The Mao Case (12 page)

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 success. 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.

As the pot was boiling on the gas head, Song called.

“I’ve talked to Gao Dongdi, a lawyer for whom Yang had once worked, as well as some other people close to Yang …”

To be fair, Chen admitted to himself that Song, though pushing for the “tough measure,” had lost no time checking into other aspects of the murder.

Chen listened, lighting another cigarette. If Xie was not the criminal, there was a murderer at large, responsible for Yang’s death and for planting her body in the garden. It might not necessarily be part of the Mao Case, but it was nonetheless a case for him.

“People go to Xie Mansion for their own reasons,” Song went on. “Some may go for a sense of elite social status, but others, for something real or practical. For instance, in the case of Yang, who had something of her own business network, it was for connections. She was also in the business of making herself irresistible to Big Bucks, and possibly she had something more substantial in mind — the mansion itself. Xie is in his sixties. Divorced. No heir.”

“So that’s a possible motive for murder —” Chen said, “at least for those young rivals who’re close to Xie.”

“But in that scenario,” Song said, contradicting himself, “Yang’s body would have appeared anywhere but in Xie’s garden.”

Besides, Yang hadn’t been close to Xie, as Chen had noticed. She wasn’t a likely threat to a rival.

As for someone really close to Xie, it would have to be Jiao. Her consideration for Xie had gone further than Chen had expected, not to mention the alibi she had provided for him. Still, Chen couldn’t bring himself to conceive of Jiao as a materialistic girl with such a motive. It didn’t fit what he knew of her.

But for once, Song and Chen seemed to be converging on the same point the possible relation between Xie and Jiao.

After finishing the phone conversation, Chen lost himself in thought for several minutes before he found the chop suey badly burnt on the gas head. He moved to stand by the window, lighting a third cigarette that morning, staring out at the new high-rises that had been popping up around the city like bamboo shoots after a spring rain. His left eyelid started twitching. An ominous sign, according to the folk superstition Old Hunter believed in. Chen frowned, trying to find a strong tea that might suit his mood.

Searching the drawer again, he saw only a tiny bottle of gin. Possibly a souvenir from an airplane trip. How it could show up this morning, like the gargoyle in the dream, he was confounded. The bottle was tiny, smaller than the “small firecracker” he had seen in Gang’s hand the day when he first got the assignment.

A plan for the morning came to mind, abruptly.

He was going to the eatery near his mother’s place. Gang had said that he would be sitting there, from morning until evening. It was a long shot, but Chen wanted to give it a try. A breakfast there wouldn’t be expensive at all. And he might drop in at his mother’s place for a short visit afterward.

At the eatery entrance, Auntie Yao was selling warm rice balls stuffed with fresh fried dough stick to the customers that stood waiting in line, yawning or eye-rubbing. She appeared astonished at Chen’s arrival that morning, looking over her shoulder while wrapping the sticky balls in her hands. Chen saw Gang sitting at a table inside by himself.

“Oh, Little Chen. You’re quite early today,” Gang said.

“This morning I found this bottle of gin by chance, so I thought of you.”

“When you hear the battle drums and gongs, you think of a general. You are something of a gentleman from ancient times.”

Gang had only a cup of cold water on the wine-stained table. No rice ball or fried dough stick. No liquor, either. He was sitting there perhaps because it was like a home to him.

“It’s too early for me,” Gang said, taking the tiny bottle. “Two bowls of spicy beef noodles, Auntie Yao,” Chen gave his order. “The foreign stuff may be too much for breakfast.” Gang studied the bottle of gin closely, turning it over in his hand.

“You’re right.” Chen said loudly to Auntie Yao again, “And a bottle of Shaoxing rice wine too.”

“You have not come here for noodles, I believe,” Gang said, a sharp light flashing in his eyes. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“All right, let’s get to the heart of the matter, Gang. You were a Red Guard leader at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution. I have some questions about the campaign of Sweeping Away the Four Olds. I was young then, you know. There was a lot I didn’t understand. So you may start by giving me a general background introduction on the campaign.”

“Well, Mao wanted to snatch back power from his rivals in the Party, so he mobilized young students into Red Guards as a grassroot force fighting for him. As the first campaign of the Cultural Revolution, Red Guards were called on to sweep away the Four Olds — old ideas, old culture, old customs, and old habits. So the class enemies like capitalists, landlords, well-known artists and intellectuals, all of them became easy targets. They suffered mass criticisms, and their homes were searched for ‘old stuffs,’ which were either smashed or swept away.”

“Yes, my father’s books were all burned. And my mother’s necklace was snatched off her neck.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your family’s suffering. Mao declared ‘Sweeping Away the Four Olds’ to be revolutionary activities, and the Red Guards believed in whatever he said. We beat people, but later we ourselves were beaten too.” Gang bent to pull up the bottom of his pants. “Look, I was beaten into a cripple. Karma.”

“It was the Cultural Revolution, and you paid a price for it too. You don’t have to be too hard on yourself, Gang. But there were so many black class enemies at the time, and so many Red Guard organizations, how was the campaign conducted?”

“For each factory or school or work unit, there was a Red Guard organization or something like it, but there were also larger organizations, like mine, which consisted of Red Guards from various schools. A Sweeping Away action against a particular family usually didn’t take a large organization like ours to carry out. For instance, your father was a professor, so it should have been the Red Guard organizations of the university that raided and ransacked your house.”

With the arrival of the noodles and the rice wine, Gang stopped talking. Auntie Yao had the beef slices placed in a separate small dish instead of atop the noodles. She also gave them a dish of boiled peanuts for free.

“The across-bridge noodles,” Gang said excitedly, opening the rice wine bottle by knocking it against the table corner, raising his chop-sticks for an invitation gesture as if he were the host. “So we can have the beef for wine. Auntie Yao is really considerate.”

“But some special teams were also sent over from Beijing, I’ve heard, from the Cultural Revolution Group of the Central Party Committee.”

“Why are you interested in that?” Gang said, looking up. “I’m a writer,” Chen said, producing a business card provided by the Writers’ Association. “I’m going to write a book about those years.”

“Well, that’s something worth doing, Little Chen. Young people nowadays have no idea about the Cultural Revolution, or if anything at all, only about Red Guards being evil monsters. There should be some objective, realistic books about those years,” Gang said, putting down his chopsticks again. “Back to your question. Who headed the Cultural Revolution Group of CCPC in Beijing then? Madam Mao. Who’s behind her? Mao. When those teams were sent to Shanghai, they were very powerful, capable of doing anything — beating, torturing, and killing people without reporting to the police bureau or worrying about consequences. In short, they were like the emperor’s special envoy brandishing the imperial sword.”

“But did they contact your organization? After all, they were like dragons from somewhere far away, and you were the biggest local snakes.”

“It was usually a small team with a secret mission. Occasionally, they could require our cooperation. For instance, if they wanted to crack down on someone, we would provide all the help, and if need be, keep other organizations away from the target.”

“Do you remember Shang?”

“Shang — just that she was an actress. That’s all I remember.”

“A special team came for her during the campaign of Sweeping Away the Four Olds. She committed suicide.”

“So that’s what you want to find out.” Gang drained his cup in one gulp. “You can’t find a better one to help you, Little Chen. I happened to have learned something about those special teams. Some actors knew about Madam Mao in the thirties — about her notorious private life as a third-rate actress. That’s why she wanted to silence those people, persecuting them to death and destroying any incriminating evidence — like old newspapers or old pictures — old stuff, no question about that. What Madam Mao did during the campaign was mentioned as part of her crimes at the trial of the Gang of Four.”

“That’s a possibility.” Though not much of a possibility in Shang’s case, Chen reflected, raising the cup to his lips without tasting it. Shang was much younger, incapable of possessing information or material about Madam Mao’s years as an actress.

“But I’m not sure about Shang. It’s not a name I remember about those days,” Gang went on, pouring himself another cup. “Perhaps I was too busy. But I can try to contact my then assistant about it. I haven’t seen him in years.”

“It would be great if he could remember something.”

“You treat me like a man of the state, and as such, I should naturally do something in return.”

“I really appreciate it,” Chen said, adding his cell phone number to the business card. “Don’t call the office number. I’m not usually there.”

“Oh, you’re a city representative too.” Gang examined the business card closely. “The other day when you condescended to sit with me, I knew you were different. You’re somebody, Little Chen. Now, you’re always welcome to drop in here, but you don’t have to drink with me. Otherwise Auntie Yao would kill me.”

“What are you two talking about?” Auntie Yao said, moving over to the table on full alert.

“About what a gold-hearted woman you are, having tolerated a good-for-nothing drunkard like me for so many years.”

“Anything else?” she said to Chen without responding to Gang.

“No, I’m leaving. Thank you,” he said rising. “Don’t worry, Auntie Yao. Gang told me not to drink with him. I’ll have nothing but noodles next time.”