by Qiu Xiaolong
“You mean his wife?”
“No, she actually stayed in her room all the time—she’s bedridden. But it’s his father’s house. The old man was in the hospital, but his mother and sisters were there.”
“So you knew he was a married man from the very beginning.”
“He did not make a secret of it, but he told me that it had been a mistake. I believe it was true—to some extent.”
“A mistake,” he said. “Did he explain it to you?”
“For one thing, his wife’s been sick for several years,” she said, “too sick to have a normal sex life with him.”
“Anything else?”
“Marriage in those years could have been a matter of convenience. The educated youths were lonely, and life in the countryside was extremely hard, and they were far, far away from home.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” he said, thinking of his years with Peiqin in Yunnan, “but you had no objection to an extramarital relationship?”
“Come on, Comrade Detective Yu. We’re in a new decade, a new time. Who lives any longer like in the Confucian books? If a marriage is a happy one, no outsider could ever destroy it,” she said, scratching her ankle. “Besides, I never expected him to marry me.”
Maybe he was an old-fashioned man. Yu certainly felt ancient sitting beside the artist, to whom an affair could be just like the change of her clothes. But he also felt it tempting to imagine the body under her loose coverall. Was it because he had seen it in the picture? And he also noticed the black mole on her nape.
“But if he’s so unhappy with his marriage, what kept him in it?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I don’t think a divorce would do him any good, politically, I mean. I’ve heard that somebody in his wife’s family is still influential.”
“That’s true.”
“I also had the feeling that he cared about her in his way.”
“What made you think so?”
“He talked to me about her. She had come to him in his most miserable days—as an educable educated youth of a capitalist roader family. She took pity on him, and she took good care of him, too. But for her, he once said, he could have fallen into despair.”
“She might have been a beauty in her day,” he said. “We have seen some pictures of her in earlier years.”
“You may not believe it, but part of the reason I came to care for him was that he showed some loyalty to his wife. He was not a man devoid of responsibility.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But I’ve got another question about him. Does he earn a lot from these pictures—not of his wife, of course.”
“As an HCC, he probably has his ways to get his money. Some people would pay him handsomely, for instance, to have a picture published in the Red Star. He does not have to make a living by selling the pictures. As far as I know, he spends generously on himself, and he’s not mean to his friends.”
“What kind of friends?”
“People of similar family background. Birds of a feather, if you want to put it that way.”
“A pack of HCC,” he grumbled. “So what do they do together?”
“They have parties at his place. Wild parties. It’s a shame, they would say, not to have parties in such a mansion.”
“Can you give me the names of his friends?”
“Only those who have given me their cards at those parties,” she said, turning toward a plastic box on the shelf.
“That will be great.”
“Here they are.” She spread out several cards on the table.
He glanced through them. One was Guo Qiang, the man who had confirmed Wu’s alibi for his whereabouts on May tenth. Several cards bore impressive titles under the names.
“Can I borrow them?”
“Sure. I don’t think I’ll need them.”
Taking out a pack of cigarettes, he lit one after she nodded her approval. “Another question, Miss Jiang. Did you know anything about Guan Hongying while you were with Wu? For instance, did you meet her at his mansion, or did he mention her?”
“No, not that I remember,” she said. “But I knew there were some other girls.”
“Was that the reason why you broke things off?”
“Well, you may think so, but no,” she said, taking a cigarette from his pack. “I did not really expect anything out of that relationship. He had his life, and I had mine. We had made it clear to each other. A couple of times I confronted him about his other girlfriends, but he swore that he only took pictures of them.”
“So you believed him?”
“No, I didn’t—but ironically, we parted because of his pictures.”
“Pictures of those girls?”
“Yes, but not like those—artistic work—you have seen in magazines.”
“I understand,” he said, “but how did you find them?”
“By accident. During one of those parties, I was with him in his room when he had to answer a call on the telephone in his study. It was a long conversation, so I looked into his drawer. I discovered a photo album. Pictures of nude girls, you would expect, but much more than that—so obscene—and they were all in a variety of disgusting positions—even in the midst of sexual intercourse. I recognized one of the models. A well-known actress, now living abroad with an American millionaire, I’ve heard. She’s gagged in that picture, lying on her back with her wrists handcuffed, and buried between her breasts was Wu’s head. There were quite a number of such terrible pictures, I did not have the time to look at them all. Wu had printed them out like professional fashion photographs, but there was no use his protesting that they were artistic work.”
“Outrageous!”
“Even more outrageous was the way he kept records on the back of those photos.”
“What kind of record?”
“Well, in a Sherlock Holmes story, a sexual criminal kept pictures of the women he had conquered, along with descriptions of their positions, secrets, and preferences in bed—all the intimate details of the sexual intercourse he had with them—oh, come on, Detective Yu, you surely know the story well.”
“Chief Inspector Chen has translated a few Western mysteries,” Detective Yu said equivocally, having never read the story himself. “You can discuss it with him.”
“Really, I thought he wrote only poems.”
“Now what could Wu have wanted to do with these pictures?”
“I don’t know, but he’s not just a Don Juan who wants to satisfy his ego by looking over his naked conquests.”
“That S.O.B.,” Yu cursed, not familiar with Don Juan either.
“I could live with a Don Juan, but that kind of cold-blooded cynicism really put me off. So I decided to part with him.”
“You were wise to make that decision.”
“I’ve got my work to do,” she looked down somberly. “I did not want to be involved in a scandal. Now I’ve told you all I know.”
“That’s really important information. You’re helping us a lot, Comrade Jiang. We’ll make sure that your name will never be mentioned in the official investigation record.”
“Thank you.”
She stood up, accompanying Yu toward the door. “Comrade Detective Yu.”
“Yes?”
“I may have something else for you, I think,” she said, “but I need to ask you a favor.”
“As long as it’s in my power.”
“Wu and I have parted. Whatever grudge I have against him, I should not throw stones into the well where he is drowning. So I won’t tell you anything I’ve not seen or heard myself. But I happened to know one of Wu’s girls at the time we parted.”
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Ning Jing. How Wu had picked her up, or what he saw in her, I’ve no idea at all. Perhaps just another object for his camera’s eye, to be focused, shot, and pasted into his album. I’m mentioning her because she may know something about Wu and Guan. Guan could have been the next girl after her.”
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��Yes, that may be an important lead, Comrade Jiang. I’ll definitely check it out. But what can I do for you?”
“If it is possible, please try not to involve her in any publicity. That’s the favor I’m asking. I have had my share, and a column more or less in tabloid magazines does not make much difference to me. But she is different. She’s going to get married soon, I’ve heard.”
“I see,” he said. “I will do my best. Do you have her address?”
“She has her name listed in the phone book,” she said, taking down a directory. “Let me find it for you.”
He got the name, address, and phone number.
“Thank you. I’ll tell Chief Inspector Chen about all the help you’ve given us.”
“And say hello to Chief Inspector Chen.”
“I will. And good-bye.”
At the foot of the stairs, Yu turned around and saw her still standing barefoot on the landing. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was gazing at the distant horizon behind the multi-colored roofs.
A nice woman, though her philosophy of life was beyond him. Perhaps it was the price one pays for being an artist, Detective Yu suspected. Being different.
Just like Chief Inspector Chen—who was nonetheless a capable cop.
With Wu Xiaoming, however, it was more than being different.
Yu decided to go to Ning Jing’s place immediately. It would not be a pleasant visit, nor would it be easy.
Jiang Weihe had been cooperative, but only after the combined pressure of “the hard and the soft.” The threat of revealing her identity as the nude in the magazine, and the note from Chen. But with Ning, Detective Yu had nothing to use. Nothing but the scanty information from Jiang who, despite her declaration, might well have harbored a personal grudge against Ning. So the only card he could play would be that of bluff, one of the effective tactics to bring a potential witness around, especially with the possibility of a “peach-colored scandal.” A phone call to her work unit from the Shanghai Police Bureau would be enough to start a wildfire of gossip, finger pointing, head shaking, saliva spitting on her back, and whatnot. It need not take a formal investigation to put her under suspicion.
Ning’s apartment was on Xikang Road, close to the Gate to Joy, a nightclub that had been rehabilitated and reopened.
A young woman appeared at the door where he rang the bell. “What do you want?”
Ning wore a white T-shirt several sizes too large that completely covered her shorts. It was difficult to guess her age. The way she dressed was almost like a teenager, or else it was too fashionable for him. She had wide black eyes and a straight nose; her hair was pulled back and held in place by a kerchief. Her full lips were moist, sensuous, even somewhat wanton.
“I’m Detective Yu Guangming, of the Shanghai Police Bureau. I need to ask you a few questions.”
“What have I done?”
“Not about you, but about someone you know.”
“Show me your identification,” she said. “I’m on my way out.”
“It won’t take long.” He produced his I.D. “We’d appreciate your help.”
“Okay, come in.”
It was a small, cozy apartment, but unkempt for the home of a young single woman. A creased bedspread lay over the unmade bed. On the table was an empty but unwashed ashtray. There were no framed pictures, but a number of magazine photographs of cars and movie stars were taped to the wall. On the floor were two pairs of shoes, peeping out from under the bed. There was one thing in common between Jiang and Ning. Each had an apartment to herself.
“What do you want from me?” she said after he seated himself on a rattan chair.
“A few questions about Wu Xiaoming.”
“Wu Xiaoming—why me?”
“You’re his girlfriend, right?”
“No, he’s just taken a few pictures of me. For his magazine.”
“Really?”
“Yes, that’s all.”
“Then you don’t have to worry about answering my questions. If you cooperate, everything you say will be kept off the record.”
“Now what do you mean, Comrade Detective?”
“Wu is involved in a murder case.”
“Heavens, what ...” Her black eyes grew even wider now. “How?”
“We don’t know everything yet,” he said. “That’s why your help would be appreciated.”
“But I cannot help you. I hardly know him at all.”
“You can refuse to cooperate, but then we’ll have to go to your work unit,” Yu said. “Huanpu Elementary School, right?”
“Go there if you want to. That is all I will say,” she said, standing up and making a gesture toward the door.
She was beginning to irritate him with her attitude, so damned antagonistic. And he did not like this way of conducting the interview. There was some hard object on the rattan chair beneath him, which made him feel even more uncomfortable as he sat opposite her.
“But there is more than that, I’m afraid,” Yu said. “We’re not talking about your pictures in magazines, but about the ones in his album. Surely you know them better than I.”
“What are you talking about?” She flinched involuntarily but she covered it well. “Show them to me.”
“We will show these pictures to your principal, every one of them.” He was bluffing now. “They’re by no means decent for a schoolteacher. And a number of other people will see them, too.”
“You’ve got no right.”
“Yes, we have every right. We’re here in socialist China. The Party authorities are calling on the people to fight Western bourgeois decadence. These pictures will serve as a good example.”
“How could you do that!”
“We can do whatever we want with them,” he said, “as evidence in a criminal investigation. We also have a witness who can testify to your relationship with Wu. Since you’re obstructing our inquiries, we’ve no choice.”
She sat completely straight on the edge of the sofa, her knees tightly together. She was not only red in the face now. There were small drops of perspiration along her hairline in spite of her effort to hold herself together.
“What do you want me to do?” she finally said with a note of panic in her quivering voice.
“Tell us everything about your relationship with Wu,” he added, “including all the details, like a paperback romance.”
There was a bit of sarcasm he could detect in his own voice. No point, he told himself, to putting her through too much of an ordeal.
“Where shall I begin?”
“At the very beginning.”
“It was about a year ago, I think. Wu came to me as a photographer from the Red Star. He asked if he could photograph me, claiming that I had a typical high-school teacher’s face, and that he was working up a proposal for People.”
“A typical highschool teacher’s face,” he repeated.
“It’s not very flattering, but he had his ways of pursuing people.”
“So the pictures were published?”
“Yes, but actually he had little interest in the publication, as he told me later. He just wanted to meet me.”
“The same old dirty trick,” he said. “And everybody fell for it.”
“But he had talent and kept his word. These pictures in People helped my position at school. So we came to know more of each other.”
“And it began to develop into an affair?”
“Yes, we started dating.”
“You did not know that he was married?”
“I did not know at first, but he did not try to cover it up. On our third or fourth date, he told me about his marriage, saying he was not happy with it. I could understand why—with his sick, neurotic wife. What mattered most, he said, was the time we shared. So I believed we might work something out eventually.”
“Did he take the initial step in the sexual relationship between you?
“Do I have to answer that question?’’ she said, twisting her fingers.
&
nbsp; “Yes. If you answer now, it will save you a great deal of unpleasantness later.”