by Qiu Xiaolong
“Is it part of your political culture never to give a straightforward reply?”
“No. I’ll give you a straightforward answer, but I need to get his permission. Surely some procedures have to be followed, even in the U.S. Marshals Service.”
“Granted, Chief Inspector Chen,” she said. “So what do you want me to do now, while I await his permission?”
“If Wen’s disappearance was caused by the phone call from her husband, you’d better check for possible leaks in your department.”
“I’ll talk with my supervisor,” she said, aware of the direction he was trying to lead her in, which she had anticipated.
“I’ve asked the hotel to set up a fax machine in your room. If there’s anything else you need, do let me know.”
“I appreciate your help. Now just one more question,” she said on the spur of the moment. “Last night, looking out at the Bund, I thought of a classical Chinese poem. I studied an English version several years ago. About a poet’s regret at being unable to share a transcendant scene with his friend. I cannot remember the exact lines. By any chance, do you know the poem?”
“Um-” He eyed her in surprise. “I think it is a poem by Liu Yong, a Song dynasty poet. The second stanza reads like this. Where shall I find myself / Tonight, waking from a hangover-/ The riverbank lined with weeping willows, / The moon sinking, the dawn rising on a breeze, / Year after year, I will be far, / Far away from you. / All the beautiful scenes are unfolding, / But to no avail: / Oh, to whom can I speak / Of this ever enchanting landscape?”
“That’s it.” She was amazed at his sudden metamorphosis. His face lit up when he recited those lines.
The CIA information was credible. He was a chief inspector and a poet too-at least he was familiar with both Eliot and Liu Yong. That intrigued her.
Chen said, “Liu’s one of my favorites during the pre-Eliot period.”
“What makes Eliot so special for you?”
“He cannot decide whether to declare himself to his love. At least not in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”
“Then Eliot should have learned from Liu.”
“And I’d better go to Party Secretary Li now,” he said, smiling as he arose.
On the corner of Sichuan Road they had to stand in the street as the sidewalk was filled by illegally parked bikes. They shook hands, ready to part, when she suddenly became aware of a motorcyclist dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt, his face covered with a black helmet, on a powerful cycle heading straight at her at high speed. The rumbling monster would have crashed right onto her but for Chen’s reaction. Still holding her hand, he yanked her onto the pavement and spun himself around to shield her. At the same time, his right leg kicked out backward, pivoting like in a Kung Fu movie. Missing Chen by a hair’s breadth, the motorcycle dodged, swayed, but did not fall. With its tires screeching, it kicked up a cloud of dust and sped onto Nanjing Road.
The whole thing was over in a few seconds. The motorcycle disappeared in traffic. Several passersby gaped at them and moved on.
“I am so sorry, Inspector Rohn,” he said, letting go of her hand. “Those reckless motorcyclists are dangerous.”
“Thank you, Chief Inspector Chen,” she said. They walked on.
Chapter 7
On his way to Party Secretary Li’s office, Chen checked the bureau fax folder. There were several for him from the Fujian Police Bureau-additional information about the Flying Axes. He was pleased to find a cellular phone number for Detective Yu on the cover sheet as had been promised by Superintendent Hong the previous night. He also found a page with a picture of a shabby house, beneath which ran a line in Yu’s handwriting, “Wen’s House in Changle Village.”
Qian came over with a broad smile on his face and a large envelope in his hand. “I have had the information about Wen circulated, Chief Inspector Chen. Also, I’ve had a talk with Dr. Xia about the Bund Park case. The formal autopsy report will takes some time, but here is an informal summary.”
“Good job, Qian,” Chen said, going to his own small, Spartan office cubicle. The summary had been typed. Qian was proficient in Twinbridge, a Chinese software, but perhaps not as familiar with medical terms.
The Body in Bund Park
1) The time of death: Around one o’clock on the night of April eighth.
2) The cause of death: Head injury with fractures of the skull. Extensive damage to the lining of the brain. Bleeding from multiple wounds, eighteen of them. He could have received the fatal head blow before some of the wounds were inflicted. A general absence of bruises on his arms and legs shows he had not struggled before his death.
3) The body: The victim was in his mid-forties. Six feet tall, one hundred eighty pounds. He was strongly built with well-defined arm and leg muscles. His hands were well manicured. Good teeth, except for three gold ones. There was an old scar on his face.
4) He had had sexual intercourse shortly before death. There were still traces of semen and vaginal fluid on his sex organ. There was a deep cut two inches above his penis.
5) Needle tracks on his arms indicate he was a possible I.V. drug user. In addition, there were traces of some unknown drug in his body.
6) His silk pajamas are of excellent quality. There’s no label; it had been removed, but its material seemed to be imported, with a V design woven into the material.
It was a clear report, which further pointed to the possibility of triad involvement, especially the evidence of the unknown drug in the body.
Something else caught his attention. If the victim had been murdered at home, having just had sex, there should have been two bodies in the park-his and his wife’s. But if he had been with somebody else, and his sex partner-whoever that might have been-left immediately after the act, it suggested that the murder might have taken place in a hotel.
Chen made himself a cup of tea and dialed Qian’s extension. “Send out a detailed description of the victim together with a picture, to hotels as well as neighborhood committees.”
That was about all Qian could do at this stage.
However, Chief Inspector Chen wanted to do more. And to use somebody else for the job. There was no accounting for his mistrust of Qian. Perhaps it was merely a whim, a personal prejudice.
His cell phone started ringing. The LCD displayed Inspector Rohn’s number. He pushed the button. “Is everything okay with you, Inspector Rohn?”
“I’m fine, thanks to your excellent kung fu this morning.”
“Don’t mention it. What’s up?”
“The content of the phone conversation has been translated.”
“What did Feng say?”
“It’s a short conversation. According to our translator, Feng’s message was: Some people have got wind of it. Run for your life. Contact me when you’re at a safe place.”
“What did he mean?”
“Wen asked the same question. Feng just repeated the message,” she said. “Now Feng tells my boss that he had gotten a warning on a slip of paper inserted in his grocery bag before he phoned his wife.”
“What did it say?”
“Don’t forget your pregnant wife in China.”
“Your supervisor must look into it. If Feng’s so well hidden, how did they get to him?”
“That’s what he is investigating.”
“Those secret societies are powerful,” he added, “even in the United States.”
“True,” she agreed. “What about our investigation here?”
“I’m on my way to Party Secretary Li’s office. I’ll call you soon.”
Chief Inspector Chen was not sure what Party Secretary Li’s response would be. But he knew that interviewing potential contacts of Wen’s would be monotonous. The company of an American partner would at least provide an opportunity for him to practice his English.
“How’s everything, Chief Inspector Chen?” Li said, rising from his chair.
“Searching for this woman is like looking for a needle in a haysta
ck.”
“You are doing your best.” Li poured a cup of jasmine tea for him. “How is Inspector Rohn getting along in Shanghai?”
“Fine. And she’s quite cooperative too.”
“You are the right person to handle her, Chief Inspector Chen. Any leads so far?”
“Detective Yu has found one. Wen got a phone call from Feng on April fifth and went into hiding because of the call.”
“That’s very important. In fact, that’s great. I will pass the information to the leading comrades in Beijing today.” Li did not attempt to conceal the excitement in his voice. “You have done an excellent job.”
“How?” Chen was surprised. “I’ve not done anything yet.”
“It’s the Americans’ carelessness that has caused Wen’s disappearance. They should not have permitted anyone to get close enough to Feng to threaten him. They should not have allowed Feng to make that call,” Li said, rubbing his hands. “The Americans’ responsibility. That’s it.”
“Well, as for responsibility, I’ve not yet discussed it with Inspector Rohn. She said the U. S. Marshals would investigate.”
“Yes, that’s the way to go. The gang must have found out about Feng’s witness status and whereabouts through some leak on the American side.”
“That’s possible,” Chen said. He was thinking of what Yu had told him about the local Fujian cops’ poor work. “But there could also be a leak on our side.”
“Well, any other information from Inspector Rohn?”
“The Americans want to have the trial as scheduled. They are anxious about our progress.”
“Any other news from Fujian?”
“No. Detective Yu has a difficult job there. The Flying Axes seem to be popular, and the local police are no match for them. They have no clue whatsoever. Nor are they eager to crack down on the gangsters. So what can Yu do-except knock on one unfriendly door after another?”
“The popularity of the triad tradition in the area, I understand. You did the right thing to send Detective Yu there.”
“Now for my work here, I’m going to interview some of Wen’s possible contacts. Inspector Rohn wants to join me,” Chen said. “What do you think, Party Secretary Li?”
“I don’t think that is part of her mission here.”
“She said she got permission from her headquarters.”
“Wen is a Chinese citizen,” Li said deliberately. “It is up to the Chinese police to look for her. I don’t see any necessity for an American officer to join our effort.”
“I can tell her that, but the Americans may suspect that we are simply trying to cover up. It would add to the tension if we keep her out of our investigation.”
“The Americans always look at others askance, as if they were the world’s only police.”
“That’s true, but if she has nothing to occupy her here, Inspector Rohn will insist on going to Fujian.”
“Urn, you have a point. Can’t you let Qian conduct the interviews while you keep her entertained with tourist activities?”
“She will insist on joining Qian then.” He then added, “And Qian does not speak English.”
“Well, I don’t think it can do much harm for her to interview some ordinary Shanghainese with you. I don’t have to repeat: the safety of Inspector Rohn has to be our top responsibility.”
“So you think it is okay for her to work with me?”
“You have full authority, Chief Inspector Chen. How many times have I told you that?”
“Thank you, Party Secretary Li.” Chen continued, after a pause, “Now about the other case. The body in Bund Park. I am planning to look into some potential triad connections here. They may also know something about whether Wen is in Shanghai.”
“No, I don’t think so. If you start asking questions, the Flying Axes will soon hear of it. Your efforts will only stir up a sleeping snake.”
“We need to do something about the Bund Park murder case, too, Party Secretary Li.”
“No hurry. Detective Yu will be back in a couple of days. It can be a job for him. At this moment, with Inspector Rohn staying here, you mustn’t do anything foolish to bring a hornet’s nest down about your ears.”
Li’s response did not really surprise him. The Party Secretary had never been enthusiastic about his investigating the Bund Park case, and Li always had his reasons, political reasons, for doing or not doing something. His reaction to Feng’s phone call was also understandable. To Li, it seemed to be much more important to place responsibility on the Americans than to find the missing woman. The Party Secretary was a politician, not a policeman.
After he finished his talk with Li, Chen hurried out of the bureau to a meeting with Old Hunter, Yu’s father.
Earlier in the morning, the old man had phoned him, suggesting they have tea together. Not in the Mid-Lake Teahouse in the City God Temple Market where they had met on several occasions, but in another one called Moon Breeze, closer to the area where the old man performed his daily activities as an honorary advisor for the Traffic Control Office, wearing a red armband. The retired cop received little in pay, but he got a great kick out of the official-sounding title, imagining himself a staunch pillar of justice whenever he stopped a bike illegally carrying a baby on the back rack or a private taxi displaying an outdated license plate.
The Moon Breeze was a new teahouse. There seemed to be a revival of interest in tea among the Shanghainese. He saw a number of young people drinking with gestures made fashionable by the new movies, before he caught sight of Old Hunter slouching in a corner. Instead of southern bamboo music in the background, a waltz could be heard. Incongruously, strains of “The Blue Danube” rippled through the teahouse. Clearly this was a place for young customers who, though not yet adapted to Starbuck’s coffee, needed some space in which to sit and talk. At a neighboring table, there was a mah-jongg battle going on in full swing, with the players as well as onlookers chattering and cursing.
“I have never been here before. It’s so different from the Mid-Lake,” Old Hunter said rather sadly.
A young waitress came over, light-footed, in a scarlet cheongsam with high slits revealing her ivory thighs, bowing in Japanese fashion. “Do you need a private room, sir?”
Chen nodded. That was one of the advantages of visiting modern teahouses, in spite of the mixture of services.
“It’s the bureau’s expense,” he said as they entered the room. It would be out of the question for the retired cop to pay for the room out of his meager pension. Being a chief inspector with a special budget had its advantages.
Most of the furniture in the private room was in classical style, but there were soft, comfortable cushions placed on the mahogany armchairs, and a dark purple leather sofa matching the color scheme of the room.
Putting the menu on the table, the waitress introduced the house special, “We have the special bubble tea.”
“What kind of tea?”
“It’s very popular in Hong Kong. You’ll like it, sir,” she said with a hint of mystery.
“Fine, bubble tea for me and Mountain Mist tea for him,” Chen said. After she left, he asked, “How are things with you, Uncle Yu?”
“Like other old men. I’m just trying to make myself useful to society, like a piece of coal that still burns, giving off its last remaining heat.”
Chen smiled. The simile was familiar; he remembered hearing it in a movie in the seventies. Times had changed, but not the old man’s mind.
“Don’t overwork, Uncle Yu.”
Old Hunter started with one of his customary rhetorical questions. “You know why I wanted to meet you today, Chief Inspector Chen? I gave Yu a thorough dressing down before he left for Fujian.”
“Why?” Chen was aware of the old man’s other nickname, Suzhou Opera Singer. It was a reference to a southern dialect opera known for its performers’ tactics of producing drama out of the air, prolonging the tale through endless digressions, and pouring on classical references like black pepper
.
“He had reservations about the job, and I said to him, ‘In normal circumstances, I would advise you to avoid investigating those gangsters like the plague, but if Chief Inspector Chen wants to fight this battle, follow him through water and through fire. He has more to lose than you, hasn’t he? It is a crying shame for us that a corpse killed by triad gangsters has turned up in Bund Park. With a few more honest Party cadres like him, things would not have gotten into such a mess.’”
“Yu and I are good friends. He is the more practical, down-to-earth one. I really depend on him. Now that he’s in Fujian, I have a hard time doing my job alone.”
“Things are falling apart! The beast of corruption is moving in all over the country. Good people lack conviction. To accomplish anything in today’s society, they have to go about in two ways-the black way and the white way. I used to patrol the markets, but now it’s the black way-those gangsters-in control. Remember Jiao, the dumpling vendor who carried a miniature kitchen on her shoulders?”
“Yes, the woman selling dumplings close to the Qinghe Lane. She helped us. What happened to her?”
“That’s a good location for business. Some people wanted to drive her away from that corner. Her kitchen was smashed one night. The neighborhood police could do nothing. There’s no clue as to who did it, they told me. In some new businesses, the gangsters are even bolder. For instance, those karaoke girls and private rooms. A really lucrative business. Five hundred Yuan for one hour in the late evening, the golden time period. Not to mention the tip and extra money. The club owners maintain a good relationship with us because we can make things difficult for them, but they have better relationships with the gangs because they can make things impossible. The girls may be stabbed, the rooms may be damaged, and the owners may be kidnapped-”
Old Hunter’s lecture was interrupted as the waitress came back into the room bearing a lacquer tray with an exquisite white china teapot and a single cup. The bubble tea came in a long paper cup with an extra thick straw sticking out of a plastic lid.
The Mountain Mist tea looked good. Chen could tell by the green tea color in the white cup. He took a sip of the bubble tea through his straw. A tiny sticky ball rolled on his tongue. The size of a small marble, but with the rich taste of milk, soft, slippery, almost sensual. But was this really tea?