The Mao Case

by Unknown

  If his attackers took his vacation as being the result of their warning, so be it. They would come to know Chief Inspector Chen better, sooner or later.

  Last but not least, there was something else for him in Beijing, he contemplated with a twinge of conscience.

  So he turned onto Chengdu Road, from which he might be able to hail a taxi.

  On the street corner, an elderly man was dozing in his wheelchair parked on the sidewalk, wearing a pair of sunglasses, with his feet placed high on the handle bar. Not a comfortable position. Chen couldn’t make out why he wanted to take a break like that in his wheel-chair. But then a lot of things made sense to one person, but not at all to others — like his vacation plan.

  Chen pulled out his cell phone.

  The first call went to Gu. Chen told him about his clash with the gangsters.

  “What?” Gu exclaimed in a voice of combined shock and indignation. “Some bastards beat you up in broad daylight? Where are you? I’m coming over this minute.”

  “Don’t worry. No broken bones. I’ve seen a doctor. He wants me to take a couple of days off. So I’m thinking of a short vacation,” Chen said. “I’m not sure if the attack is Triad-related, but their weapons and jargon were suspicious.”

  “That’s outrageous. I will find out for you. You have my word for it.”

  “Have you seen White Cloud lately?”

  “Yes. Why, Chief Inspector Chen?”

  “One of the gangsters said something about an ugly toad watering its mouth at the sight of a beautiful swan, so it could involve a romantic relationship. But there’s nothing going on between us, you know.”

  “Absolutely nothing, I know, though she adores you like anything. You haven’t given her any chance. No, I don’t think she has anything to do with it, but I’ll talk to her about it. At my request, she has made a point of not mentioning you to other people.”

  Chen wasn’t so sure about that. She was a young, fashionable girl. And Gu could be so proud of his connections.

  “Of late, I’ve helped someone preserve his old house as a historical site. A real estate company concerned may not be pleased with it. The company is called East Wind, supposedly connected to both the black and white ways.”

  “East Wind, I think I’ve heard of it. I know some people in the circle. I’ll tell you what. I’ll dig three feet into the ground.”

  “You don’t have to go out of your way, Gu.”

  “How can you say that, Chief Inspector Chen? Anyone who attacks you attacks me. It’s a slap in my face too,” Gu went on seriously. “In today’s society, there are not too many honest and capable cops like you left. If I do anything, it’s not just for you.”

  “But don’t do anything rash. Don’t reveal my identity, either, when you make your inquiries.”

  “Don’t worry. Enjoy your vacation. Call me if there is anything else.” Gu added, “Oh, I’ll visit your mother over the weekend. White Cloud will do so too.”

  In Confucian classics, the concept of “expediency” is much discussed, his father had once taught him. For the moment, the Mao Case was the overriding priority, justifying whatever means. Gu had helped before, as he would again this time, full of yiqi, like in a martial arts novel. The chief inspector might have to pay him back, eventually, but he didn’t want to worry about it now.

  His next call was to Old Hunter. “I’ve just seen Dr. Xia. He said I have suffered a concussion.”

  “Did you have an accident?”

  “No, I don’t think it was an accident. A couple of gangsters attacked me on the street,” Chen said simply. “To ensure a quiet recovery period, Dr. Xia insists on my taking a vacation — away from the work and worry. Somewhere that no one knows about. No phone calls. I have to take his advice, I’m afraid.”

  “But the situation here may develop unexpectedly —”

  “I’ll contact you from time to time.”

  “Fine — oh, I got hold of someone, someone very reliable, to serve as Jiao’s temporary maid. She may be able to find out something for us.”

  “Great. That will really help. Tell her to go to Jiao’s place at her earliest convenience. I’ll let Jiao know about it before I leave. In any emergency situation, you may contact a friend of mine. This is her number. She should know my whereabouts for the next few days.”

  It was Ling’s number. For the moment, there was nobody else he could think of. According to Yong, Ling had moved back to her parents’ home.

  “Will it be safe to call her?”

  “It’s a special ‘red line’ for her high cadre family. You don’t have to worry about its being tapped. But don’t give it to anybody.”

  “I understand.”

  Old Hunter might have guessed. What would he be thinking about Chen’s sudden vacation? That the romantic chief inspector was impossible, rushing to his ex-girlfriend …

  Chen decided not to worry about that, either.

  He had to make another phone call, recommending “someone reliable” to Jiao, who had left a message on her cell number while on his way to the Shanghai Railway Station.

  SIXTEEN

  FOLLOWING THE DIRECTIONS PROVIDED by Old Hunter, Peiqin arrived at the high-end apartment complex on Wuyuan Road.

  She was the “someone reliable” Chen had recommended to Jiao, though he had no idea that it was none other than Peiqin.

  Peiqin had volunteered to serve as a temporary maid, to the surprise of both Yu and Old Hunter, who had asked her to help look for one. She made a convincing argument for her candidacy. It was practically impossible to find a reliable maid on short notice, let alone one capable of reporting to the police in secret. What’s more, whatever the reason for Chen’s vacation, he must be in danger. They had to help. Finally, Yu agreed on the condition that she do nothing there except what was expected of a temporary maid.

  Wuyuan Road and the neighborhood around it was an area Peiqin hadn’t visited before. Like many Shanghainese who rarely ventured outside of their own circles, she saw no point in exploring areas that were like another city to her. Before and after 1949, Wuyuan was regarded as one of the “upper corners,” way above ordinary people like Peiqin and Yu.

  In the fast-changing city, the gap between the rich and the poor was once again expanding. The newspapers and magazines had started talking about building a harmonious society, all of a sudden and all at once, like never-tiring cicadas in the trees. She wondered how it could be managed. She showed her ID to the green-uniformed security guard at the complex entrance and declared herself to be a new maid.

  Moving through the entrance, she felt momentarily lost, like Granny Liu in the Dream of the Red Chamber. The ultraluxurious apartments in front stood like tall magnificent dreams far, far away. Before pressing the intercom at the apartment building, she took another look at her reflection in a pocket mirror. A middle-aged woman in a faded black T-shirt, khaki pants, and rubber-heeled shoes, carrying a white canvas bag. It was the image of a house maid as commonly seen on TV, a role not too difficult for her to play, after all the house work she had done at home over the years.

  “Who is it?” A voice came down from the fifth floor. “I’m Pei. Mr. Chen told me to come today.”

  “Oh yes, come up. Room 502.”

  The lock on the front door clicked. Peiqin pulled the door open and walked over to the elevator.

  When she stepped out onto the fifth floor, she saw a young woman standing in the doorway of an apartment on the left.

  “So you are the new maid?”

  “Yes,” Peiqin said, nodding.

  “I’m Jiao.” She was in a light blue mandarin dress embroidered with a colorful phoenix, her feet encased in matching high-heeled satin slippers, as if she had stepped out of a movie from the thirties. The mandarin dress, apparently custom-tailored, brought out all her curves, with a subtle suggestion of voluptuousness. She was holding a pair of stockings in her hand.

  Jiao should have been able to take care of the apartment herself, but Pe
iqin knew it could be simply a sign of one’s social status to have a maid. Peiqin had heard that some upstarts had a cubicle in their apartments called a maid’s room, with its own bathroom, so that the live-in-servant wouldn’t mix with the master. She had grown up during the age of communist egalitarian propaganda, and she couldn’t help feeling a little uncomfortable with her identity in this situation, even though she was merely playing a role, a temporary one.

  “Come on in,” Jiao said. “My name is Pei. Mr. Chen wanted me to come here,” Peiqin repeated what she had said downstairs.

  “Mr. Chen called me, saying that he would send over someone capable and reliable.”

  “I’ve known Mr. Chen for years. He’s a good man.”

  “How is he? I tried to call him this morning, but he didn’t pick up.”

  “He is out of town on business, I guess,” Peiqin said vaguely, not sure whether Jiao was aware of the latest development.

  “Business people are like that.” Jiao added, “I’m going out this morning, so let’s talk about your work now. You don’t have to come every day. Three times a week. Four hours each time. Primarily your duties will be room cleaning and laundry. Occasionally, I’ll need you to prepare dinner, like today, but the moment you finish, you may leave. For your help, eight hundred a month, and I’ll pay for anything additional. Is that okay?”

  “It’s fine with me.”

  “Let me make a list of what you need to buy and prepare for tonight.” Jiao scribbled quickly on a piece of paper. “Oh, you don’t have to cook, just prepare them.”

  “I understand,” Peiqin said, glancing over the list, which appeared to be quite specific, not only about the items, but about the specific culinary flavors too. “When are you coming back?”

  “Six.”

  “And your dinnertime?”

  “Around seven.”

  “In that case, I’d better start cooking the pork around four, I think, for the pork braised in red sauce takes hours. As for the fish, I’ll have it prepared with scallion and ginger in a steamer, so you will just need to steam it for five or six minutes, more or less, as you prefer.”

  “Right,” Jiao said, nodding. “You’re quite experienced.”

  “Anything specific about the pork or the fish?”

  “Yes, well-cooked fat pork,” Jiao said. “Oh, don’t use soy sauce.”

  “But what about the sauce —” Peiqin began, then had a thought. “I see. I think I can wok-fry sugar until it turns brown and use it for color.”

  “You’re a pro,” Jiao said with a smile.

  It was a recipe Peiqin had learned at the restaurant. Jiao must have cooked it herself, as she showed no surprise on her face.

  “I’ll time it so the pork will be well done but not overdone when you come back. You can also add in whatever spice you like.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Chen has made an excellent recommendation. Do it in whatever way you like. Here’s money for your shopping.”

  Jiao appeared to be in a hurry to leave, talking and pulling on her stockings while leaning against a mahogany chair. She slid her feet into a pair of high heels.

  “If it takes more than four hours for a particular day, let me know. I’ll pay extra, okay?” Jiao added, heading toward the door.

  It was more than okay for a maid, Peiqin thought, listening to Jiao’s footsteps fading along the corridor and disappearing into the elevator. She then closed the door.

  She didn’t know what Chen had said about her to Jiao, but it appeared that her “maid career” had started more smoothly than she expected. Jiao had accepted her without a single question. The work arrangements suited Peiqin too, since she wouldn’t even have to ask for a leave from the restaurant. As an accountant with flexible work hours, she could come over at her convenience. Some days she might be able to work her hours here during the lunch break.

  Taking an apron out of the canvas bag, she started moving around like a maid, while observing like a cop’s wife, looking out for anything out of the ordinary and for objects associated with Mao.

  It was a luxurious apartment. The layout appeared to be unusual, but she was not sure. The oblong-shaped living room was huge, with paintings scattered here and there, finished and unfinished. Jiao might use it more like a studio. On one wall hung a long silk-decked scroll of Chinese calligraphy. It was difficult for Peiqin to read the flying-dragon-and-dancing-phoenix-like writing. It took her several minutes to recognize five or six characters in the scroll, and then it dawned on her that the scroll was of a poem by Mao entitled “Ode to the Plum Blossom,” which she had read in her middle school textbook.

  In classical Chinese poetry, beauties and flowers sometimes served as metaphors for each other. So the calligrapher could have copied the poem for Jiao as a compliment, but as far as Peiqin remembered, the plum blossom was not commonly symbolic of a young, fashionable girl.

  Perhaps she was reading too much into it. In today’s market, a scroll by a celebrated calligrapher could be invaluable regardless of its contents. It also served to show the refined taste of the owner, young or not. She took another look at the poem. There was a date in the Chinese lunar calendar, which she failed to decipher. She would have to check it in a reference book from the library.

  She moved into the bedroom, which, too, was exceptionally large, with a couple of walk-in closets and a master bathroom. The furniture, however, was a stark contrast to that of the living room. Simple, practically plain. What struck her as peculiar was the large wooden bed. It was larger than a king-size, and possibly custom-made. Now, why a young single girl needed such a bed, Peiqin couldn’t guess. There was also a custom-made bookshelf built into the plain wooden headboard. In fact, about a third of the bed was littered with books. Leaning to straighten the pillows, she touched the bed. No mattress, only a solid hard board — a wooden-board mattress under the sheets.

  Above the headboard hung a large picture of Mao, gazing down from above. It was an unusual bedroom decoration. The picture frame looked like it was solid gold, which it couldn’t be, but it was very heavy nonetheless. The picture faced a large mirror on the opposite wall, which was not that lucky in terms of feng shui, for the people in bed. Standing beside the bed was a cabinetlike bookshelf, with pictures of Jiao on the top, almost level with the picture of Mao.

  There were two closets, one large, one small, facing the bed. She opened the doors. There were clothing and painting supplies in them. But Peiqin didn’t see anything surprising.

  She proceeded into the adjoining room, which looked like a study. On the large mahogany desk there was an album lying beside a miniature bronze statue of Mao. For a study, it was impressive: custom-made mahogany bookshelves stood tall and majestic against three walls. On the shelves were a considerable number of books about Mao, some of which Peiqin had never seen in bookstores. Jiao had done an incredible job collecting so many of them. There was also a section of history books, some of them thread-bound, cloth-covered editions, presumably meant to look impressive. At the bottom of one bookshelf there was a pile of fashion magazines, incongruous with the history books above.

  The kitchen, full of modern stainless appliances, was the only place Peiqin didn’t find anything associated with Mao. She stood on her tiptoes and looked into the cabinet. There was nothing there but a couple of recipe books, one of which she had at home too.

  She decided to go and do the shopping, so she took off the apron and folded it neatly on the kitchen table. On the first day, a maid’s responsibility came first. Later on, if she had time, she could check around again.

  So she set out with the shopping list. It was an intriguing one. Fat pork, Wuchang fish, bitter melon, green and red pepper, and some seasonal vegetables. The security guard recognized her this time and smiled.

  The neighborhood food market turned out to be quite different from what she was accustomed to: granite-floored, white-tile-covered counters displaying vegetables in plastic wrappers and meat in plastic packaging. She walked around for
a while before locating several huge glass cages with live fish swimming inside. As with other counters there, there was a sign declaring “No bargaining.”

  “A large Wuchang fish,” she said to a ruddy-complexioned sales-woman in a white uniform and purple rubber shoes.

  Peiqin didn’t have to bargain, not with the sum given by Jiao, but she asked for a receipt. In response to her non-bargaining attitude, the saleswoman ladled out the swimming fish and handed it to her with a handful of green onion for free.

  Peiqin bought everything on the list, choosing some other special sauce and seasonings for the night. According to Yu and Old Hunter, Jiao seldom if ever invited people home. Yet, for a slender girl like her, it appeared to be a huge dinner with a lot of calories and fat. The fat pork braised in red sauce, in particular, once popular in the early sixties for the starved, ill-nourished Chinese people, was practically unimaginable for fashionable diet-conscious girls.

  Back in the kitchen, she started preparing. The live fish kept struggling and jumping while she scaled it on the board. As she put it into the steamer, the fish twitched one more time, its tail cutting her finger. The cut wasn’t deep, but it tingled. She arranged the fish on a willow-patterned platter along with ginger and scallion and set it in a steamer on the kitchen table. Jiao needed only to turn on the fire upon her return. Peiqin rinsed the rice and put it into an electric rice pot. She finally started working on the pork. It was easy, but took time. She was no restaurant chef but she was a capable cook, and wanted to impress on her first day.

  Taking off her apron again, she made a cup of tea for herself, choosing a European tea bag she hadn’t seen before. She sat on a folding chair close to the table. Breathing into the hot tea, she found the taste not nearly as good as the Dragon Well tea at home. Perhaps the tea bag caused the difference. She like watching leisurely the unfolding of the tea leaves in the cup, green, tender, musing.

  She had helped with police work before, because of her husband or Chief Inspector Chen, or because of the people involved.