When Red is Black - [Chief Inspector Chen Cao 03]

by Qiu Xiaolong

  It was true that Chief Inspector Chen, while on vacation, had played a crucial part in the breakthrough but Yu believed that he had performed well as officer in sole charge. Police work could sometimes be like a blind cat jumping on a dead rat, dependent on a lot of luck. Still, the cat had to be there, capable of jumping energetically at the right moment. Whatever others might think, Chen and he had moved beyond the stage of splitting hairs over who should get the credit for each contribution to the solution of a case.

  It was also true that Peiqin had helped a great deal. Chief Inspector Chen had praised her perception when she had shared her insight into the textual problems of Death of a Chinese Professor, which proved to be a crucial lead.

  Even Old Liang had contributed in his way, pushing and pressing his theories, by the ironic causalities of misplaced yin and yang, a phrase Yu had recently learned from Chen.

  As Party Secretary Li had declared, “The homicide case would have remained unsolved but for Detective Yu’s hard work.” What the Party boss did not admit was that but for Yu’s hard work, the case would have been “solved” by the arrest and conviction for murder of an innocent man. Li would not say a single word about this at the press conference, of course, and he had taken pains to arrange for Yu to take a break at home while the conference was being held. As Chief Inspector Chen was still on vacation, it made sense for the senior Party cadre to talk about the significance of their work to the media. Yu readily agreed.

  It was still a moment of triumph for him, Yu thought; a moment of redemption as well, in spite of his pathetically low pay, of his bottom-level rank, and of the fiasco that had taken his promised new apartment from him. What’s more, it was a moment that might reinspire him to hang on to his position as a policeman.

  The telephone calls kept coming as he sat in the courtyard. He had no more time to think about himself. There was still plenty to do to wrap up the murder investigation.

  Whatever defense Bao might drum up, it was all over for him. Not only the city government, but the central government too, had expressed concern over the tragic death of Comrade Yin Lige. The murderer had to be punished. That was a foregone conclusion.

  It remained for Yu to notify Hong, the poor mother who still had all her hopes vested in Bao. It would not be a pleasant job, and he was not in any hurry to do it.

  The remaining loose end to the investigation was the manuscript Bao had stolen, even though it was Yang’s rather than Yin’s. It had at once been seized by Internal Security. To his puzzlement, Chief Inspector Chen had made no protest. Later he would have to discuss this with Chen, Yu decided.

  Then, in accordance with the terms of Yin’s will, whatever was left of Yin and Yang’s money would go toward a scholarship for college students writing in English. It would not amount to a great deal, and it was not police business, but Yu had volunteered to help with this arrangement. To his surprise, Party Secretary Li had not objected.

  The neighborhood committee was so pleased with the special commendation from the city government that they honored Yu by asking him to make a speech at the entrance to Treasure Garden Lane.

  Lei, the food stall proprietor, telephoned to express his thanks to Yu for his investigative work. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Comrade Detective Yu. Finally, Yin may rest in peace. She must be in heaven, I know, looking down at this lane and at my business at the lane entrance, with a smile.

  “And you know what? My lunch business is growing. So I am going to give it a formal name: ‘Yin & Yang.’ That will be my way of commemorating that remarkable woman, and it may also bring in more business. A magazine has already contacted me for the story of how she helped me at the lowest ebb of my fortunes. She’s the guiren—important person—in my fate.”

  “We can never understand the workings of fate,” Yu said, “but the restaurant’s new name is catchy and should even attract customers who know nothing about the story behind it.”

  “Exactly. Yin & Yang. And it goes without saying, Detective Yu, whenever you come to the lane, lunch is on me—on the Yin & Yang Restaurant.”

  It had been much tougher, on the other hand, to deal with the two men who were in custody, Cai and Wan.

  Cai should have been released days earlier, the day Wan turned himself in. Old Liang had objected, insisting that there was still something suspicious about Cai, for he had never provided an alibi for the night of February 6 or for the morning of February 7.

  Finally, Yu had to put his foot down. “If Cai was detained as a suspect, he must be released now that the case is closed. I’m in charge, and that’s my decision.”

  Grumbling, Old Liang realized that he had no choice but to let Cai out.

  But for Wan, the situation seemed far more complicated. To begin with, no one could understand why Wan had come forward. He did not utter a single word when he was informed of Bao’s arrest. He sat with his chin on his chest, like a statue, offering no explanation as to why he had confessed to a crime he had not committed.

  According to one neighborhood committee member, Wan must be assumed to be more or less demented—Alzheimer’s disease or something like it must have been behind his confession. Another suggested that Wan had sought the limelight he had long missed. According to a third, Wan must have imagined himself to be the last soldier of the Cultural Revolution. And, finally, according to neighborhood hearsay, Wan was secretly in love, and he confessed in order to impress his undisclosed lover. Or a combination of various factors might have motivated him. For, as Chen had pointed out, Wan was like a fish out of water in present-day China, a factor that must have influenced his thought processes.

  Old Liang was furious with Wan. The residence cop insisted that some charge should be pressed against him. “He should be sent to prison for at least three or four years. Wan deserves it. Deliberate false testimony! This ex-Mao Zedong Thought Propaganda Worker Team Member is crazy. He must believe he can do whatever he likes and get away with it, like in the days of the Cultural Revolution He’s simply lost in his spring-and-autumn dream! Our society is a legal society now.”

  It was Party Secretary Li, however, who decided against prosecuting Wan. “Enough is enough. We have had so many stories about the Cultural Revolution. There is no point bringing Wan into troubled water, too. People have to move on. Let the old man alone.”

  Politically, it was not a good idea to harp on the disastrous aftermath of the Cultural Revolution, or even to remind people of it. This was the very card Chen had played, though Li did not say this in so many words. Anyway, Wan’s case was not to be interpreted politically, so Yu did not have to say anything. Outraged as Old Liang might be, Party Secretary Li had the last word regarding Wan’s fate.

  Still, the unsolved mystery of Wan’s confession kept intruding itself into Yu’s thoughts.

  Stubbing out his cigarette, Yu got up and carried his phone into the kitchen area.

  Peiqin was busy cooking, moving about in a maze of pots and pans. There was hardly enough space for the two of them.

  She was genuinely pleased with the outcome of the investigation and with the part she had played. “So everything is finished,” she said, turning to him with a bright smile, her hands still stuffing tofu with ground pork.

  “There is still a lot to do to wrap it all up.”

  “Imagine I—imagine both of us—having done something for Yang,” she said. “Yin was his only comfort in his last days. Now her murderer has been caught. In heaven, if there is a heaven, Yang must be pleased.”

  “Yes, the conclusion. . .” Yu found it hard to complete his sentence—that his grandnephew killed the woman he loved.

  “Can you take out his poetry collection for me? It is in the second drawer of the chest.”

  “Of course. But why?”

  “I think I have just gained a new understanding of Yang’s poetry while I was busy cooking,” she said. “Sorry, my hands are not clean. But when you bring the book here, I have something to tell you that is related to th
e case.”

  Yu came back with the poetry book in his hand.

  “Please find the poem titled ‘A Cat of the Cultural Revolution,’” she said. “Can you read it to me?”

  He started reading in a low voice, still totally mystified. At times, Peiqin could be too wrapped up in books, just like Chief Inspector Chen. Fortunately, she did not have too many idols like Yang. And there was no one else in the kitchen area just then.

  My fantasy came true / with the Cultural Revolution / of being a cat, jumping / through the attic window, stalking / on the dark roof, staring / down into the rooms now peopled / with the strangers wearing / the armbands of “Red Guards.” / They had told me “Go away, / bastard, you hear!” I heard, / only too glad to come / to the roof, where I found, / for the first time, that starlight / could shine so long in solitude, / and that Mother had changed / beside the Red Guards, her neck / bent by a blackboard like / a zoological label. I couldn’t tell / the words written on it, but I knew / she’s in no position to stop / my leaping into the dark night.

  Morning brought me down / brandishing a slate, Mother sprang back / at the sight, as if the slate too / were designed for her swollen neck. / I couldn’t help shouting / in a voice I had learned overnight, / “Go, and fetch a bowl of rice / for me, you hear!” Away she / scampered. A mouse scuttled / in the debris of a night’s “cultural revolution.” And / I decided, not being human enough / to be a Red Guard, to be / felinely ferocious. Back / from a visit to the dentist / one day, I caught her squealing, “No, / your teeth are sharp.” “Alas, / she was born under the star of the mouse,” a blind / fortune-teller said, sighing / by her deathbed. “It was / predestined, according / to the Chinese horoscope.” / I ran out wild. There were / nine lives to lose, and I jumped / into the jungle.

  I see a paw-print / on this white paper.

  “Yes, it’s about the Cultural Revolution,” Yu said, after reading the long poem aloud.

  “Now that I have learned more about his life,” Peiqin said, “I’m sure the narrator must have been based on Hong, the child of a ‘black’ family. Her family was persecuted by the Red Guards. Those kids suffered terrible discrimination. They were regarded as ‘politically untrustworthy,’ with no future in socialist China. Some of them could not help seeing themselves as less than human because they could never become Red Guards.”

  “Yes, that’s why she denounced her parents, I was told.”

  “I can really relate, because I had a similar experience and harbored secret resentment against my parents,” she said in a trembling voice before she controlled herself. “What a poem! It represents the dehumanization of the Cultural Revolution from a child’s perspective.”

  “Yes, the Cultural Revolution caused many tragedies. Even today, there are people who have not been able to move out of its shadow, including Hong, and perhaps Bao too.”

  “Yang left a novel manuscript, didn’t he?”

  “It’s in English. According to Chief Inspector Chen, it is a novel like Doctor Zhivago, about the life of a Chinese intellectual in Mao’s years, but Internal Security has already snatched it.”

  “You could have made a copy.”

  “We didn’t have time. The minute we entered the bureau, Internal Security was there. They already seemed to know about it. And Party Secretary Li was on their side, of course. Chen had read only several pages in the restaurant downstairs—”

  “What?”

  “He insisted that I conduct the questioning of Bao all by myself— since it was my case—while he read the book in a small restaurant on the first floor. He did not come back until the interrogation was over. I suppose he could have made a copy without my knowledge.”

  “Has he mentioned anything about the manuscript?”

  “No, he hasn’t said a word about it.”

  “He must have his reasons. I am not sure whether you should ask him about it,” Peiqin said thoughtfully. “Chen is a clever man. He may try to do something that could be risky.”

  “You mean he doesn’t want to involve me in some risky business—with Internal Security lurking in the background.”

  “Possibly. I cannot really tell,” she said, and changed the subject abruptly. “Oh, we will have a wonderful dinner tonight!” She was mincing shrimp for the tofu stuffing now.

  “You don’t have to prepare so many dishes. We have no guests today.”

  “You have proven to the bureau what a capable cop you are. It’s an occasion for celebration.”

  “In fact, I was thinking about quitting the job, Peiqin, that morning at Old Half Place,” Yu said. “All these years, I’ve brought so little home. And you have had to work so hard, at the restaurant and at home. I might earn more for the family, I thought, if I could start some small business like Geng, or like LI Dong.”

  “Come on, my husband. You have done such a great job as a cop. I’m proud of you,” Peiqin said. “Money is something, but not everything. How could you ever have had such an idea?”

  “Thank you,” he said, without going on to say, but you once suggested it to me.

  “Now I’m going to fry the ribs. The oil will splash all around. So go back to the courtyard. I’ll call you when the dinner is ready.”

  There was another surprise in store for Yu—an unexpected visitor.

  It was Cai, the cricket gambler, who had been released through Yu’s intervention. He stood on the threshold, carrying a bottle of Maotai in one hand and a huge live soft-shell turtle in the other. When he learned that Qinqin had to study for his test, Cai insisted on accompanying Yu out into the courtyard. “Your son is busy with his homework. That’s great. That’s the most important thing under the sun. If I had had a good education, my business would not have collapsed. Let us talk outside,” Cai said, leaving the presents with Peiqin before he clasped his fingers in a gesture of profound gratitude. “Comrade Detective Yu, I thank you.”

  “I only did what a policeman should do. You do not have to thank me, and you should not have brought me those presents.”

  “For such a great favor, it’s almost meaningless for me to say thanks,” Cai said sincerely. “The blue mountain and the green river will long, long remain and I will be forever in your debt.”

  “Don’t overwhelm me with your triad jargon. I’m the policeman responsible for Yin’s case. You have nothing to do with the case, so why should you be kept inside?”

  “If there were more cops like you, instead of like Old Liang, there would be much less trouble in the world.”

  “Now that you are out, do something meaningful with your life, Cai. You cannot fight crickets forever. You have to think about your family. Your wife, Xiuzhen, has never wavered in proclaiming your innocence.”

  “I’ll change as thoroughly as if I had washed my heart and replaced my bones. Yes, Xiuzhen is very good to me. She could have dumped me, but she did not. She came to me every day, bringing food made especially for me. I was wrong in believing that she had married me for my money.”

  “Yes, when you are in trouble, you find out who really cares for you.”

  “I still have some connections in today’s world. I will stage a comeback in the Eastern Mountains.”

  “I have one question, Cai. When you were taken into custody, why didn’t you tell Old Liang about what you really did that morning? As I said, I’m only interested in the Yin murder case. No matter what you tell me, you don’t have to worry. It will be between the two of us.”

  “I trust you, Comrade Detective. I was playing mah-jongg in a bathhouse that night, all night long. Mah-jongg is not gambling, everybody knows that. It’s just a game in which you have to put a little money down, otherwise it is no fun.

  “But I was sentenced in the early seventies for gambling. So if I told Old Liang about it, he would have made a big fuss. In fact, he threatened to put me back in jail if he ever caught me betting on cricket fights in the lane.”

  “I see. Mah-jongg or cricket fights, they won’t do you any good.”

/>   “I give you my word, Comrade Detective Yu. I won’t waste this second chance. If my hand ever touches crickets or mah-jongg again, I swear to old heaven, may cancers grow all over my fingers. Believe me.”

  “Okay. Then I have just one more question for you,” Yu said. “While you were in custody, Wan suddenly came forward, taking responsibility for a crime that had nothing to do with him. Do you have any idea why he did that?”

  “It beats me. He may have lost his mind, for all I know or care. As a matter of fact, we had a fight not too long ago.”

  “Was the fight about your family’s support?”