Qiu Xiaolong - Death of a Red Heroine

And in time, Guan might have become as old, shrivelled, ravenlike as the peddler, out of touch with the time and tide, unstrung, unnoticed.

Then Chen noticed that there were, indeed, several young people hanging around the dorm building. They seemed to be doing nothing in particular-crossing their arms, whistling off key, looking at the passersby along the road. As his glance fell on the wood-and-glass kiosk attached to the dorm, he realized that they must be waiting for phone calls. Looking into the cubicle, Chen could see the white-haired old man picking up a phone, handing it to a middle-aged woman outside, and putting coins into a small box. Before the woman finished speaking, the old man was picking up another phone, but this time he wrote something down on a slip of paper. He moved out of his cubicle toward the staircase, shouting upwards, a loudspeaker in one hand and the slip of paper in the other. Possibly he’d called the name of some resident upstairs. That must have been an incoming call. Due to the severe shortage of private phones in Shanghai, such public telephone service remained the norm. Most people had to make phone calls in this way.

Guan, too.

Chen stood up without waiting for the arrival of the fried buns and strode across the street to the dorm.

The old man was in his late sixties, well-preserved, well-dressed, speaking with an air of serene responsibility. Against a different office background, he might have looked like a high-ranking cadre. Lying on the table amid the phones was a copy of the Romance of the Three Kingdoms with a bamboo bookmark. He looked up at Chen.

Chief Inspector Chen produced his I.D.

“Yes, you’re doing the investigation here,” the old man said. “My name is Bao Guozhang. Folks here just call me Uncle Bao.”

“Uncle Bao, I would like to ask you a few question about Comrade Guan Hongying,” Chen remained standing outside the cubicle, which could hardly seat two people. “Your help will be greatly appreciated.”

“Comrade Guan was a fine member of the Party. It’s my responsibility to help your work as a member of the Residents’ Committee,” Uncle Bao said seriously. “I’ll do my best.”

The Residents’ Committee was, in one sense, an extension of the local district police office, working partially, though not officially, under its supervision. The organization was responsible for everything happening outside people’s work units-arranging weekly political studies, checking the number of the people living there, running daycare centers, distributing ration coupons, allocating birth quotas, arbitrating disputes among neighbors or family members, and most important, keeping a close watch over the neighborhood. The committee was authorized to report on every individual, and the report was included as confidential in the police dossier. Thus the institution of the Residents’ Committee enabled the local police to remain in the background while maintaining effective surveillance. In some instances, the Residents’ Committee had actually helped the police solve crimes and capture criminals.

“Sorry, I did not know that you’re a member of the committee,” Chen said. “I should have consulted you earlier.”

“Well, I retired three years ago from Shanghai Number Four Steel Factory, but my old bones would have rusted if I did nothing all day. So I started working here. Besides, the committee pays a little, too.”

While a few officials of the committee were full-time cadres, most members were retired workers on pensions, receiving a little extra pay in return for their community service. In view of the high inflation in the early nineties, an additional stipend was most welcome.

“You’re doing something important for the neighborhood,” Chen said.

“Well, in addition to the public telephone services here, I also keep an eye on the dorm building security,” Uncle Bao said, “and on the whole lane, too. People cannot be too careful these days.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Chen said, noticing two phones ringing at the same time. “And it keeps you pretty busy.”

There were four phones on a wooden shelf behind the small windows. One phone was labeled “FOR INCOMING CALLS ONLY.” According to Uncle Bao, the public phone service had been originally put in for the convenience of the dorm residents only, but now people in the lane could also use the phones for just ten cents.

“When a call comes in, I write down the name and call-back number on a pad, tear off that page, and give the message to the intended recipient. If it happens to be a dorm resident, I just need to shout the name at the foot of the stairs with a loudspeaker.”

“What about the people who don’t live in the building?”

“I’ve got an assistant. She goes out to inform them, shouting with her loudspeaker under their windows.”

“So they come here to return the call, right?”

“Yes,” Uncle Bao said. “By the time everyone gets a phone at home, I will really be retired.”

“Uncle Bao.” A young girl burst into the cubicle with a gray loudspeaker in her hand.

“This is the assistant I’m talking about,” Uncle Bao said. “She’s responsible for delivering the messages to the lane residents.”

“I see.”

“Xiuxiu, this is Comrade Chief Inspector Chen,” Uncle Bao said. “Chief Inspector Chen and I need to talk about something. So take care of things here for a while, will you?”

“Sure, no problem.”

“It’s not much of a job for her,” Uncle Bao sighed, moving across the street to the table where Chen had been waiting. “But that’s all she can find nowadays.”

The fried buns had not arrived yet, but the soup was already cold. Chen ordered another bowl for Uncle Bao.

“So, any progress with your investigation?”

“Not much. Your help may be really important to us.”

“You’re welcome to whatever I know.”

“Since you’re here every day, you probably know who has a lot of visitors. What about Comrade Guan?”

“Some friends or colleagues might have visited, but not too many. On one or two occasions I noticed her with people. That’s about all I saw-during my three years here.”

“What kind of people were they?”

“I cannot really remember. Sorry.”

“Did she make a lot of calls?”

“Well, yes, more than other residents here.”

“And received a lot?”

“Yes, quite a lot, too, I would say,” Uncle Bao said reflectively. “But then it’s little wonder, for a national model worker, with her meetings and conferences.”

“Anything unusual about those phone calls?”

“No, nothing that I noticed. There’re so many calls, and I am always busy.”

“Anything you happened to have overheard?”

“It’s not proper and right, Comrade Chief Inspector,” Uncle Bao said, “for me to listen to what other people say.”

“You’re right, Uncle Bao. Forgive me for this improper question. It’s just because the case is so important to us.”

The arrival of the fried buns interrupted their discussion.

“But-as for anything unusual-now that you mention it, there might be something, I think,” Uncle Bao said, nibbling at a tiny bun. “The working hours for a public phone service station are, generally, from seven A.M. to seven P.M. For the benefit of the residents here, several of whom work the night shift, we extend our service hours- from seven A.M. to eleven P.M. Guan made quite a number of calls, I remember, after nine or ten P.M. Especially during the last half year.”

“Was that wrong?”

“Not wrong, but unusual. The First Department Store closes at eight o’clock.”

“Yes?”

“The people she called must have had private phones at home.”

“Well, she might have talked to her boss.”