Qiu Xiaolong - A Case of Two Cities

In truth, Yu had never touched a golf ball before. It was said to be symbolic of one’s social status in new China. The rich might need something for them to believe they were really rich. The white ball worked like nothing else for that purpose. But, more than that, for people like Xing or Ming, the lush meadow was also super for cultivating their connections of corruption.

“And you can bring your friends to dinner here,” she went on. “The best chef in China, he used to cook exclusively for Mao. Five Ways of Eating an Australian Lobster is today’s special.”

“Is that included in the monthly fee?”

“You must be joking, sir.”

He was not joking. There was no point in pretending any more about potentially belonging to this different world. The Nike shoes had started pinching his feet terribly.

Detective Yu took out a picture of Ming and asked, “Have you seen this man here?”

She took a look at the picture, and the brochure nearly dropped from her hand.

“You aren’t really interested in becoming a club member here, are you?” She regained her composure, looked over her shoulder toward the gate, where the security stood like a statue.

It was not the time for a confrontation. Not only was he not authorized to investigate here, but he wasn’t supposed to let anyone know of his interest. Any misstep would jeopardize the whole thing.

He whipped out a wad of money without counting it and pushed it into her hand-like a really rich man, the way he had seen in an American movie, putting a finger to his lips.

“Well, you have never asked me any questions, and I have never seen you here,” she said nervously, inserting the money into the brochure. She cast a glance-or so he thought-toward those white villas across the golf course.

That wasn’t an answer Yu had expected, but it wasn’t a simple “No” either. It meant something, he reflected. If she had never seen Ming, she would have simply said no. Rather, she initially appeared nervous, nearly panicked, and that, together with her insistence on having not met the detective or heard the question, was more than suggestive: she not only knew Ming, she also knew how critical the knowledge was.

But for the moment, there was no point his staying here and pushing any more. He rose and left.

Out of the club, he found he had less than twenty yuan in his pocket. Not enough for a taxi home, or even to the subway station. It was an area with very few people walking. It took him five minutes to find someone, from whom he learned the way to the nearest bus stop. He had to walk quite a distance.

As he dragged his steps along his long way home, the initial excitement over the hostess’s reaction began ebbing. Whatever the possible interpretations, there was hardly anything he could do. It was impossible for him to obtain a search warrant for the high-class club without evidence or a witness, even if he was officially assigned to the investigation. Perhaps he had better not call Chen about it unless he made further progress. Only he had no idea how.

And his steps grew heavier, almost lead-laden, as he visualized a stormy evening waiting for him at home. He had not done anything Peiqin had wanted him to. On the contrary, he had spent Qinqin’s English camp money, plus his own savings, on a cup of tasteless teabag tea.

He then found a little comfort in a new idea. Peiqin would be overjoyed to learn the value of their present room unit. Consequently, his failure with the day’s responsibilities was less significant. After all, they could have exchanged their room at an enormous disadvantage without his visit to Gu. And Yu might be able to pay the camp fee the next day. That meant he had to get the money from other sources. Difficult, but not impossible. As a last resort, he could turn to Old Hunter. The old man would probably approve of anything done for the sake of the chief inspector. So Yu did not have to tell Peiqin the exact truth.

He quickened his steps again. If he were lucky enough, he would be still able to buy the fresh noodles, which cost less than two yuan at a small store near home.

The bus stop came into sight.

BY EIGHT THIRTY. EVERYBODY in the delegation had heard about the tragic death of Little Huang.

The telephone kept ringing in Chen’s room like a funeral bell.

Bao was the first to come rushing into his room, declaring in a thundering voice, “It’s absolutely unacceptable. How could something like that have happened to a Chinese delegation? We have to hold the Americans fully responsible.”

“They have been working on the case,” Chen said. “I met with a local cop assigned to the case last night.”

“We have to inform the Chinese embassy of the case.”

“I’ve already done that. The embassy people are contacting Huang’s family. They may fly over as early as tomorrow.”

“We have to report this to the Foreign Ministry in Beijing. It’s a serious diplomatic incident.”

“Yes, we’ll do that, but the embassy must have notified Beijing.”

“Now what are we supposed to do here?” Shasha cut in, in her terry robe and slippers, her toenails painted like blood.

“We may have to stay here for the time being. To cooperate with the police. The American investigators will come for our statements.”

“That’s absurd,” Zhong said, striding into the room. “The American government has invited us over. One of us was murdered here, and we are going to make statements to their cops?”

“Don’t worry about the statement. Nothing but routine questions. It doesn’t mean that you are a suspect.” Chen added, “That’s also the opinion of the Chinese embassy-that we should cooperate in whatever way possible.”

“In addition to giving statements,” Zhong said, “what else can we possibly do?”

“It will be hard to continue the delegation activities as scheduled. The news must have attracted negative media attention and the university is concerned about it. So we’ll wait until further notice. In the meantime, we have to be careful.”

“Who will serve as our interpreter then?” Shasha said.

“I’ll help as much as I can,” Chen said. “I’ll talk to the Americans about it.”

Chen spent the next half hour making phone calls, making explanations, and making notes whenever he had a minute. The two local institutions originally responsible for the day’s activities were universities. One of them, Washington University, with a Chinese department, promised to send over help for interpretation.

Shortly before nine, the front desk called up, saying Detective Jonathan Lenich had arrived at the hotel in the company of a new interpreter. They were both waiting in the lobby. Chen and Bao immediately went downstairs.

“Oh, you must be Mr. Chen Cao,” a young blond woman in a white blouse and blue jeans stood up, speaking in Chinese. “I am Catherine Rohn. The university sent me over as your new interpreter. You speak English too, I know.”

“Oh, Catherine-” Chen was practically speechless at the meeting, before he realized her self-introduction in Chinese was not meant for him. “Thank you for your help, Miss Rohn.”

It was clever of her to have announced her temporary identity as an interpreter-escort. There must have been a reason for her to be sent over in that capacity. It was a sensitive case; at least so it must have seemed to some people here. Otherwise a marshal wouldn’t have been dispatched incognito.

For Chen, there was no point revealing their former relationship, either, though it could be the very reason that she was assigned here. It would have led to unnecessary speculation among the Chinese. For the moment, it was nothing but business. He’d better not mention anything to her, not even in English.