The Mao Case (22 page)

“That’s something.”

“Zhong says Xie’s behind the change in Jiao’s life.”

“Really!”

“With the help of Zhong, I’m going to check into it.”

“No, don’t do anything, Old Hunter. I’ll be back early in the morning. Let’s discuss this first.”

Chen had never thought about the possibility of Xie being the one behind the change in Jiao’s life. Financially, it wasn’t possible. Xie could hardly make his own ends met.

Still, there was something between Xie and Jiao, something now beyond doubt, given the new information from both Yu and Old Hunter.

Then why all the concealment on the part of Jiao and Xie? Neither of them had said anything about it, keeping it a secret from him — and not just from him. No one at the parties seemed to have known anything. If Xie had visited Jiao, a small child in her orphanage, he did it out of friendship with Tan. Nothing wrong or improper that would require a cover-up. If anything was surprising at all, it was Internal Security’s failure to learn the history between Xie and Qian.

The case seemed to be getting more and more mystifying.

The girl next to him began snoring, though ever so lightly, a thin trace of saliva visible at the corner of her mouth.

Around three, sitting stiff and straight like a bamboo stick, his head bumped against the hard seat, his mind worn out with thinking in the dark, he managed to doze off.

His last thought was about that wooden-board mattress in the Central South Sea. Not a comfortable bed, by any means.

TWENTY-FOUR

FINALLY, THE TRAIN ARRIVED
at the Shanghai Railway Station.

The new station was larger and more modern. It was another attempt to upgrade the image of the “most desirable metropolitan city internationally,” as advocated in the Shanghai newspapers.

Chen got off after the couple, who hugged and kissed, stepping out onto the ground in Shanghai for possibly the first time, before they merged into the throng, oblivious to the crowd milling around. The young girl came down after him, waving at him before disappearing in another direction.

He remained standing on the platform, next to the train door, waiting for five or six minutes before he spotted a middle-aged man hurrying over, raising his hands in a gesture of recognition. He could have seen Chen before — or his picture. The man was of medium build, yet heavy-jawed and broad-shouldered, inclined toward stoutness.

“Comrade Chief Inspector Chen?”

It was Liu, the officer who succeeded Song as head of the special Internal Security team.

They walked out into the hall swarming with people, where, in the midst of escalators running up and down, Chen saw the young girl again, studying an electronic information display.

“Someone you know?” Liu asked.

“No,” he said, moving down the escalator after Liu.

The square outside appeared no less crowded, with people standing in lines for tickets, peddlers showing their products, and scalpers shouting with tickets in their hands. The restaurants and cafés nearby appeared noisy and cramped. It was out of the question for them to find a quiet place to talk.

Liu led Chen across the square, into a parking lot tucked in behind the station tower. Liu pressed a remote control, unlocking the doors to a silver Lexus in the corner. As soon as they got into the car, Liu started the engine and turned on the air conditioning before handing Chen a folder about Song’s murder, all without saying a word.

Chen started reading immediately. He understood Liu’s accusatory silence. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, Song had been killed because of the investigation he had been pursuing — in the company of Chen, until the chief inspector’s unannounced, and so far unexplained vacation.

It was no coincidence that Chen had been attacked in similar circumstances. Only Chen had been luckier.

Lighting a cigarette, waving his hand over the document, Chen couldn’t shake the feeling that he was responsible, at least partially, for Song’s death. Fragmented memories of their unpleasant collaboration spiraled up with the smoke. Had he let Song have his way, the situation could have developed differently; had he informed Song of the attack on him, Song might have acted with more caution; had he stayed in Shanghai, he himself might have been the target.

In spite of the air conditioning in the car, Chen began to sweat profusely. Liu remained silent, puffing hard at his cigarette — his third one. Chen wiped at his brow with his hand, like a mole smoked in a tunnel.

There wasn’t much in the folder. Song had been plodding along in another direction, different from Chen’s. There must have been some point of overlap that bundled the two of them together in this investigation, a something known neither to Song, nor to Chen, but to the murderer alone. Chen failed to find anything helpful in the file.

Now, who would have been desperate enough to murder Song as a way to force a stop to the investigation? It had been focused on Jiao and Xie, and after Yang’s murder, on Xie in particular.

“We have to shake them up,” Liu said at the end of his third cigarette. “We tried to get hold of you, but no one knew your whereabouts.”

“You mean —” Chen didn’t finish the sentence. What Liu wanted to do, Chen could guess, but he wasn’t in any position to argue against it. Nor to give a satisfactory account of his “vacation.” Instead, he said slowly, closing the folder, “Can you give me a more detailed account of what Song had been doing for the last few days?”

“I have a mental list,” Liu said readily. “While you were away on vacation, Song did a lot of work — visiting Xie’s place, talking to him, and to Jiao, interviewing people related to Yang, meeting Hua, the boss of the company where Jiao worked, and Shang’s old maid, checking into Jiao’s phone record —”

“Yes, he left no stone unturned,” Chen said. Some of the stones he had also tried to turn — through the help of Old Hunter and Detective Yu. It wasn’t exactly a surprise that Song, too, had approached Shang’s maid. “Anything or anybody seem suspicious?”

“No. But our net was closing. Someone struck out in desperation.”

“Someone” referred to Xie, Chen had no doubt about it. “Can I have a medical report about Song’s death?”

“It’ll be delivered to you today, but since the murder happened in broad daylight, I don’t think there will be much for you to learn from the medical report.”

“Let me go over the material one more time, and I’ll make a report to Beijing. We shouldn’t wait too long, but I don’t think we should rush to action.”

“How long shall we wait, Chief Inspector Chen?”

For Internal Security, it had been a harsh slap to the face. While Xie Mansion was under their close surveillance, the dead body of a young girl was discovered in its garden, and then the dead body of Song, the officer in charge of the investigation, was found in a side street nearby. They might consider themselves above the police, but with their comrade fallen in the line of duty, they were beside themselves, just like cops, crying for revenge. They couldn’t put it off anymore.

“When you called me from the train,” Liu went on without getting a response from Chen, “we were dealing with a target.”

“A new target?”

As it turned out, one of Liu’s colleagues had seen Jiao meeting with Peng. They lost no time getting hold of Peng, and obtaining from him a full confession, which strengthened their determination to use “tough measures.”

“Here is a tape of the interrogation,” Liu said, handing Chen a cassette tape. “We had no time for transcription.”

Chen put the tape into the car tape player and listened. During the interrogation, Liu and his colleagues more or less fed him the answers, but they were probably also what Peng himself believed.

It was a similar version to what Peng had told Yu, a scenario of Jiao having gotten the valuable antique left by Shang through her affair with Mao, but Peng was careful enough not to mention Mao by name. Nor did he say anything about Yu, which suggested that Peng must have continued blackmailing Jiao.

“It’s so unfair,” Peng concluded in a wailing tone. “She got it all from Shang — from the Forbidden City. I should have my share…”

His testimony was enough however, to get Jiao into trouble. “Selling state treasures” was a serious crime. Internal Security didn’t need another excuse.

“With his testimony, we’re expecting a search warrant from Beijing,” Liu concluded. “We believe that whatever it is is at Xie’s place. Yang could have been killed because she saw something there. So could have Song.”

Chen, too, had come to believe that Jiao had something, though it wasn’t likely to be the “palace treasure,” as Peng called it. But Chen had nothing with which to prevent Internal Security from taking action.

Xie would crumble under their pressure. But would Jiao cooperate? If not, would what had happened to Shang happen to Jiao today? To obtain their goal, Internal Security would stop at nothing. Chen saw no point, however, in asking for more time from Liu, and said instead, “When do you think you can get the warrant?”

“We’re reporting to Beijing this morning.”

“Let me know when you get it.”

“You don’t have to worry, Chief Inspector Chen,” Liu said, glancing at his watch. “Now I have to rush back to the office.”

So that signified the end of their talk. Internal Security was going on ahead, regardless of Chen’s opposition. Liu didn’t even offer to give him a lift.

“I have to make some phone calls too.” Chen pulled open the door and stepped out. “You know my number.”

“I’ll call you.” Liu started driving out, rolling down the window for the first time, watching Chen head in another direction.

TWENTY-FIVE

ABOUT FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER,
Chen arrived at Xie Mansion, and he pressed hard on the recently-fixed doorbell. He, too, wanted to shake things up.

It took quite a while for Xie to appear at the door. He must have come from bed, wrapped in a scarlet silk pajama robe tied with a silk sash. For the first time, Xie really looked like an Old Dick.

“I’ve just come back, Mr. Xie. Sorry to drop in like this. So many things have happened during the last few days. I’m worried about you.”

“Yes, I’m worried too. Cops have been coming in and out of my place like a market. Oh, it’s terrible.”

“I can imagine,” Chen said. “Let’s go out to the garden.”

“Garden?” Xie said, looking up. “Yes, let’s talk there. Follow me.”

They walked over to the plastic garden chairs, which had been moved from under the flowering pear tree. Chen wondered if Xie had sat in the garden since Yang’s death. They probably wouldn’t be overheard there.

“I heard about what happened to Officer Song,” Chen went straight to the point, seating himself on the dust-covered chair.

“I talked to Officer Song just a couple of hours before his death.”

“Song was murdered and they see you as the main suspect. I’m trying to help, but you have to tell me everything. You’re an intelligent man, Mr. Xie. I don’t see any point in beating about the bush.”

“No, of course not, but what do you mean by telling you everything?”

“To begin with, your relationship with Jiao’s parents.”

“What, Mr. Chen?”

“When Song talked to you about Yang’s murder, you made a statement, saying that you did not know Jiao before her visit to you about a year ago. That was a lie. You misled the investigation, especially because it was Jiao that provided your alibi. She didn’t tell the truth, either. That’s perjury, involving both of you, and obstruction of justice. A felony.”

“Perjury! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Song’s colleagues are out for revenge,” Chen said, picking up a brown twig from its edge of the chair and breaking it. “What they are capable of, you don’t need me to tell you.”

“Do you think I really care? I’m nothing but a straw man, striving hard to keep up an appearance. And I’m sick and tired of it, Mr. Chen. They may do whatever they want.”

“But what about Jiao?”

Xie didn’t come up with an instant response.

“What worries me, Mr. Xie, is that there is something ominous about this case. Already two people have been killed. First Yang, and then Song. Both were connected to you and Jiao. As a result, much more will happen, I’m afraid. Not necessarily to you, but to Jiao.”

“Oh, my God! But why?”

“Now, this is just my guess, Mr. Xie. People are desperately searching for something. Until they get hold of it, they will never stop. Nor will they stop at anything.”

“What can it be? When I came into the world, I brought nothing with me. Nor will I take away anything with me upon leaving. So let them have it. Nothing’s worth having so many people dying for it.”

“It may not be in your possession.”

“How can she —” Xie cut himself short and came up with a question. “I wonder how you know all this — and what you can do to help?”

“What I can do to help, to be frank, I don’t know, not at this stage. But I happen to know all of this,” he said, taking out his business card and badge, “because I am a police investigator. I’m telling you more than I’m supposed to. That’s why I brought you out into the garden. The house may be bugged. They are Internal Security, not the ordinary police.”

“I trust you, Mr. —” Xie stammered, examining the business card, “Chief Inspector Chen?”

“You don’t have to trust me, but you trust Mr. Shen, don’t you?” Chen produced his cell phone. “Give him a call.”

“No, I don’t have to. Mr. Shen’s like an uncle to me,” Xie said reflectively, and then, resolutely, “So you want to know about my relationship with Jiao’s parents?”

“Yes, please tell me from the beginning.”

“It was such a long time ago. In the fifties, my family and Qian’s family knew each other, but things were already changing. My parents were urging me to behave with my tail tucked in, and not to mix with Qian.”

“Because of the stories about Shang?”

“Do you think anyone would have talked to a young boy about those things?”

It was obvious that Xie had heard the stories but Chen didn’t push, further breaking the withered twig in his hands.

“At the beginning of the Cultural Revolution, our two families were plundered by the Red Guards. But it was worse for hers. Shang became a target of relentless mass criticism. One scene is still fresh in my memory — of her standing on something like a stage, half of her hair shaven off in a so-called yin/yang style, and wearing around her neck a string of worn-out shoes as a metaphor for her body being used by so many men. Red Guards threw stones and curses and eggs at her. Needless to say, Qian, too, suffered horrible discrimination. We were called ‘black puppies.’ She was once marched onto the stage to stand beside Shang — as a companion target of mass criticism. That was too much for Qian. She denounced Shang and moved to the school dorm.”

“I can understand all that, Mr. Xie. I was younger then, but my father was also ‘black.’ ”

“If there’s any difference between me and Qian, it was that I still had the old house to fall back on. There was nothing for her. Shang died. Qian was driven out of her home, and she sort of disappeared for weeks. When she reappeared, she had changed so much. Like in an old saying, she threw a broken jar like a broken jar, but unfortunately, the broken jar happened to be herself. Then she fell for Tan, a good friend of mine, another black puppy of a capitalist family. He told me about their affair. In those days, it was a crime to have sex without a marriage license, but what else could two doomed young people do? She soon found herself pregnant. I was worried sick about them. One early morning, Tan sneaked into my place and pushed into my hands a large envelope, saying that it was something from Qian. He hurried away before I could ask questions. About a week later, they were caught in their attempt to flee to Hong Kong. He was beaten so badly on the way back to Shanghai, he committed suicide, leaving a note in which he shouldered all the responsibility. That’s how she was acquitted.”

“That’s how she survived, I see. Did you approach her after his death?”

“Qian was under surveillance. I knew better than to look for trouble. Besides, I was disappointed with her. So soon after Tan’s death, she found herself another lover — a new body hot in her arms with the old body not yet cold in the grave. And nothing but a lustful stud, almost ten years younger than she. They were caught in the act, with him doing something perverted, so he was jailed as a ‘degenerate hooligan.’ Of course, I still planned to give the package back to her, but then she died too.”

“What happened afterward, Mr. Xie?”

“Well, things started improving, though my wife left me to go to the United States. I must have told her too much about the American dream. Karma.”

“That’s not your fault, but her loss. Please, come back to our topic.”

“In the early eighties, people once again called me Mr. Xie. I no longer had to sulk about like a homeless skunk. My house was described as a symbol of the old Shanghai in the glittering thirties. So I ventured out to look for Jiao. It was a promise I made to Tan’s memory. She lived in the orphanage, where Zhong, Shang’s old maid, occasionally visited her. I gave some money to Zhong for Jiao’s sake — not much, but things were so hard for Jiao.”

“Did you meet Jiao there?”

“I tried not to, but one afternoon, she happened to see me in the company of Zhong, who introduced me as her father’s friend. Not long afterward, she left the orphanage and started working odd jobs.”

“Did you still keep that package with you?”

“Yes, I did. She shared a small room with three or four provincial girls, no privacy at all. I didn’t want to give it to her under the circumstances, whatever it could be.”

“You did the right thing, Mr. Xie, but a lot of things changed for her, yes?”

“Yes, and suddenly too. She quit her job and moved into a high-end apartment —”

“Hold on. You had nothing to do with the change?”

“No, not at all. I actually learned about it from Zhong, who thought I had helped. But how could I? Look at this garden. I can’t even afford a gardener.”

“You should have one,” Chen said nodding, looking at the wasted garden.

“After a few months, Jiao came to me, first as a visitor, and then as a student.”

“Did she inherit a large sum of money?”

“No, not that I know of.”

“But she came to you after the publication of the book
Cloud and Rain in Shanghai
, I assume.”

“I think so. As a student in my class, she’s well-qualified, but why she came to the class, I don’t know. Possibly it is her way of paying me back — her tuition is, I mean.” Xie said with his brows knit tight, “She’s helpful. It’s really beyond me why she provided an alibi for me the other day. Repaying me with more than money? I have done so little for her.”

“Perhaps it was little from your point of view, but a lot from her point of view. Anyway, have you heard any speculation about the changes in her life?”

“Most people believe that there’s someone behind her. An upstart who provides everything for her. But in matters like that, you can’t ask a young girl for an explanation if she chooses not to tell you.”

“That’s true.” Chen said, “But back to the package. Did you give it to her after she became a regular visitor here?”

“Not at first. I wasn’t sure, what with the unexplained change in her life, and with the possibility that there was someone else behind her. But I eventually did, several months ago. It’s hers, isn’t it? I had no reason not to give it to her.”

“Did you find out what was inside?”

“No. whatever secret it contained, it wasn’t mine. Some day I may have to swear,” Xie said, his eyes slightly squinting in the light, “that I have never seen anything.”

The afternoon sunlight, sifted through the foliage, illuminated the shrewd lines on his face. A survivor of these tumultuous years, Xie had to be cautious.

“Did she tell you anything about what was inside the package?”

“No, she didn’t.” Xie changed the subject abruptly, “By the way, have you heard about the burglary at her place about a month ago?”

“No, I haven’t,” Chen said. But it wasn’t difficult for him to understand why Internal Security hadn’t said anything about it, and why Liu believed that what they wanted to find was in Xie’s place.

“Hers is in a well-guarded complex. Yet a thief managed to sneak in, though he left without taking anything valuable.”

“Has she told anyone about the package?”

“I don’t know. She should know better, I think.”

“She has since been a regular visitor to your place and the two of you have a lot of contact. Apart from the package, have you noticed anything unusual about her?”

“Well, for a young girl living in affluence, she’s not really happy, but that may just be my impression. If anything is a little unusual, I think it’s her frequent visits. It’s understandable for the Old Dicks to come over and over again; they have nothing else to do and nowhere else to go. But for someone like Jiao, it beats me.”

“That’s a puzzle,” Chen said. “Also, a Big Buck would show off his ‘little concubine’ like he would a Mercedes, but no one seems to have seen Jiao appear in that kind of situation for anybody. Do you know anything about it?”

“No, I have never seen or heard of such a Big Buck in her company.”

“Do you think she lives by herself all the time?”

“Yes, I think so. Now that you’ve raised the question, though, I think there may be something. One afternoon, two or three months ago, she got a phone call in the middle of her painting lesson here and left in a great hurry, saying, ‘Somebody’s waiting for me at home.’ She lives there by herself, doesn’t she? How could someone be calling her from there? Also, it was on a red cell phone she has never used before or since.”

“You’re observant. No wonder you’re a painter. But it might have been simply an unexpected visitor at her home,” Chen said reflectively. But Xie was observant, perhaps not simply in his capacity as a painter and teacher. “Well, as her tutor, is there anything unusual about her painting?”

“I may not be a good judge. According to some critics, I’m no more than an arm chair impressionist — with nothing to share but impressions of those decadent years.”

“We don’t live in the opinions of critics, Mr. Xie. Anything you have noticed of late, not necessarily as a judge?”

“Well, not anything remarkable, I would say. Recently, she did a painting of a witch riding a broom, flying over the Forbidden City. Surprisingly surrealistic in terms of the subject matter.”

“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.”