James Church - Hidden Moon

“No, Inspector, it is not exactly a secret, but we want to be discreet about this case. The fellow was hit by a bus, one of those new red double-deckers someone is shipping in from overseas.” He paused to consider this fact. “I doubt if the import approvals are in order, but that’s not our problem, bus imports.”

I nodded but said nothing. If I waited, Min would find his way back to the main point.

“The bank robber had run out of the bank and was in the middle of the street when someone-perhaps one of the foreign businessmen lolling around-pointed out he hadn’t taken the silk stocking off his face.” Min gestured at an imaginary mask. “So he stopped to remove it. That was the wrong thing to do, in the middle of the street, in front of a new red double-decker bus traveling, I’m reliably informed, at a high rate of speed. Where did a gang of bank robbers get silk stockings, do you suppose?”

“Was the gang from Chagang? Maybe they got the stockings there.”

Min snorted. “They don’t have silk stockings in Chagang, Inspector. The women all wear baggy pants and have sunburned faces. Besides, we don’t know where they were from.” He made an odd noise with his lips, an expression of annoyance at my attempt to goad him. “No one knows, but I can tell you, this one fellow won’t be going back there, wherever it is. He didn’t do well against the bus.” Min looked down at his desk and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I was called to the morgue this morning before you came in.” The chief inspector did not like corpses and hated the morgue. He only went there under extraordinary circumstances. I mentally filed away the bad news that someone had convinced him that this case was extraordinary. “I didn’t actually see the body, of course, they wouldn’t let me, but they showed me a photo, several photos, actually.”

A warning flag went up. Where was the body? “And you didn’t press the point, I suppose.”

“What point?” Min looked at me with a hint of concern, a minute lifting of the eyebrows that no more disturbed his placid exterior than a wispy cloud might mar the sky at dusk.

“Let me review, just so I have it straight.” My presentation had to be subtle; it was important that the chief inspector never know what hit him. I repeated a few points; sometimes it helps to say things to Min more than once. “This feist, assuming that is what it was, happened several days ago. Nothing was reported to us.” The passive was the safest route here. Min didn’t twitch. “It happened in our sector, but we were not informed. We might even say that the news was withheld.” Again the passive; again I paused. Min offered no protest, though his brow suggested a notch more concern. “You were brought into the case this morning and called to the morgue-a place you hate to go.” Min rocked slightly from side to side in confirmation. “When you got there, they wouldn’t let you see the body. Maybe they don’t even have it anymore. They showed you pictures, all no doubt taken in poor light with an old camera.” Again, no protest. “All of this you are instructed to mention to me only now, at lunchtime.” I looked at my watch, and Min glanced at his. “After lunch, actually. I’m telling you, it doesn’t sound like there is much urgency to this thing. And if I were suspicious, I’d say there are already signs it belongs in category three.”

When he heard the term “category three,” Min pursed his lips and closed his eyes, his brow still minutely troubled. Over the years, completely out of channels, a classification system for cases had grown up among the sector-level inspectors. The Ministry often sent down memos warning against the use of this unsanctioned system, only reinforcing suspicions that it was pretty close to accurate. Category one cases were simple enough-those we were expected to investigate and, where possible, solve. Category two cases were those we were expected to be seen as investigating but not to solve. Category three cases were those we were to avoid-leave every stone unturned. In fact, for a category three case, it was best not even to record that there were any stones. No records, no files, no nothing.

A moment later, Min’s brow cleared of concern when he realized I was not questioning his judgment but something larger, beyond his control. What was beyond his control-like bus imports-did not worry him. Category three cases never worried him. “Leave it in the compost heap, Inspector,” he’d say when we were faced with a case that screamed at us to steer clear. “Let nature take its course.”

I waited for Min to mention the compost heap. Instead, I heard, “But what if this is not category three, Inspector?” There was an undertone of petulance in his voice I didn’t like. “The Ministry has made it plain to me there is plenty of urgency to this one. Plenty of it. This file here”-he picked up the file and waved it like a cardboard battle flag-“is marked ‘Urgent.’ But there is also, shall we say, caution at the upper levels.”

“Caution.” The word hung in the air between us. “First discretion. Then caution. In equal measure, I suppose?”

Min rocked slightly in his chair, another small sign of annoyance. The chief inspector was not a man of grand gestures. Especially when he was seated, you had to pay attention to know what was going on in his nervous system. “I was told,” he said, “and this is all informal and just between us, that at first some thought…” He paused and regrouped for a moment. “Careful consideration, let us call it, was given to pretending the entire episode never happened.” He looked to make sure I was following his train of thought. “But there were seen to be a number of problems with that course, especially in this enlightened age of fresh ideas and new realities.” If Min was hoping I would nod in agreement, he was disappointed. He continued, “In the old days, this episode at the bank would have been declared a nonevent, nothing more said. We would have been instructed, quietly and discreetly, to keep our ears open for rumors of anyone with extra spending money. Either we would have found them, or we wouldn’t. But that was then, this is now.”

“Maybe so, but I’d say that having someone with a silk stocking over his head riding on the front of a double-decker bus… ”

“Red.”

“… a red double-decker bus in the middle of the day would get noticed. Rumors would start going around.”

“Oh, yes. It is worse than that, let me tell you, Inspector. An English businessman about to enter the bank stopped at the front door for some unknown reason and saw the whole thing. Maybe he’s the one who made the fatal suggestion that the robber remove the stocking from his face. By now, the whole damned foreign community has heard the story from this Englishman, and they have heard it in detail. More detail than, in fact, actually exists. They’re spinning tales about it, laughing over drinks in their snobby bars. This is what comes of opening to the outside. Too many eyes that don’t know when to look the other way. Too many eyes, too many round eyes.” He shook his head. “And then what? Options fade, exits close, impossible orders come down to the Ministry from above, and before you know it, they pass through the Ministry like a dinner of bad fish and land, at last, on us.”

Min pinched the bridge of his broad nose. “Us,” he said in a resigned tone. His eyelids fluttered delicately. They did that sometimes. I often wondered if it was a practiced gesture. It had to be done just right; otherwise it would look like a nervous tic. “The whole damned foreign community knows,” he said, “and you, the inspector whose district includes the bank, have heard nothing?” He was suddenly silent, and then he made that noise again with his lips. I had a feeling I knew where we were heading. “I have on this badge, as you can easily see, Inspector.” He pointed at his chest. “It is said to signify our allegiance and great respect for those to whom we offer such things without question.”