Qiu Xiaolong - When Red is Black

When he heard footsteps mounting the stairs, he paid no attention. There were so many people in the building. Some of the women went to the food market quite early in the morning. But when he heard the sound of the key being inserted in the lock, he was thrown into a panic. He rushed to hide behind the door, hoping he might somehow sneak out unseen. Her face registered horror upon the sight of the ransacked room, in which most of the drawers had been emptied out, and the shoeboxes shoved into the middle of the floor. As she turned in his direction, he jumped out, snatched up the pillow from the bed, and covered her face while pushing her body hard up against the wall. He was trying to stop her from shouting, but he used too much force. When he finally let go of the pillow, she collapsed to the floor like a sack.

It was impossible for him to stay with her corpse in that tiny room.

He knew that he could not take the slightest risk of being seen or recognized by a neighbor, now that this had happened. It was a murder case now. He picked up the manuscript and the few valuables he had found, opened the door to her room, and stepped out onto the stairs. He could not leave the building through the front door. At any second, people might come from the rooms in the wings on either side.

As he went downstairs toward the back door, he saw the woman peeling shrimp outside. He could not retreat, so he had no choice but to hide in the space under the staircase. He did not have a plan; he was just bumping about like a headless fly. After the longest two or three minutes of his life, he heard some commotion in the lane. He peered out and saw that the shrimp woman was no longer there.

He dashed out.

Bao’s narration lasted nearly two hours. Yu almost used up the tape. A few minutes before Bao finished, Chen returned carrying his briefcase and the manuscript under his arm.

A large part of Bao’s tale confirmed Yu’s earlier hypothesis, though some details surprised him.

“He did it,” Yu said, nodding to Chen.

Chen put the manuscript on the bed, in front of Bao. “Did you know that Yin had this English manuscript?”

“No, I had no clue,” Bao said. “But I had wondered about it. My mother thought she might have it. My mother had never met her uncle Yang, you know.”

“Shall we take him to the bureau now?” Yu asked.

“Yes. I called Little Zhou from the restaurant downstairs. He said he’d be here at one o’clock in a bureau car. He may be waiting downstairs now.”

They walked Bao down. Sure enough, Little Zhou was waiting for them in a Mercedes.

“Chief Inspector Chen, we will always have the best bureau car for you.”

Chen seemed to be lost in thought as he tapped his fingers on his bulging briefcase, which rested on the seat beside him.

“I have one question, Chief Inspector Chen,” Yu said. “Yang’s novel manuscript should have been kept in the bank safe, together with his translation of Chinese poetry into English. Why did she leave it in her room?”

“She was too clever for her own good. Do you think the safety deposit box would be safe enough for someone like her?” Chen said. “She might have purposely rented a bank box so people would assume her valuables were there and would not suspect that she kept anything important in her room.”

The investigation of Yin Lige’s case had been successfully concluded, Chen could assure himself, and the translation of the New World business proposal was finished. But the phone in his apartment started ringing early in the morning, like an alarm clock set at the wrong hour. It was Gu.

As Chen listened to him, a line came to mind. What will come, eventually comes.

That line had been inscribed beneath a traditional Chinese painting of a wild white goose carrying an orange sun on its wings, an exquisite painting he had seen years ago, in Beijing, in the company of a friend. It had hung on the wall of her room in Muxudi.

The line would often come back to him unexpectedly. This morning, what brought it back was a request for a multi-level garage, or, to be exact, for additional land close to the New World upon which such a garage could be constructed. Gu had a number of good reasons for this request, which he had made to the city government, and now he was telling Chen about it.

“So many people will come to the New World, not only in taxis, but in their own cars. For most of these customers, private cars will be a matter of course. The middle class is no longer interested in shopping along Nanjing Road. Why? There is no parking and no garage space. That’s at least one big reason. GM has already signed a multi-year agreement with the Shanghai government for a gigantic automobile joint venture. In addition to Volkswagens, you will soon see as many Buicks in Shanghai as in New York. The New World will be a landmark for this century, and for the next one. We have to be foresighted in our business planning or the neighboring area will be terribly jammed with traffic.”

“That may be true,” Chen said.

“This concerns the image of our city, especially from perspective of the city traffic control office. I believe it’s important to take preventive measures.” Gu added, “You were the director of that office, I remember.”

“Acting director. I was only the acting director for a short while.”

“Oh, what’s the name of that secretary of yours? Meiling or something. She simply adores you. ‘The temple is too small for a god like Chief Inspector Chen,’” was what she said, the night she was with you at the Dynasty Club. The traffic control office will surely do whatever you say.”

So Gu was asking him to put in a word on his behalf to the city traffic control office.

“You cannot rely on Meiling’s words, Mr. Gu,” Chen said. “Why didn’t you put this request in your earlier proposal to the city government?”

“It’s such a big project that some details may have been overlooked.”

But Gu had not overlooked this necessity, Chen was sure. Gu must have had in mind Chen’s former position when he’d offered him the well-paid translation project, and sent him White Cloud as a little secretary, as well as the air-conditioner that now stood against the bookshelf, the heater in the bathroom, the presents on his mother’s nightstand in the hospital-and the tip about Bao’s address, too.

There’s no free lunch. He should have known better.

After having translated the New World business proposal, however, he believed that the request was a reasonable one. In fact, he found himself attracted to the vision of the New World, and not only because he had been paid so generously for the translation of the proposal; he had come to believe that the project would enhance the cultural image of the city. For a fast-developing city like Shanghai, cultural preservation could be of great significance, even though the New World was designed to meet only the demand for an exterior retro look.

And for a grand project like this, a multi-story garage would be necessary. It would be a disaster for Huaihai Road, as well as the neighboring areas, to be jammed with cars of New World shoppers parked everywhere at random. So the traffic control office might make a suggestion to the city government.

For Gu, the grant of land in the heart of the city, in the name of cultural preservation, would save him a huge amount of money, and perhaps even the project itself. Businessmen applied to the city government for the use of land and the government charged them in accordance to the specified land usage. For a high-end commercial use like the New World, Gu would have had to pay a very large sum. But, as he had confided to Chen, Gu had applied instead for a cultural preservation project. Of course he had not included a multi-level garage in that proposal, for it would have aroused suspicion. But as an add-on, backed up by the traffic control office, he might get quick approval. What Gu had paid for the translation was nothing, like a feather plucked from a Beijing duck, compared with what he hoped to gain.