Qiu Xiaolong - Death of a Red Heroine

“As for the life I lead, it is not so good either,” he went on.

“I see.”

“So take care of yourself,” he said. “Bye.” He started walking away.

The smell of rain was in the air as he boarded a bus back to the Writers’ Home. The bus was packed, and he felt sick, covered with sweat all over again. The moment he got to his room, he took a shower. It was the second of the day. And the hot water ran short again. He hurried out of the bathroom. Sitting on the bed, he lit a cigarette.

That earlier shower at Xie’s room was much better. He felt sorry about Xie’s way of life, but he was in no position to do anything about it. It had been her choice. If the job was no more than a temporary one, as she had said, there could still be a different future for her. One thing he was supposed to do-as a cop-was to report her illegal practice to the local authorities. But he had decided not to.

Ouyang had not returned yet.

Chief Inspector Chen realized it was time for him to leave Guangzhou. His mission accomplished, he should have taken Ouyang for a farewell dinner as his treat. But it would make him feel guilty if he kept his nonpoetic identity a secret any longer from Ouyang, whom he had come to regard as a friend. So he wrote a short note, saying that he had to go back to Shanghai onurgent business, and that he would keep in touch. He also left his home phone number.

He added two lines of Li Bai to the note to him: Deep as the Peach Blossom Lake can be, But not so deep as your song you sing for me.

Then he checked out.

“Chief Inspector Chen,” he said, picking up his office phone. It was Chen’s first morning in the office after his return from Guangzhou. He had hardly had time to make himself a cup of the Black Dragon tea which was Ouyang’s gift.

“This is the office of the Shanghai Party Discipline Committee. Comrade Director Yao Liangxia wants to see you today.”

It was an unexpected call, and the voice from the other end of the line was unfriendly.

“Comrade Director Yao?” he said. “What’s it about?”

“That you need to discuss with Comrade Yao. You know where our office is, I believe.”

“Yes, I do. I will be there shortly.”

Yao Liangxia, whose late husband had been a deputy politburo member in the sixties, was herself an influential Party figure. Why should Director Yao want to see him?

Chen glanced out of his cubicle. Detective Yu had not come in yet. Party Secretary Li would not show up, as a rule, until after ten. He could make his Guangzhou report after coming back from the Party Discipline Committee.

The committee office was in Zhonghui Mansion, one of the impressive colonial-style buildings at the corner of Sichuan and Fuzhou Roads. He had passed the building many times, but he had not realized that there were so many institutions headquartered there-Old Men’s Health Society, Women’s Rights Committee, Consumers’ Rights Association, Children’s Rights Committee… He had to study the lobby directory for several minutes before locating Director Yao’s office on the thirteenth floor.

The bronze elevator had been sprayed with some supposedly high-class air freshener; the air inside felt inexplicably close. He was unable to shake off the sense of being caged even as he left the elevator, which deposited him just in front of Yao’s office.

The Party Discipline Committee had been founded in the early eighties, with its central office in Beijing and branch offices in all large cities. After the Cultural Revolution, it was realized that the Party, with its unlimited, uncensored power, was unable to resist corruption, which would eventually lead to its downfall. So the committee, mainly consisting of retired senior Party members, came into existence to prevent and punish Party members’ abuses of power. Its main responsibility as a watchdog was to exercise a sort of censorship but the committee was not an independent institution. While it had conducted several intra-Party corruption cases, most of the time it barked rather than bit. However, the committee, which was authorized to perform background checks on Party members, was influential in the process of young cadre promotion.

Chen’s knock on the office door brought out a middle-aged woman with an inquiring look. When he handed over his card, the woman, whose voice he recognized as that of the secretary on the phone, led him into an elegantly furnished reception room containing a large oyster-colored leather sofa, flanked by two mahogany chairs and a tall antique hat stand.

He had anticipated that Director Yao would keep him waiting for a while. To his surprise, Yao came out immediately and shook his hand firmly. She led him into her office and had him sit in a leather club chair in front of a huge oak desk.

Yao was an impressive-looking woman in her late sixties, squared-faced with thick eyebrows, wearing a dark suit, which was immaculate, without a single wrinkle. No jewelry. Minimal makeup. She sat straight, appearing unusually tall behind her impressive desk, perhaps due to the combined impression of her starched collar, the splendid view from the office window in back of her, as well as his seat. Sitting in a chair much lower than Yao’s, almost as if he was a witness at an inquisition, he was nervous.

“Comrade Chief Inspector Chen, I’m pleased to meet you today.” Yao spoke with a pronounced Shandong accent, which also fit the image of an “old Marxist woman,” a notorious character in the movie Black Cannon Incident, in which a Marxist bureaucrat made a fool of herself by punctuating her every speech with quotations from Marx and Mao. Chen had seen it with Wang, who joked about his becoming a “young Marxist man.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, Comrade Director Yao.”

“You’re probably not surprised to learn that you are highly regarded by us old comrades, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen. I’ve spoken to a number of people, and they all praise you as an intelligent and dedicated young cadre. You are on the seminar list of the Central Party Institute, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m still young, inexperienced. So I have so much to learn from old comrades.”

“And you are working hard, too, I know. You’ve been quite busy recently, Comrade Chief Inspector?”

“Yes, we’re short-handed.”

“Is there some important case you are responsible for?”

“Several. Every case is important-to us.”

“Well, I have heard that you are investigating the case of Guan Hongying, the national model worker.”

He didn’t know whether that was a statement or a question, so he just nodded. But how could she have heard of it, he wondered.

“Is there any result so far?”

“A few promising leads, but nothing definite. A lot of questions are unanswered.”

“What are they?”

“Such as evidence, motive, and witnesses.” He was growing uneasy, as it was beyond the scope of Yao’s office to be concerned with a homicide case. “At present, everything is just hypothetical.”

“I have asked you to come here,” she said with a stern quality in her Shandong-accented voice, “because I want to know how you are conducting the investigation.”

“It is a homicide case. We are following routine procedure.”

“You have targeted your suspect, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” He saw no point withholding the information. “At this stage, Wu Xiaoming is our main suspect.”

“Comrade Wu Bing’s son?”

“Yes.”

“How could that be? Wu Bing and I were colleagues in the early fifties, in the same office, and Wu Xiaoming used to play with our kids in the same kindergarten. I haven’t seen him lately, but he is doing a good job, I’ve learned from a cadre recommendation report from the Red Star. People have a very high opinion of him.”