by Xiaolong Qiu
‘So one’s the time period of those guests leaving Min’s dinner party, and the other, of the murderer sneaking into the shikumen house and killing the maid?’ She was looking up with candid questions in her large, clear eyes.
‘Yes. I’m not doing any investigation, as I’ve said, but I have a feeling that Huang’s death may be related to the Min case in a way still beyond my knowledge. Possibly even related to my talk with Huang yesterday morning, too. So I want to do something for the old man.’
‘For the delicious meal he treated you to, my conscientious director. And in return, I will also have to do my best for your generous meal in the private room this morning,’ she said, smiling a teasing smile, and helping herself to a spoonful of the knife anchovy soup. ‘Just joking, Director Chen. As the office secretary, it’s my responsibility to run small errands for you when you’re on convalescent leave.’
Like the day before, he started listening to Jin’s recording of her interview with Rong, drinking the lukewarm tea, the moment she walked out of the private room.
And she was right about it. There was hardly anything new or unexpected in Rong’s words. It was no surprise. Rong had no motive for the killing. And he had his solid alibi. That night, he was on a flight from Nanjing to Beijing for some business. He even showed Jin the plane ticket stubs. And he had a young secretary traveling with him, and checking in at the same hotel.
If anything, Rong admitted that he had been intent on inflicting harm on Min. He had hired Qing for similar private kitchen dinners so that he could have told others that Min was a total ‘fake’, with all the specials actually prepared by Qing in the shikumen house instead.
But with Min already having gotten into trouble like that, he thought he did not have to do anything more. He hardly felt anything about the death of Qing.
‘It’s karma. Min deserves it,’ Rong concluded callously, ‘whether she killed Qing or not.’
On her way to meet Shang Guanhua, the ‘number-one real estate developer in Shanghai’, Jin did a quick Internet map search in the taxi. Putting the info together, she sent it to Chen as the taxi pulled up at Shang’s office.
The meeting with Shang had been scheduled the day before. On the invitation list to Min’s dinner that Friday night, Shang was another Shanghai number one, in addition to the late Huang Zhongluo.
‘Let me open the door to the mountains, Jin. I think I know what you want to talk to me about. The Min case, right? With one number one already gone,’ Shang said, shaking his head vigorously in his spacious office on West Nanjing Road, ‘I have no idea how long I can still hang around here.’
‘What do you mean, Mr Shang?’
‘Once you’re labeled as the number one, you become a target for many. Like me. Like Huang. And all the people talking about the connection with Min at her private kitchen dinner could not but make the situation even worse.’
‘How could it be made even worse?’
‘With the housing prices soaring like crazy, people keep complaining about the profit made by real estate developers. But we have to build houses on the land, which the Party government alone can sell – with higher and higher prices. And it’s not just a matter of money. To secure a lot, we have to go through connections upon connections for it. And Min’s the one with the connection at the top. It was through her help, for instance, that I got the lot in Xujiahui, which brought me a sizable profit, but she took about half of it, claiming she had to give it to the Party official in charge of the land allocation.’
It was not news to Jin. She had read and heard a lot about those shady deals between business people and Party officials. It was just like in an old proverb: all the ravens under the sun are similarly black.
But why was Shang so worried about himself because of his connection with Min?
‘Have you read the new editorial in the Liberation Daily?’ Shang went on without waiting for a response from Jin. ‘The Party government is not now boosting the state-run enterprises. With the Party being the state, and the state being the Party, you know.’
Before she could move on further with the interview, however, Shang got a phone call with some urgent business. He left with a profusion of apologies.
It might be as well, though. Politics aside, she did not think Shang could provide anything really relevant to the case.
It helps to talk.
After his meeting and talking with Jin in the Old Half Place, and listening to the recording between Jin and Rong, Chen was determined that he would leave no stone unturned.
He was holding the phone, about to send another message to Jin, when an email came in from Professor Zhong of the Shanghai Academy of Social Sciences.
‘The producer would love to meet with you this weekend, Director Chen. He’s so excited about your Judge Dee story.’
‘Not this weekend, I’m afraid. Too busy with office work. Something unexpected. Perhaps next weekend, and I may be able to tell both of you something more about the storyline.’
And then he composed a WeChat message for Jin: ‘Gather the pictures of those guests at the dinner table for me. Except Kong.’
Almost immediately she responded. ‘No problem. They’re somebodies, most likely with their pictures available online.’
She was right. He could have done the search himself. Perhaps he was just too old-fashioned to be an inspector in today’s China. Was it really time for him to start a new career? A Judge Dee story could serve as the first tentative step.
But then Old Hunter called. ‘Anything new, Chief?’
‘Nothing so far. But have you checked Huang’s family background?’
‘Yes, a preliminary check. Huang’s a widower. His wife died about thirty years ago. He had not remarried, nor been involved with any other woman – except for his regular visits to Min’s dinner parties. He had no children. For an old man living alone in his seventies, he had an hourly maid coming in for household work once or twice a week. And a part-time private chauffeur on call. Both his niece and nephew work and live in Beijing. They have just been informed of his death, so they are coming to Shanghai in a day or two – for inheritance as his closest relatives. Huang may have left behind a huge fortune.’
‘I see. Can you find for me the name and phone number of his part-time chauffeur?’
‘I’ll text you immediately.’
And almost immediately, the text message came from Old Hunter.
Chen had to change a couple of times on the subway before reaching Zhabei District, where he met with Huang’s chauffeur surnamed Xi at his home near Zhabei Park.
Xi was a tall, robust man in his mid-thirties, speaking with an unmistakable He’nan accent, while taking care of his two- or three-year-old daughter.
The ex-inspector introduced himself as Huang’s friend, having had noodles with Huang the previous morning. He also produced his new business card.
‘Yes, I know. After the breakfast, I picked him up at the Old Half Place for a meeting with a client. And he spoke so highly of you in the car.’
‘You did not drive him to the noodle restaurant yesterday morning, did you?’
‘Huang was a considerate old man, hardly ever requesting my service early in the morning. My wife has a small dumpling place with a lot of morning customers, so I have to take care of the baby at home. On the occasions of his going to the Min party in the evening, he usually told me the schedule days beforehand, so my wife and I could make the arrangement accordingly.’
‘Did he ever mention to you something about a street corner rice ball stall in Yangpu District?’
‘Not as far as I can recall. He mentioned many restaurants and eateries, you know, but he did not necessarily have to request my car service. Not all the time. There’s a subway train going direct to that section of Yangpu District. The subway station is only a five-minute walk from his old home. And from time to time, he would also call for a taxi. For a wealthy old man like him, the taxi money is nothing.’
‘That’s true,
Xi.’
‘And he had another driver on some occasions. A young relative of his. Huang actually bought a luxurious car for him. When I could not do the driving, that young relative would help. At least Huang told me so.’
‘Did he mention to you the name of that relative of his?’
‘He could have told me about it, but I do not remember. Sorry, Director Chen.’
‘Let me give you a personal phone number of mine,’ he said, adding the number on the back of his business card. ‘If you remember anything—’
But before he was able to finish the sentence, he felt his special phone vibrating in his pocket. He took it out in a hurry.
There were already several WeChat messages left by Jin. The first one must have come when he was on the train to Xi’s home.
‘Where are you, Director Chen?’
Ten minutes later, just an emoji of a young girl scratching her head.
And then another short message: ‘Not far from Madang Road. Be there soon.’
He guessed that she was making the visit to Min’s neighborhood committee.
The latest message had come in more than an hour after the previous one. This time it proved to be a fairly long one.
‘I tried to reach you several times but without success. I’ve got it from the neighborhood committee. The neighborhood policeman really helped, saying that he knows of you, and that it’s an honor for him to do something for you. No questions whatsoever asked by him. You may need the info as soon as possible, I believe. It’s a huge file. So I’ve just dropped the memory stick in the mail box of your apartment building.’
Jin had been moving really fast. He too was going to hurry back home.
It might be as well, he thought, since he had learned all he could from Xi. He would go back over the recorded interview with the chauffeur later, though he did not think he had got anything for a possible breakthrough.
The moment he got back to the apartment, Chen took out the memory stick from the mail box. He put it into the computer in his study and clicked ‘play’.
The video consisted of two sections – each one for the time period as requested by Chen.
The first section covered the part of Min’s guests moving out of the lane after the dinner party that Friday night, with the video focusing on the front entrance of the lane. As he had learned from Kong and other sources, the video confirmed Min’s guests coming out to the lane entrance around eleven, first three of them – Peng, Shang, Kong – and then a minute or two later, a younger one – Zheng. Peng and Shang immediately left in the cars waiting there for them; Kong waited for a couple of minutes more, alone, before Zheng too came out, exchanging a few polite but meaningless words with Kong, waving his hand before heading in the direction of Huaihai Road. In the meantime, Kong’s car also arrived for him. The section of the video lasted about thirty minutes.
The next section was originally supposed to cover the time period from eleven forty-five to twelve thirty, but Jin had downloaded the video contents for a longer period, with a note indicating that it started almost immediately – just one or two minutes after eleven fifteen, with two girls entering the lane. Also, the video included the recordings from cameras installed at both the front and back entrances of the lane.
‘I have no idea about what you may really want to examine in the video,’ she wrote in a note wrapped around the memory stick. ‘So there’s no gap between the last person leaving the lane at eleven fifteen and the next one entering it. And with some people still seen entering and leaving the lane after twelve thirty, I downloaded a bit more. After one fifteen, no one was visible there. I waited for another ten minutes and then called it a night.’
Again, it was thoughtful of her. Even more thoroughgoing than the ex-inspector, he admitted with a touch of self-satire.
He drew a blank, however, after watching carefully through the two sections. With the faint light of the lane, the video quality was not good, presenting only fuzzy images of people coming in and out, but he did not think he saw the same person in both the first and second section.
Still, he could not shake off the feeling that there was something he had missed.
Around eight thirty, Detective Yu emailed back with some of the information Chen had requested.
Detective Xiong had double-checked the surveillance cameras near the crime scene in Yangpu District. As a forgotten corner of the city, the number of cameras was less than elsewhere, but there was at least one installed on either end of the short side street. No footage of suspicious things or people was available there that morning.
It was possibly because of the blind spots that the cameras couldn’t reach, but more likely because of the murderer knowing how to stay out of the angle of the camera.
In the latter case, the murderer must have done some homework about the area beforehand, which further ruled out the possibility of a chance street mugging gone wrong.
DAY FOUR
After another night of broken, restless sleep of no more than three hours, Chen woke up around four thirty. Looking out of the window, he thought he could still see the round moon waning in a deep gray sky.
He saw no point forcing himself back to sleep. It would be useless, he knew.
Nor any use trying to make a phone call to others. It was too early in the morning.
The outside appeared enveloped in fog or smog. Hopefully it would turn out to be the former, which would then disperse with the sunrise.
He decided to wear himself out by working on an outline of the Judge Dee novella, as he had promised Kong. Once he became utterly worn out, he might be able to drop off for another couple of hours.
For one thing, he would try to include in the novella some of the love poems between Xuanji, Wen and Zi’an. Or at least a group of Xuanji’s poems. Possibly for an appendix, as at the end of Doctor Zhivago.
And one titled ‘Lament of the Inlaid Lute’ came to mind.
Still, no dream comes to her,
the split-bamboo-made mat cool
on the silver-inlaid bed.
The deep blue skies appear like water,
the night clouds, insubstantial.
The cries of the wild geese journey
as far as the Xiaoxiang River.
The moon continues shining, undisturbed,
into her celestial abode.
It was a poem written by Wen for Xuanji, Chen was pretty sure about that. ‘Celestial abode’ usually referred to the place for a goddess or a Daoistess. Therefore, an unmistakable reference to Xuanji in the Tang context. Wen missed Xuanji, but he expressed his feeling by portraying her sleeping alone on a night with the blue sky like water, and the clouds insubstantial. It was indeed a masterpiece.
For another, the storyline had to be somewhat different – based on the real Xuanji case, but more loyal to the historical figure of Dee Renjie.
His efforts lasted for no more than ten minutes. It was difficult for him to concentrate on a story based on the long-ago case, with a real murder case going on at the present moment. His thoughts kept jumping from things in the ancient Tang dynasty to those in the present-day China.
He ended up feeling dog-tired, but still not sleepy. Staring up at the ceiling, he had a different idea about what he could do in the early morning.
He would walk out, heading straight to the rice ball stall on that street corner in Yangpu District.
He retrieved the WeChat message from Jin last night after she’d delivered the memory stick into his mail box.
‘The neighborhood production group in which Huang worked is long gone. From his home to the production group at the time, the route should be like this – see the map attached. The street corner rice ball stall he would have passed should be on the intersection of the Jungong and Pingliang Roads.’
Then he retrieved the email from Detective Yu again. After comparing the two messages, he thought he had something like a reliable map in his mind.
Looking up at the clock on the wall, he realiz
ed it was about the time for him to walk out – the time that Huang used to walk to the rice ball stall.
With the help of Jin’s message, the map and the GPS on his phone, Chen managed to locate the side street, which was practically as narrow as a lane.
It had been a slum area in the pre-1949 era. Some of the ‘Workers’ New Village’ houses had been built there in the mid-fifties as a sort of government project to showcase the dramatic changes in the socialist new China. They were mostly two-storied buildings with minimum facilities, which nonetheless represented an improvement at the time.
For some unknown reason, the old houses there had since been forgotten, despite the waves of relentless urban development in recent years. The area was consequently known as one of the ‘lower corners’ or ‘forgotten corners’, where the remaining inhabitants were simply too poor to move into new apartments elsewhere.
Along a narrow street, winding and forking into narrower sub-streets, he made several wrong turns before catching sight of the rice ball stall at the street corner in question. The chef was about ready to call it a day, rubbing his hands in contentment over the nearly empty wooden rice container.
Chen approached him in a hurry.
‘Sorry, it’s all gone.’
‘I’ll have whatever is left for a rice ball,’ Chen said in earnest. ‘A small one – just one or two bites will do. An old gourmet friend has recommended your rice ball to me.’
‘Really! But I do have some old customers here. No salted egg yolk for the rice ball?’
Chen looked up at the items listed on a small blackboard menu hung on the door behind the rice ball maker. The menu showed the changes with time. The rice ball nowadays could be made with salted egg yolk or shredded pork in addition to the traditional fried dough stick.
‘Don’t worry about it. Nothing but the rice ball with a fried dough stick for me. That’s the original, and that’s the best, according to my old friend.’
‘That’s interesting. I have an old customer who comes practically every week. Rain or shine. He wants nothing but the rice ball with fried dough stick. An old gentleman with his glasses as thick as the bottom of a beer bottle, he never bothers to look up at the menu.’