Qiu Xiaolong - When Red is Black

He had not really considered this possibility because he was aware that Yin had been a nobody until the publication of Death of a Chinese Professor. No one would have given her a manuscript to read-except Yang. But the missing English manuscript that Zhuang had mentioned might have been Yang’s version of a Chinese Doctor Zhivago.

Of course, Yin would never have told anyone if Yang had left the manuscript to her, for it would have brought her no end of trouble. If the Party authorities had gotten wind of it, they would have demanded the manuscript. They would never have left anything potentially damaging to the glorious image of socialist China in such hands. Especially a manuscript written in English, meant for the market abroad. It might also have exposed her to unpleasantness if word got out about the money she might receive in the event of its publication. That, he could understand from personal experience. So far he had hardly talked to anybody about his current translation project-except to Yu. But even to Yu he had not mentioned the exact amount he was being paid. What would others have thought?

Yang could not have sued-or murdered-Yin, of course.

But who else could have known about the existence of such a manuscript? Yin had long since cut off all ties with her relatives. As for her friends and colleagues, Yin must have been too much of a dissident to ever trust anyone with something like that.

What about someone on Yang’s side? He had started the book prior to the Cultural Revolution. In the early sixties, perhaps. Though he would not have talked to people about it, it was possible that one of his relatives might have visited him and stumbled upon his writing, the way Zhuang had discovered it in the dorm.

The other possibility, of course, was Internal Security. They might have somehow learned of the existence of the manuscript, and decided to take matters into their own hands. It was possible-especially if Yin had started contacting people abroad. That would fit with their decision to withhold information about her passport renewal application. That was also why they would have searched her room before Yu’s arrival: Yu was not supposed to look in that direction. Even Party Secretary Li’s emphasis that it was not a political case fit this hypothesis.

He suddenly realized that he had almost finished the roast beef and steamed buns without having tasted them. The beef, warmed in the microwave, still juicy and tender, put between the two sides of a bun, like a Chinese sandwich, was really not bad.

White Cloud was good-not just because of this culinary invention that combined oriental and occidental cuisine.

Before he discussed these ideas with Yu, however, Chen decided to take some action on his own.

First he got in touch with Comrade Ding, an officer in charge of tapping the phones of people designated for “inside control.” Chen could have done so earlier, but with Party Secretary Li and Internal Security prowling in the background, he did not want to cause any alarm. Also, Ding was one of his connections it would be better not to use too frequently.

Ding turned out to be more cooperative than he had expected. In about forty-five minutes, Ding called back. Yin’s telephone line in the college had been tapped for some time. According to the records, there had been nothing unusual in her conversations over the last few months, but that did not prove anything. Yin would not have made any important phone calls from the office she shared with her colleagues. As for the public phone booth in Treasure Garden Lane, she almost never used it. She could have been either so lonely, or so cautious, that she made no phone calls or else made them away from the lane. Chen was more inclined toward the latter idea. There was no controlling pay phones.

Ding promised that he would check all the records with respect to Yin for the last several years. It would take time. Chen understood.

Then he made another call to the Shanghai Archives Bureau, asking for a detailed list of Yang’s relatives.

There was not a lot that Detective Yu could possibly do. Party Secretary Li had agreed that Yu might continue his investigation a little longer, but Li also emphasized that the investigation could not drag on forever.

However unreliable his confession might be, Wan had come forward of his own free will. There was always a possibility that Wan had committed the murder on the spur of the moment. Whether or not he had a specific deadline, Yu would have no more than a few more days. He doubted this additional time would make any real difference. If nothing happened soon, the case would conclude with Wan being charged with murder.

Yu did not know which way to turn now.

He discussed the investigation with Peiqin over breakfast. It was a much simpler one, with rice reboiled in water plus fermented tofu and a thousand-year egg. Peiqin, too, was disappointed; after having put in hours reading and doing research, all her efforts seemed to have come to nothing.

“According to the proverb, Miraculous discoveries are often made without effort,” she said, slicing a tender thousand-year egg immersed in soy sauce. “But it takes time and luck.”

“That’s true with police work,” he said. “An investigation can take weeks or months. It does not conclude when a Party boss sets a deadline.”

“Isn’t there anything new at all?”

“Well, I had a free meal with Lei. He insisted on it-because of Yin. Really, this is something new for me, being treated by a businessman, just like Chief Inspector Chen,” he said. “Yin did not get along with most of her neighbors, but she could be helpful to some.”

“It’s hard to judge people. She might have lived too much in the past-together with Yang-to get along with her neighbors,” she said, “or to move out of the shadow of the Cultural Revolution.”

“What a life! I, too, have read a few pages of her novel. She said her life started with Yang in the cadre school, but how long were they really together? As lovers, less than a year. Now she may have died because of him.”

“Still, she got fame and money because of him,” Peiqin said. “And the book, too, of course.”

Perhaps this was meant to comfort him, but Yu did not see how. “You may be a bit too hard on her,” he said. “After all, it was her book; she earned her royalties.”

“I have nothing against her. But it’s a fact that the novel sold so well because of him, because of her relationship with him.” She added, “What about his poetry collection, the one she edited, then?”

“Poetry earns no money, as Chief Inspector Chen always says.”

“But Yang’s collection sold out.” She added, “It was a large printing. In those years, a lot of people read poetry. I bought a copy too.”

Afterward, at the neighborhood committee office, Yu mentioned Peiqin’s point in a phone conversation with Chief Inspector Chen.

“Things have changed a lot,” Chen said. “Several years ago, the publisher would have paid just a one-time fee of about fifteen Yuan per thousand characters, or ten lines of poetry. So all in all, she would not have received much money.”

“That’s what I guessed.”

“But if her contract provided that she would earn royalties based on sales, it might be another story. Have you talked to the editor about it?”

“No. Why?”

“Well, he may tell you the amount she received,” Chen said thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Maybe you should give him a call.”

A large sum could have been a motive for murder, but it seemed to Yu that since Chen was a passionate writer and Peiqin a passionate reader, they might be overemphasizing the literary aspects of the investigation. Still, Yu made a phone call to Wei, the editor of Death of a Chinese Professor at Shanghai Literature Publishing House.