Qiu Xiaolong - A Case of Two Cities

“An American student told me that buffet is characteristic of the Chinese. That’s so untrue,” Shasha commented languidly. “The same with fortune cookies. What an irony. We have never had fortune cookies in China.”

Chen looked at his watch: seven-twenty. It was about time for their routine political study, and everybody had come in except Little Huang. Usually, the young man was punctual. According to Zhong, Huang had headed out alone. Little Huang might have strolled out after the bath and lost his way.

“We don’t have to wait for him. He’ll come back,” Bao said, “with the hotel card and phone number in his pocket. Don’t worry.”

Chen was not worried. Huang spoke English, was capable of making it back to the hotel on his own. The meeting did not last long. People had many different things to do, with the mall located underneath the hotel. Chen, too, sneaked out again and made another call, but he got the same message.

When he got back to the room, he took a Budweiser from the refrigerator and turned on the TV. There was a show about people talking in a bar, hilariously, with an invisible audience bursting into constant laughter. While he understood most of the dialogue, he failed to make out the occasion for the audience’s guffaws. And he felt inexplicably frustrated.

Around nine-thirty, he called Little Huang’s room. No one answered. Because of his interpreter position, Little Huang had never missed a group meeting or stayed out late by himself. Nor had he mentioned any friend or relative in the city. Chen contacted the front desk. The night manager promised she would check and call back with any information. Chen took his shower.

Around eleven, the night manger, too, became concerned, and she called Chen. After a short discussion with Chen, she contacted the local police about a possible missing person. It was not an ordinary tourist, but a Chinese delegation member.

The response came shortly after midnight. A body had been found on the corner of Seventh and Locust Street. There was no identification on the body, but it was a young Asian male.

Chen rushed out in a hotel car. There was hardly any traffic at this late hour. The car drove straight to the mortuary. There, a night-shift clerk led him to a room and pulled out a stretcher. The dead man under the white sheet was none other than Little Huang-his glasses missing, his hair disheveled, and his face already waxlike.

The body had been discovered by a patrolling cop. According to an initial report, the victim’s skull was crushed by some heavy, blunt-edged object. Possibly with one blow. The estimated time of death was between five-thirty to six. The report pointed to a possible robbery case gone wrong. Huang’s wallet and other identification all vanished. There was no sign of struggle before his death. No bruises or any other wounds on his body.

Shortly afterward, Jonathan Lenich, a local homicide cop, arrived at the mortuary. A dapper man with gray eyes and silver-streaked temples, Detective Lenich appeared sleepy and grumpy. He looked at the dead body, and then at Chen.

“A visiting Chinese writer?” Detective Lenich said.

“An interpreter for the delegation,” Chen said.

“He looks like a visiting Chinese.”

There seemed to be an emphasis on the word “visiting.” Chen wondered what his American counterpart was driving at.

“A Chinese local would be dressed more casually, a jacket and jeans, but a Chinese visitor dresses far more formally-black suit and scarlet silk tie. And look at his shoes, another telltale sign.”

Chen nodded. The American had a point, though how the shoes could have made such a difference, Chen wondered. Also, would a mugger have observed that carefully? “So you think he was an easy target here?”

“Well, that’s not exactly what I mean.”

“A robbery and homicide case?”

“We’ll need to wait for the autopsy report-but we won’t learn much from that, I’m afraid. We’ll need statements from you and other members of your delegation.”

“I understand,” Chen said somberly. “But what about the location? The hotel is at the center of downtown, and Huang could not have walked far. It’s hard to imagine how somebody could have been mugged and murdered there. And it was still light-”

“That’s something you don’t understand, Mr. Chen. Downtown isn’t safe, even in broad daylight. St. Louis has a very high crime rate.”

But Chief Inspector Chen couldn’t help but think of other scenarios. Perhaps he needed to explore Little Huang’s background first. With his own experience in the Foreign Liaison Office, he knew people working there usually had special backgrounds. At the least Party membership and approved political status, and often much more than that, sometimes they were even directly trained and controlled by Internal Security. What about Little Huang? Not just an interpreter, but one for a delegation visiting the United States. It was an extraordinary opportunity for a young person like Little Huang. Could he have been assigned a secret mission? If so, anything could have happened.

“A high crime rate indeed-it happened only about two hours after our arrival here,” Chen said, trying to respond, and to clear his own thoughts. “As for a robbery-murder scenario, he was killed with one blow…”

“At a close distance.”

“Do you think an ordinary mugger could have hit like that? One single blow delivered from behind, the victim unaware of the approaching danger.”

“That’s a good point, Mr. Chen. For a poet, you seem to know a lot about homicide.”

“I have translated American mysteries.”

“No wonder you speak English well. Killers can be desperate or demented, different from the people in your poems,” Detective Lenich said. “My colleague is making a list of people with a history in the neighborhood. I’ll start checking their alibis early tomorrow morning-or rather, this morning. Then I’ll come to speak to your delegation members.”

“What can I do?”

“Go back to your hotel. I’ll come over later in the morning.”

By the time Chen got back to the hotel, it was almost four o’clock. The first gray light came filtering in through the blinds. He slumped across the bed, worn out yet intensely wakeful, like a bulb before exploding.

The murder had happened while he was serving as the delegation head, and he had to hold himself more or less responsible. If no one had been allowed to go out alone, the tragedy might have been avoided. Bao had grumbled about Chen’s laxity in enforcing delegation regulations, though as the Party secretary, Bao would share equal responsibility.

But what if there was something else behind the homicide? What if one of the Chinese writers was involved?

Chen got up, took a cold shower, and started making notes in an effort to brainstorm. He started by ruling out possibilities.

Little Huang seemed to have gotten along well with the writers. He knew his position, so to speak, and he showed proper respect to everyone. It was true that his English occasionally caused miscommunications. Shasha had once declared that she didn’t trust him, but her remark could have been made for Chen’s benefit. Bao was perhaps the only one who had seriously complained about Little Huang, claiming that the interpreter curried favor with Chen. Even so, it would be hard to imagine that Bao or any of the others would have committed murder because of such grudges-unless there was something else between Little Huang and them that Chen didn’t know about.

In another scenario, Little Huang might have had an antidefection mission for the delegation. In that event, someone with such an intention might have panicked and killed Little Huang. But defection was less common in the nineties, and Chen didn’t see why any of his fellow writers would have any reason to do so.