Qiu Xiaolong - Death of a Red Heroine

The autopsy had been conducted by Doctor Xia Yulong.

Having read the report a second time, Chief Inspector Chen reached a decision: he would postpone making his decision. He did not have to take the case immediately, nor did he have to relinquish it to another squad. If some evidence appeared, he could declare his special case squad to be in charge. If the trail turned “deadly cold,” as Detective Yu expected, it would not be too late for him to turn it over to others.

He believed that this was a correct decision. So he informed Yu, who readily agreed. Putting down the phone, however, he found his mood darkening, like the screen at the beginning of a movie, against which fragments of the scene he had just visited were displayed.

She had been lying there, abandoned, naked, her long dark hair in a coil across her throat, like a snake, in full view of two strangers, only to be carried away on a stretcher by a couple of white uniformed men, and, in time, opened up by an elderly medical man who examined her insides, mechanically, and sewed the body together again before it was finally sent to the mortuary. And all that time Chief Inspector Chen had been celebrating in his new apartment, having a housewarming party, drinking, dancing with a young woman reporter, talking about Tang dynasty poetry, and stepping on her bare toes.

He felt sorry for the dead woman. There was little he could do for her… but then he decided not to pursue this line of thought.

He made a call to his mother, telling her about the book he had bought during the lunch break. She was very pleased, as it happened to be the one she did not have in her attic collection.

“But you should have taken the poster as well, son.”

“Why?”

“So that the girl could walk down from the poster,” she said good-humoredly, “to keep you company at night.”

“Oh, that!” he laughed. “The same old story you told me thirty years ago. I’m busy today, but I’ll see you tomorrow. You can tell me the story again.”

S everal days had passed since the housewarming party. At nine o’clock in the morning, grasping a Shanghai Evening Post in his hand, Chen had a feeling that he was being read by the news, rather than the other way round. What engaged him was the report of a go game between a Chinese and a Japanese player, with a miniature map of the go board showing all the movements of black and white pieces, each occupying a position full of meaning, and possibly of meanings beyond the surface meaning.

This was nothing but a last minute self-indulgence before the invariable bureau routine.

The phone on his desk rang. “Comrade Chief Inspector, you’re such an important high official.” It was Wang’s satirical voice. “As the old Chinese saying goes, an important man has an impoverished memory.”

“No, don’t say that.”

“You’re so busy that you forget all your friends.”

“Yes, I’ve been terribly busy, but how could I put you out of my mind? No. I’m just so busy with all the routine work plus the new case-you know, the one I got the night of the party- remember? I apologize for not having called you earlier.”

“Never say sorry-” she changed the topic before finishing the sentence. “But I have some good news for you.”

“Really?”

“First, your name is on the list of the fourteenth seminar sponsored by the Central Party Institute in Beijing.”

“How did you learn that?”

“I’ve got my connections. So we will have to throw another party for your new promotion.”

“It’s too early for that. But what about having lunch with me next week?”

“It sounds like I am asking for an invitation to lunch.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what. Last night it rained, and I happened to be reading Li Shangyin-’ When, when can we snuff the candle by the western window again, / And talk about the moment of Mount Ba in the rain?’ And I missed you so much.”

“Your poetic exaggeration again.”

“No. Upon my word as a police officer, it’s the truth.”

“And a second piece of good news for a poetic chief inspector.” She switched the subject again. “Xu Baoping, senior editor of our literature and art section, has decided to use your poem- ’Miracle,’ I believe that’s the name of it.”

“Yes, ‘Miracle.’ That is fantastic.”

That was indeed a piece of exciting news. A poem in the Wenhui Daily, a nationally influential newspaper, could reach far more readers than one in some little magazine. “Miracle” was a poem about a policewoman’s dedication to her work. The editor might have chosen it out of political considerations, but Chen was still overjoyed. “Well, at the Shanghai Writers’ Association, few know that I’m a detective by profession. There’s no point talking to them about it. They would probably say, ‘What, a man who catches murderers should also try to catch muses?’”

“I’m not too surprised.”

“Thanks for telling me the truth,” he said. “What my true profession is, I’ve not decided yet!”

Chief Inspector Chen had tried not to overestimate his poet- ic talent, though critics claimed to discover in his work a combination of classical Chinese and modern Western sensibility. Occasionally he would wonder what kind of a poet he might have become had he been able to dedicate all his time to creative writing. However, that was just a tantalizing fantasy. In the last two or three weeks he had so much work to do during the day that evenings had invariably found him too exhausted to write.

“No, don’t get me wrong. I believe in your poetic touch. That’s why I forwarded your ‘Miracle’ to Xu- ’The rain has washed your shoulder length hair green -’ Sorry, that’s about the only line I remember. It just reminds me of a mermaid in a cartoon movie, rather than a Shanghai policewoman.”

“The poetic touch indeed-but I’ll let you in on a secret. I have turned you into several poems.”

“What! You are really impossible,” she said. “You never quit, do you?”

“You mean washing my hands in the river?”

“Last time,” she said laughingly, “you did not wash your hands, I noticed, before the meal in your new apartment.”

“That’s just another reason I should treat you to a lunch,” he said. “To prove my innocence.”

“You’re always too innocently busy.”

“But I will never be too busy to dine with you.”

“I’m not so sure. Nothing is more important to you than a case, not even whirling around with me.”

“Oh-you’re being impossible now.”

“Well, see you next week.”

He was pleased with the call from her. There was no denying that he had been in her thoughts, too. Or why should she have cared about the news of the seminar? She seemed to be quite excited about it. As for the poem, it was possible she had put in a word on his behalf.

Also, it was always pleasant to engage her in an exchange of wit. Casual, but intimate beneath the surface.

It was true that he had been terribly busy. Party Secretary Li had given him several topics for possible presentation at the seminar sponsored by the Central Party Institute. He had to finish all of them in two or three days, for the Party Secretary wanted to have someone in Beijing preview them. According to Li, the top Party leaders, including the ex-General Secretary of the Central Party Committee, had been invited to attend. A successful presentation there would get attention at the highest level. As result, Chief Inspector Chen had to leave most of the squad work to Detective Yu.

Wang’s call, however, once more brought the image of the dead woman to his mind. Little had yet been done about the case. All their efforts to learn the identity of the young woman had yielded no clues. He decided to have another talk with Yu.