Qiu Xiaolong - A Loyal Character Dancer

“It may be a fake, a knockoff,” Chen commented.

“I thought about that, too. Tang said that it’s not likely. He has never seen fake Valentino pajamas here. Knockoffs come in large quantities. No one will try to make just one or two pieces. A month ago, there was a raid on a warehouse and more than three hundred thousand cheap Polo logo T-shirts were found. If they had been put on the market, the real, high-priced Polo brand shirts would have been unsaleable.”

“Tang has a good point.”

“I also had a discussion with Dr. Xia. That’s why I did not have time to call you. The good doctor’s willing to go out of his way for you. Remember the unidentified drug he found in the body of the ax-murder corpse? When we discussed the fact the victim had had sex shortly before he was killed, the doctor got an idea that the mysterious drug might be a sort of aphrodisiac, and he took out a thick reference volume there and then. Sure enough, he found a drug with similar molecular structure. At the time when the book was published, this drug was available only in Southeast Asia. It can be very expensive.”

“The victim must have been able to afford expensive luxuries, with such a brand of pajamas, and such a drug, but he doesn’t sound like one of those new capitalists to me.”

“I agree,” Old Hunter said. “I will do further research tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Uncle Yu. Not a single word about your discovery to the people in the bureau.”

“I understand, Chief Inspector Chen.”

It was almost twelve as Chen put down the phone. All in all, the day had not ended too badly, though his dream had been broken into by the phone call.

Of that dream, only one fragmented scene remained in his mind. He was walking to an ancient bridge over a Qing dynasty moat, alone, crunching over a blanket of golden leaves, somewhere in the Forbidden City. A poem by Zhang Bi, a Tang dynasty poet, came to mind.

The dream comes lingering back to the old place:

The winding verandah, the circling balustrade.

There is nothing like the moon, still shining on the petals

Fallen in the spring court, for the lonely visitor.

Chief Inspector Chen made himself another cup of black coffee, trying to cleanse his palate and his mind of the dream. This was not a night for recollecting poems. He had to think.

The phone began ringing before her alarm went off. Rubbing her eyes, Catherine snatched up the receiver. It was her boss’s voice on the line, clear, familiar, though thousands of miles away. “Sorry to wake you, Catherine.”

“It’s okay.”

“How are things?”

“Lousy,” she said. “The Fujian police have made no progress. Here in Shanghai, we’ve not gotten any leads by interviewing Wen’s possible contacts.”

“You know the trial date. The INS has been driving us crazy.”

“Is it possible to postpone the trial?”

“Not a popular idea, I’m afraid.”

“Politics. Here, too. Is there any information about the gang that threatened Feng?”

“Feng has not heard from them again. We have taken your suggestion and are keeping him in the same place. If the gang has Wen, they will send another more explicit message to him.”

“The Chinese believe that the triad is looking for her but may not have her yet.”

“What’s your opinion of the Chinese?”

“The Shanghai Police Bureau or Chief Inspector Chen?”

“Well, both,” Spencer said.

“The bureau has made a point of treating me as a distinguished guest. Party Secretary Li Guohua, the bureau’s top official, is going to meet me today or tomorrow. A courtesy, I guess. As for Chief Inspector Chen, I would say he works conscientiously.”

“I’m glad to hear they treat you well, and your Chinese partner is a decent guy. Now about Chen, the CIA would like you to gather some information on him.”

“They want me to spy on him?”

“That is too strong a word, Catherine. Just pass on the information you happen to have about him. What people is he associated with? What cases does he handle? What books does he read and write? That kind of thing. The CIA has its own sources, but you are someone they can trust.”

She agreed but she did not like it.

Then the phone rang again. It was Chen.

“How are you this morning, Inspector Rohn?”

“Much better.”

“Your ankle?”

“The paste has worked. No problem today,” she said, rubbing her ankle, which still felt slightly tender.

“You scared me yesterday.” There was relief in his voice. “Are you up for another interview today?”

“Sure. When?”

“I have a meeting this morning. What about this afternoon?”

“Then I’ll do a little research in the Shanghai Library in the morning.”

“About Chinese secret societies?”

“Right.” In addition, she was going to collect some information about Chen. Not merely for the CIA.

“The library is also on Nanjing Road. A taxi will take you there in less than five minutes.”

“I’ll walk if it is so close.”

“That’s up to you. I’ll meet you at twelve in a restaurant opposite the library, across the street. The Verdant Willow Village. That’s the name of the restaurant.”

“See you then.”

After a quick shower, she left the hotel. She strolled along Nanjing Road, an extended shopping center, not only lined with shops on both sides, but also with rows of peddlers in front of the shops. She crisscrossed the street several times, lured by the interesting window displays. She had not done any shopping since her arrival.

At the intersection of Zhejiang Road, she had to resist the temptation to enter a vermilion restaurant with engraved pillars sustaining a yellow-glazed tile roof-an imitation of the ancient Chinese architectural style. A waitress dressed in the Qing dynasty costume bowed enticingly to the people passing by. Instead, Catherine bought a piece of sticky rice cake from one of curbside peddlers, nibbling it like the Shanghai girls walking in front of her. It was rather fashionable to talk about the Chinese people as natural capitalists, born wheelers and dealers, and to explain the economic boom in that way, but she believed it was their collective energy released after so many years of state economic control, being given the opportunity to do something for themselves for the first time, that had led to the transformation she saw around her.

And she encountered no more curious glances than she would have in St. Louis. Nor did she meet with any accident except shoulder-bumping and elbow-pushing as she squeezed past a crowded department store. She had been disturbed by the accidents in the last two days, but perhaps she had been clumsy from jet lag. She was well rested that morning. Soon she came in view of the library. She gave small change to beggars on the steps as she would have done in St. Louis.

As she entered the Shanghai Library, an English-speaking librarian came over to help. She had two subjects, the Flying Axes and Chen. To her surprise, Catherine found practically nothing on triads in their literature. Perhaps writing about those criminal activities was forbidden in contemporary China.

She found several magazines containing Chen’s poems and translations. And a few translations of mysteries under Chen’s name, too. Some of them she had read in English. What fascinated her was the stereotyped “translator preface” for each of the books. It consisted of an introduction giving the author’s background, a brief analysis of the story, and an invariable conclusion using political clichés- due to the author’s ideological background, the decadent values of the Western capitalist society cannot but be reflected in the text, and Chinese readers should be alert against such influence …