to worry about changes in their living standards. Not every cadre could go there, of course. Only those of a certain rank.

At first, Zhang was quite proud of holding a membership card, which earned him immediate respect, and also a number of privileges then unavailable elsewhere. It had enabled him to buy much-in-demand products at the state price, to book vacations in resorts closed to the general public, to eat in restricted restaurants with security men guarding the entrance, and to enjoy swimming, ball games, and golf at the huge club complex. There was also a small meandering creek where old people could angle away an afternoon, reminiscing about their glory years.

Of late, however, Zhang had not made many visits to the club. There were more and more restrictions on the bureau’s car service. As a retired cadre, he had to submit a written request for a car. The club was quite a distance away, and he was not enthusiastic about being squeezed and bumped all the way there in a bus. That morning he took a taxi.

At the club shop, Zhang searched for a presentable gift at a reasonable price. Everything was too expensive.

“What about a bottle of Maotai in a wooden box?” the club shop assistant suggested.

“How much is it?” Zhang asked.

“Two hundred Yuan.”

“Is that the state price? Last year, I bought one for thirty-five Yuan.”

“There’s no state price anymore, Comrade Commissar. Everything’s at the market price. It’s a market economy for the whole country,” the assistant added, “like it or not.”

It was not the price, or not just the price. It was the assistant’s indifferent attitude that upset Zhang more than anything else. It seemed as if the club had turned into an ordinary grocery store which everybody could visit and Commissar Zhang found himself to be no more than an ordinary old man with little money in his pocket. But then, it should not be too surprising, Zhang thought. Nowadays people valued nothing but money. The economic reforms launched by Comrade Deng Xiaoping had created a world Zhang failed to recognize.

Leaving the shop empty-handed, Zhang ran across Shao Ping, a retired old cadre from the Shanghai Academy of Social Sciences. They grumbled about market prices.