Qiu Xiaolong - Death of a Red Heroine

The club had come into being as a byproduct of the cadre retirement policy-an embodiment of the Party’s continuing concern for the revolutionaries of the older generation. The old cadres, though retired, were reassured that they did not have to worry about changes in their living standards. Not every cadre could go there, of course. Only those of a certain rank.

At first, Zhang was quite proud of holding a membership card, which earned him immediate respect, and also a number of privileges then unavailable elsewhere. It had enabled him to buy much-in-demand products at the state price, to book vacations in resorts closed to the general public, to eat in restricted restaurants with security men guarding the entrance, and to enjoy swimming, ball games, and golf at the huge club complex. There was also a small meandering creek where old people could angle away an afternoon, reminiscing about their glory years.

Of late, however, Zhang had not made many visits to the club. There were more and more restrictions on the bureau’s car service. As a retired cadre, he had to submit a written request for a car. The club was quite a distance away, and he was not enthusiastic about being squeezed and bumped all the way there in a bus. That morning he took a taxi.

At the club shop, Zhang searched for a presentable gift at a reasonable price. Everything was too expensive.

“What about a bottle of Maotai in a wooden box?” the club shop assistant suggested.

“How much is it?” Zhang asked.

“Two hundred Yuan.”

“Is that the state price? Last year, I bought one for thirty-five Yuan.”

“There’s no state price anymore, Comrade Commissar. Everything’s at the market price. It’s a market economy for the whole country,” the assistant added, “like it or not.”

It was not the price, or not just the price. It was the assistant’s indifferent attitude that upset Zhang more than anything else. It seemed as if the club had turned into an ordinary grocery store which everybody could visit and Commissar Zhang found him- self to be no more than an ordinary old man with little money in his pocket. But then, it should not be too surprising, Zhang thought. Nowadays people valued nothing but money. The economic reforms launched by Comrade Deng Xiaoping had created a world Zhang failed to recognize.

Leaving the shop empty-handed, Zhang ran across Shao Ping, a retired old cadre from the Shanghai Academy of Social Sciences. They grumbled about market prices.

“Now, Comrade Shao, you used to be the Party Secretary of the Economics Institute. Give me a lecture on the current economic reform.”

“I’m confused, too,” Shao said. “Everything’s changing so fast.”

“Is it good to have all this emphasis on money?” Zhang said.

“No, not so good,” Shao said. “But we have to reform our old system, and according to the People’s Daily, a market economy is the direction to go in.”

“But people no longer care about the Party leadership.”

“Or maybe we are just getting too old.”

On the bus, Zhang got an idea that somewhat comforted him. He had been taking a class in traditional Chinese landscape painting since his retirement. He could choose one of his paintings, have it presentably framed, and make a surprising, meaningful gift to his old comrade-in-arms.

However, the special case group meeting turned out to be very unpleasant.

Chief Inspector Chen presided. In spite of Commissar Zhang’s superior cadre rank, it was Chen who had the most important say in the group. And Chen did not seek his advice frequently-not as much as he had promised. Nor had Chen adequately informed him of the developments in the investigation.

Detective Yu’s presence in the meeting room troubled him, too. It was nothing personal, but Zhang believed that the political dimension of the case required a more enthusiastic officer. To his chagrin, Yu had remained in the group, thanks to the unexpected intervention of Chief Inspector Chen. It was an outcome which served to highlight, more than anything else, Commissar Zhang’s insignificance.

The alliance between Chen and Yu put him in a disadvantageous position. But what really worried Zhang was Chief Inspector Chen’s ideological ambiguity. Chen appeared to be a bright young officer, Zhang admitted. Whether he would prove to be a reliable upholder of the cause the old cadres had fought for, however, Zhang was far from certain. He had attempted to read several of Chen’s poems. He did not understand a single line. He had heard people describing Chen as an avant-gardist- influenced by Western modernism. He had also heard that Chen was romantically involved with a young reporter whose husband had defected to Japan.

While Zhang was still musing, Chief Inspector Chen finished his introductory remarks, saying in a serious voice, “It’s an important new direction. We have to go on with our investigation, as Commissar Zhang has told us, unafraid of hardship and death.”

“Hold on, Comrade Chief Inspector,” Zhang said. “Let’s start from the very beginning.”

So Chen had to start all over again, beginning with his second search of Guan’s dorm room, his attention to those photographs of hers, to the phone records, and then to the trip she had made to the mountains-all those leading to Wu Xiaoming, who was not only the frequent caller, but also Guan’s companion during the trip. After Chen’s speech, Yu briefed them on the interview they had had with Wu Xiaoming the previous day. Neither Chen nor Yu pushed for conclusion, but the direction of the investigation was obvious, and they seemed to take it for granted.

Zhang was astonished. “Wu Xiaoming!”

“Yes, Comrade Wu Bing’s son.”

“You should have shown me the pictures earlier,” Zhang said.

“I thought about it,” Chen explained, “but they might have turned out to be another false lead.”

“So Wu is now your main suspect, I presume?”

“Yes, that’s why I suggested the meeting today.”

“Why didn’t you discuss your interview with me earlier, I mean, before you went to Wu’s residence?”

“We tried to contact you, Comrade Commissar, early yesterday morning,” Yu said, “around seven o’clock.”

“Oh, I was doing my Taiji practice,” Zhang said. “Couldn’t you have waited for a couple of hours?”

“For such an important case?”

“What will be your next step?”

“Detective Yu will go and interview some people connected with Wu,” Chen said. “I am leaving for Guangzhou.”

“For what?”

“To find the tourist guide, Xie Rong-a witness who may know more about what happened between Guan and Wu.”

“What led you to the guide?”

“The travel agency gave her name to me, and then Wei Hong told me about the fight between Xie and Guan in the mountains.”

“Couldn’t that have been just a squabble between a tourist and a guide?”

“Possibly, but not probably. Why did Guan, a national model worker, call another woman a whore?”

“So you think that the trip will lead to a breakthrough?”

“At this point, there are no other clues, so we have to pursue this one.”

“Well, supposing Wu had had an affair with Guan,” Zhang said, “What have you got to connect him with the murder? Nothing. What could Wu Xiaoming’s motive be?”

“What are we detectives for?” Yu said.

“That’s exactly what I want to find out in Guangzhou,” Chen said.

“What about Wu’s alibi for the night of May tenth?” Zhang said.

“Guo Qiang, one of Wu’s friends, provided Wu’s alibi. Guo told Yu that Wu was with him that night, developing film at Guo’s home.”

“So an alibi isn’t an alibi, comrades?”

“Guo’s just trying to cover up for Wu Xiaoming.” Chen added, “Wu has all the equipment at home. Why should he have chosen that night to be with somebody?”