Qiu Xiaolong - Enigma of China

A waiter hurried to his side, saying apologetically, “Sorry, this is a table for six people.”

Sitting at this table, however, Chen could easily keep the hotel in sight.

“What’s the minimum charge to sit here?” Chen asked.

At some restaurants, a private room had a minimum charge attached: it was possible this restaurant had a minimum for desirable tables.

“Usually, we charge six hundred. Our northeast cuisine is not expensive, so you can have a banquet for that. One person alone wouldn’t be able to finish that much.” The waiter paused. “Well, let’s make an exception for you and waive the minimum expense, sir,” he said considerately. “We have eating girls here. For just one hundred yuan she’ll sit at your table and introduce you to the specialties of our cuisine.”

“Fine. I’ll pay for her company, but I want to sit by myself for a while first.”

“Whatever you want, sir. I’ll brew you a pot of Dragon Well tea first.”

He secured the table against the window. It wasn’t that comfortable to sit on the kang. A real kang was a long earthen bed with coals burning underneath, the people sitting above with their legs comfortably crossed under them, and with a small table in the middle during mealtime. Here he saw only a resemblance of one, but he took off his shoes, climbed on, and started keeping watch on the hotel.

Across the street, the hotel shimmered in the sunlight. It didn’t take long for him to realize that the hotel looked different that morning. For about fifteen minutes, he didn’t see anybody walking in or out. There were only a couple of luxury cars that drove in, their curtains drawn, and not a single taxi. The hotel must have been converted into a “political base.”

A young eating girl came over, dressed not unlike someone from the northeast, and managed to speak with only a slight suggestion of a northeast accent.

“Shark fin is a specialty of our restaurant, sir.”

“Shark fin is advertised as the special in every restaurant. I don’t have to order it here, but I’ll have the rest of the specials on the menu.”

“You certainly know how to order,” she said in agreement. She perched herself on the edge of the kang and kicked off her slippers. He wondered whether she would sit with him like that through the entire meal, as if they were in some movie scene of a couple in the northeast countryside.

“Thank you,” he said, taking out a ten-yuan bill. “Here’s a small tip for you, but I want to sit by myself for the moment.”

“Whatever you like, Big Brother,” she said, standing up, clutching the bill. “Whenever you need anything, just call me. We have all sorts of service available. And service for you afterward in a private room too.”

“I’ll let you know.”

Soon the dishes he’d ordered arrived on the kang table. Northeast cuisine, known for its homely style, was not considered one of the major cuisines in China. He helped himself to a piece of pan-fried tofu, took a sip of tea, and took out a notebook.

Chen started drawing up a timetable in his notebook of the events surrounding Wei’s accident the previous day. One probable scenario was that Wei-dressed like a tourist-was going to check into the hotel, incognito, in the hope of learning something that had eluded him in his official capacity. But was the hotel already closed that day due to the arrival of the mysterious Beijing team?

Whether the hotel was closed or not, Wei, leaving home around eight that morning, should have been somewhere near this location around nine. He made his way to the scene of the accident three or four hours later, though it was no more than a five-minute walk from the hotel. So, where had Wei been during the interval?

Wei could have sat here by the window, just as Chen was doing today, keeping an eye on the hotel. It was eerie to imagine-to imagine himself turning into Wei-

“Big Brother, the dishes are getting cold,” the eating girl said, returning to the table.

It was true. He hadn’t even touched some of them. He wondered how long he’d been sitting here, lost in thought.

“They are quite good, but I’ve somehow lost my appetite,” he said apologetically. He pointed at several dishes. “Sorry, these are not even touched.”

“Don’t worry. I was supposed to eat with you, and now I’ll have to finish it all by myself.”

He asked for the bill, which came to a little more than three hundred, including the fee for her. She added her name and number to the receipt.

“Next time, call me directly.”

On his way out, he looked at his watch. It was almost twelve thirty.

It wasn’t pleasant to climb the steel steps of the overpass, but he did. He’d hardly done anything all day, yet he couldn’t shake off a feeling that he was burning up. He wiped his sweat-covered forehead with the back of his hand. Passing under him, the traffic flowed like a turgid river.

It reminded him of a stone bridge he’d crossed long ago, the fallen leaves crunching under his feet, the water murmuring under the arch… It was an elusive scene in his memory, flashing into his consciousness for a split second, and then fading into confusion.

He labored down to the other side of Yan’an Road. A high-rise loomed in the afternoon sunlight-the Wenhui Office Building on Weihai Road. It housed not only the Wenhui Daily newspaper but also the Xinmin evening newspaper and Shanghai Daily, an English-language newspaper, along with several smaller newspapers, all under the umbrella organization of the Wenhui-Xinmin Group, or Wenxin Group, for short.

The scene of the accident was near the intersection of Shanxi and Weihai Roads. Because of the constant flow of traffic at that location, there was no yellow tape cordoning off the area. Nor was there any sign of a policeman on duty.

Chen decided to take a walk around the area first. As if in mysterious correspondence, his cell phone rang: the traffic cop who had dealt with the accident was calling him back.

“Detective Wei was run down on Weihai Road as he turned in from Shanxi Road, heading east. Several witnesses claimed that’s what they saw. There’s no ruling out the possibility that he had walked past the Wenhui Office Building first and then was turning back, but it’s not likely. As for the vehicle that hit him, it was a brown SUV that was parked one block down on Weihai Road. Apparently it started up suddenly, sped west, hit him, and took off. It happened so fast that nobody saw anything clearly. According to one witness, the SUV seemed to slow down after hitting Wei, but only for a second, then it sped away and turned onto Shanxi Road. The driver might have slowed to take a look, but must have realized it was too late.”

“The SUV hit him head-on?” Chen asked.

“Yes. At a high speed.”

“But that means the SUV was in the wrong lane.”

“Drunk driving, Chief Inspector Chen. Luckily, it wasn’t right after school had let out, or it could have been much worse.”

“Thank you. Would you fax a report to my office? Provide as many details as possible. I’ll be back there soon.”

For the next half an hour, however, Chen continued to walk back and forth along Weihai Road, his phone clutched in his hand. There was something not right about the accident.

Weihai was a two-lane street. A westbound car wouldn’t have ended up in the lane alongside the Wenhui Building, unless the driver was drunk or someone’s car spun out of control during a too-swift left turn. Chen thought the chances of such a dramatic, disastrous turn of events were slim.

Once again, he walked past the Wenhui Office Building, this time catching sight of a makeshift noodle stall on the sidewalk. The stall consisted of two pots of boiling water and soup on portable propane gas heads, along with a variety of meat and vegetable toppings on display in a glass case. The chef-proprietor appeared to be a local resident, cooking and hawking his wares with a flourish as if he was in a Hong Kong gourmet documentary. He dipped a ladle of noodles into the water, took it out almost immediately, and added the topping.