The Mao Case

by Unknown

  “Rub your left eye three times and say, ‘It’s a good omen,’ ” Chen said, smiling. “It works, according to my mother.”

  Chen rose to accompany the old man to the door of the tea house, watching him until he was out of sight. Then Chen came back to the table, to the suddenly solitary teacup. The waitress must have removed the other one.

  He was disturbed at the thought of Yu’s involvement, though it might not be something that could be helped. For such a Mao case, Old Hunter alone could do only so much, and Detective Yu had to chip in, a reinforcement which was already making a difference. There was no stopping a loyal partner like Detective Yu from throwing in his lot with Chief Inspector Chen.

  What Yu had discovered was a possibility not to be ignored, Chen contemplated, sipping at the tea without tasting it.

  If Peng had seen the mysterious round-faced man only once and Internal Security hadn’t seen him at all, either before or after, it practically excluded the possibility of his being a secret lover. More likely, he was a one-time buyer who negotiated with Jiao at Joy Gate. It would have been out of the question for her to bring the valuable antique to the dance hall. So they then chose to close the deal at her apartment. As for Peng’s glimpse of the “intimate scene” at her window, it might not mean that much. After all, Peng might not be a reliable narrator.

  Such a scenario threw light, however, on several aspects of the mystery: the source of Jiao’s money and the timing of it too. In today’s market, those antiques could be worth millions — so long as she could find a buyer. That also explained her frequent visits to Xie’s place — potential buyers. Furthermore, selling the hoard piece by piece accounted for the fact that Jiao didn’t have a large bank account but yet was capable of living in affluence.

  At least it appeared to be more solid than the scenario about a book advance. A publisher could hardly have paid the money if they didn’t get the Mao material, whatever it might be.

  There was something that didn’t add up, however, in the treasure scenario. True, Mao could have easily carried anything out of the Forbidden City. Kang Sheng, one of Mao’s closest allies in the Party, smuggled out quite a lot from the palace. Since Kang was tied up with the Gang of Four during the Cultural Revolution, his stealing was exposed. But Mao didn’t have to smuggle out artifacts. Mao was more than an emperor — he was a communist god. Women ran to him, not the other way round.

  Such a scenario could be a scandal, but the Beijing authorities didn’t have to acknowledge it. After all, nobody could prove it. So why would they have launched an investigation?

  The solitary teacup on the table stared back at him.

  Finally, as he was about to leave, his cell phone vibrated violently, as if rippling out of the half-empty cup.

  “A girl’s body was found in Xie’s garden,” Lieutenant Song said shortly.

  “What?” Chen stood up. “When?”

  “Early this morning. I called your home, but you weren’t in. So I got your cell phone number from Party Secretary Li.”

  Chen thought he had given Song his number, but it wasn’t the time to worry about that. He glanced at his watch. It was probably already two or three hours after Internal Security had arrived at the crime scene.

  When Chen made it to the mansion, to his surprise, he didn’t see any police outside.

  Nor a curious crowd lingering on the street.

  There was no one in the living room, either, as he stepped in.

  At the end of the living room, however, he glimpsed a plainclothes cop stationed at the foot of the staircase. Xie must be in his bedroom upstairs.

  Chen walked out into the garden. The body had been removed. Internal Security hadn’t waited for him. There were two cops still checking around the area cordoned off with yellow plastic tape. It was close to the spot where Chen sat with Xie the other day, under the blossoming pear tree.

  Song strode over, and Chen gestured for the lieutenant to follow him to the back of the garden. He didn’t want others to overhear anything.

  Song showed Chen pictures of the crime scene in silence. The girl was in a yellow summer dress, with the straps fallen off her shoulders, her skirt pulled high over her thighs, and one white sandal missing from a bare foot. She appeared to have suffered some sort of sexual attack. There wasn’t much indication, however, of any struggle in the pictures — nor in the garden, as Chen shifted his gaze to the cordoned-off spot.

  It was Yang, the girl who had tried to take Jiao and him to another party just a couple of days earlier. Like Jiao, she was also said to come from a “good family,” though Chen had no idea what hers really was.

  “Considering the circumstances, we have blocked the news for the time being,” Song said. “She was killed in a struggle against a sexual attack.”

  Chen nodded, holding up a picture for close examination. “Any clues?”

  “The identity of the deceased has been established. Yang Ning. One of Xie’s students. The time of death is estimated to be between ten p.m. and midnight last night.”

  “But there was no class yesterday, as I remember.”

  “No class. No party in the evening either.”

  “Then how did she come to be here?”

  “The question is,” Song said deliberately, “how did she get in here?”

  “What do you mean, Song?”

  “She couldn’t have flown into the garden like a butterfly. Someone must have opened the door to let her in. Who else was here at the time? Nobody but Xie.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He didn’t know anything, of course. What else would he say?” Chen didn’t have an immediate answer. “Xie says he alone has the key,” Song went on. “With the place frequently mentioned in the media, he makes a point of keeping the door locked all the time. People have to ring the bell and be let in. Yesterday evening he went to bed early.”

  “Well …” Chen knew what Song was driving at. “We’ve put a man outside his room.”

  Could the body’s appearing in the garden be a set up? It would serve as an excuse for “tough measures” by Internal Security, but Chen decided to put such a possibility aside for the moment.

  “Tell me more about the discovery of the body, Song.”

  Song provided a rather scanty summary. Around seven, Xie took his usual morning walk in the garden, where he was shocked by the sight of the body, lying face down under the tree. He called the police. It took about twenty minutes for the first officers to arrive at the scene. And it wasn’t until the cop turned over the body that Xie recognized it as Yang, a student in his painting class. He had no idea how she had come into the garden.

  “Yang could have sneaked in by herself,” Chen commented, “with a key she had obtained.”

  “Technically possible, but for what, Chief Inspector Chen?” Song countered. “To be attacked and killed by someone who had sneaked into the garden earlier?”

  “She could have chosen the garden as a romantic place for her rendezvous. Quiet and secluded, especially when there’s no party at the house. Xie usually goes to bed early, which she knew.”

  “Do you think that she would have gone to the trouble of obtaining a key for that purpose?”

  “For some, it is a romantic place. These students come here not just for the painting class, you know,” Chen said. “Did Xie have any visitors yesterday?”

  “He hemmed and hawed, saying only that he fell asleep early.” That was a problem for Xie. No alibi. It might not be uncommon for a man of his age to go to bed early, but that wasn’t good enough for Song, in spite of the fact that Xie himself had called the police.

  “What are you going to do, Song?”

  “We’re going to conduct a thorough search of the house,” Song said. “As for Xie, we’ll take him into custody first.”

  So the Mao Case was back to ground zero: the “tough measure” that Internal Security had opted for — to break Xie, and then Jiao, for the sake of the Mao material.

  “A body in
his own garden, and no alibi — Xie whould have known better,” Chen resumed. “No one would be that stupid. Besides, what could be his motive?”

  “Xie’s different. What’s his motive for his classes and parties? You never know.”

  “He’s different, but if we lock him in as the suspect, it could mean the real criminal will walk away.”

  “We have waited for your approach to work, patiently, for a week, but what? A young life was wasted. Had we acted earlier …”

  Song was upset. So was Chen.

  But for the case — the Mao Case — such a move could prove disastrous, even more so in the light of the latest information from Detective Yu. Chen was debating whether he should share it with Song when the latter’s cell phone shrilled out. Presumably it was something new about Yang. Song listened, furrowing his forehead, while cupping the phone in his hand.

  Chen made a vague sign to Song and headed back to the living room.

  He was surprised at the sight of Jiao standing behind the French window, her eyes slightly squinting in the sunlight. She wore a white T-shirt and jeans with a leather label near the waistline. She could have seen them talking in the garden.

  That morning, she was the only visitor there — apart from Chen.

  “Oh you’re here,” he said. “No one else will come today, I’m afraid,” she responded. “How did you get in?”

  “I didn’t know anything, so I came over, as usual.”

  “You had a long talk with the cop out in the garden. It must have been about the death of Yang. Does he have any clues?”

  “No. Nothing so far. According to Officer Song, she couldn’t have gotten in by herself. Someone must have opened the door for her — that is, unless she had her own key.”

  “Her own key?” Jiao repeated, a frown creasing her brows. “No, I don’t think so. Yang came only for the class.”

  “At her estimated time of death, Mr. Xie was alone in the house, but he knew nothing about it.”

  “Oh my god! So is Xie a suspect?”

  “Well —” he said, struck by the concern on her face. “I’m no cop. It’s not for me to say.”

  “But do you know the policeman? He showed you something.”

  “No. I’ve read a lot of mysteries so Officer Song thought he could discuss the case with me a little, and he showed me a picture. He asked me a considerable number of questions too.”

  “Xie couldn’t have done anything like that.”

  “Does he have any enemies — or people who hate him?”

  “I don’t think he has any enemies — except some distant relatives of his, who also lay claim to the house. If he got into trouble, it might be their chance.”

  That made him think of another possibility — the real estate company with connections in both black and white ways — but he asked instead, “Do you think Yang could have sneaked into the garden?”

  “No, not without a key. Xie always keeps the keys with him — on his key ring.” She then added hesitantly, as if in afterthought, “About three months ago, Xie was sick. We helped him to the hospital, taking care of him there in turns. So Yang could have gotten hold of his key.”

  “That’s a possibility, but it won’t help much. Anybody could say that his key was stolen and duplicated.”

  “He didn’t do it, that I know. You have to help him. You are so resourceful, Mr. Chen.”

  “I don’t think he did it either, but cops think only of evidence or alibis —”

  “Alibis?”

  “An alibi proves,” he said, looking her in the eyes, “someone was incapable of committing the crime because he was somewhere else, or with somebody else, at the time of the murder.”

  “Xie’s incapable of telling a lie!” she exclaimed.

  “But you have to prove it.”

  “Oh — what’s the exact time the murder took place?”

  “Her time of death was estimated as roughly the period from ten o’clock to midnight, according to Officer Song.”

  “Alibi — let me think — now I remember, I do remember,” she said. “He was with me at the time. I was posing for him in this room.”

  “What! You were posing for him then? Then why didn’t he say so?”

  “I posed for him — yes — nude,” she said with an inexplicable glimmer in her eyes. “He couldn’t afford professional models, so I did it for free. He didn’t tell people about it because he was concerned about my reputation. That’s why.”

  That was a stunning revelation. Chen had heard stories about Xie’s students posing in the studio, but even if that might not be uncommon for a painting class, he had to wonder: was she posing for “romantic” reasons? Chen suspected that, what with the mansion, the collection, the painting, and the parties, not to mention what Xie had gone through during the Cultural Revolution, the older man had no money or energy left to do more than pose as a Baoyu or Don Juan, but one never knew.

  Still, Jiao’s statement made some sense. Even in the nineties, in Shanghai, a nude model was seen as someone shameless. Jiao wasn’t even professional, and stories about it could easily lead to speculation.

  Jiao was already running toward the staircase, raising her arms, calling out loud upstairs:

  “Xie, you should have told the cops that I was posing for you here last night.”

  It was a dramatic development. The officer stationed at the foot of the staircase looked flabbergasted. Chen wondered whether she was shouting for Xie’s benefit upstairs.

  But Xie could have told Song about his painting session with her; he didn’t have to say that she was posing nude. There was no need for him to be that overprotective — at such a cost to himself.

  If what she said wasn’t true, however, why did she take the risk of making up an alibi for him? That confirmed, if anything, his earlier impression that there might be something between Jiao and Xie.

  Chen was lighting a cigarette for himself when Song hurried back into the living room.

  “What, Chen?”

  “Jiao was with Xie last night.”

  Song stared at Chen, who said nothing else. It was a surprise move by Jiao, for which Chen didn’t hold himself responsible, though it served his purpose.

  He decided to leave. There was no point staying with Song, who appeared increasingly infuriated with the unexpected development. With Xie and Jiao providing alibis for each other, it would be out of the question for Internal Security to revert to their original plan.

  Besides, Chief Inspector Chen was going to make a phone call to Beijing, like a capable and conscientious cop, as the minister had commended.

  THIRTEEN

  AGAIN, CHEN WAS LOST in a recurring dream scene — of an ancient gray gargoyle murmuring in the twilight-covered Forbidden City, in the midst of black bats flapping around the somber grottos — when he was awakened.

  For several seconds, he lay with his face burrowed in the white pillow, trying to tell whether it could possibly be the sound of water dripping in the palace. It was the phone shrilling through the first gray of the morning. Picking it up, he heard Yong’s voice coming from Beijing.

  “She has come back. You know what? He has a little secretary, that heartless bastard. She just found out. So she’s staying with her parents for now.” Yong’s voice was crisp and clear, not at all like the blurred murmuring in the dream. He listened, rubbing his eyes, still disoriented.

  “What?” he said. “Who has a little secretary?”

  “Who else? The damned bastard she married.”

  “Oh.” He reached for a cigarette when the anger in Yong’s voice finally dawned on him. He propped himself up on an elbow.

  “Now don’t keep saying oh. Say something else. Do something, Chen.”

  But what could he do?

  It wasn’t for the police to catch somebody’s “little secretary,” which had become part of the “socialism with Chinese characteristics.” An upstart invariably had a little secretary — his young mistress — as a symbol of his wealth and succ
ess. In some cases, even a “little concubine” as well. For Ling’s husband, a businessman and official of an HCC family background, it would actually be surprising for him not to have one.

  “Things might not be beyond hope between you two. Come to Beijing, Chen. She isn’t happy. You and Ling should talk. I have a lot of suggestions for you.”

  “I’m in the middle of an investigation, Yong,” he said, his mouth inexplicably dry. “An important investigation.”

  “You’ve always been busy — thinking of nothing but your police work. That’s really your problem, Chen. She told me she thought of you even on her honeymoon. You may be an exceptional cop, but I’m so disappointed in you.”

  Yong hung up in frustration — an echo of his neighbor’s door slamming shut across the corridor.

  Chen dug out the ashtray full of cigarette butts and burnt matches from the last couple of days. What he had told Yong was true. This was a Mao Case, he couldn’t explain even to her.

  It wasn’t the time for a trip to Beijing, even for all the suggestions Yong would offer him Ling’s honeymoon was barely over — whatever problem she might have at the moment, it wasn’t up to him to interfere.

  He finished his cigarette before getting up. Still groggy from the shattered dream, he went to the sink and brushed his teeth vigorously, the image of the gray gargoyle fading, yet a bitter taste lingering in the mouth.

  There wasn’t much left in the small refrigerator. A leftover box of roast duck from about a week earlier and half a leftover box of barbeque pork from god-knows-when — both from meals with business associates — and a bowl of cold rice as hard as a rock. He was in no mood to have his breakfast out. In the last two weeks, he had already spent his monthly salary and had to dig into his savings again. He could have some of the recent expense reimbursed in the name of his special assignment, but he wasn’t sure how the Mao Case would end up, and he didn’t want to submit a staggering bill for nothing. He decided to make himself a chop suey with all the leftovers boiled in a pot of hot water, along with the remaining scallion and ginger and dried pepper from the refrigerator. On an impulse, he took out the small bottle of fermented tofu and threw in the last piece along with the multicolored liquid.