Qiu Xiaolong - Red Mandarin Dress

“Did the neighborhood or local police station try to look into the circumstances of her death?” Chen interrupted again.

“No, it was nothing for a woman of her black family background to die those days. An accident, the neighborhood committee concluded. I tried to talk to the boy, but he wouldn’t say anything.”

Comrade Fan sighed, breaking the last piece of mo, putting them all back into the bowl, and rubbing his hands.

It was a more detailed account about the circumstances of her death, but it didn’t provide anything really new or substantial.

Chen had a feeling that Fan had something left unsaid. An old, experienced cop like Fan, however, knew what he should and shouldn’t say, and there was little Chen could do about it.

Was it possible that Fan, too, had been a secret admirer? Chen made no immediate comment, finishing his part of the mo-breaking. The waiter took their two bowls to the kitchen. An old woman passed by their table, waving a string of beads toward them.

“I’ve heard that she was a stunner in her day,” Chen said. “Did she have some admirer or lover?”

“It’s an interesting question,” Fan said. “But in those days, it was unimaginable for a woman of her black family background to have a secret lover. Even husbands and wives were divorced because of political considerations. ‘A couple are like two birds; when in a disaster, one flies to the east, one to the west.’ ”

“It’s a quote from the Dream of the Red Chamber,” Chen said. “You have read a lot.”

“Well, what can a retired old cop do? I read books while babysitting my grandson.”

“Now can you tell me something about her son, Comrade Fan?”

“He moved out of the neighborhood to stay with a relative. After the Cultural Revolution, he studied at a college and got a good job, I heard. That’s about all I know.”

Chen hesitated to talk about the possibility he had been contemplating. He had nothing to support such a wild scenario. At least he should check some documents first.

“What a tragic story,” he said. “Sometimes you can hardly believe that these things happened during the Cultural Revolution.”

“How many things have happened, true or false, past or present, and you talk about them over a cup of wine,” Fan said. “The tea here is not too bad.”

It was like an echo from another classic novel.

Then Chen’s cell phone rang. It was Detective Yu.

“Did you call me last night, Chief?”

“Yes, but it was late. So I was going to give you a call this morning.”

“What’s it all about, Chief? Where have you been? I looked everywhere for you. And where are you-”

“I know, and I’ll explain later. Right now I’m in the company of Comrade Fan, a retired neighborhood cop of the Henshan Road Area. He is helping me.”

“A neighborhood cop of Henshan Road?”

“Yes. Whatever you are doing at this moment, drop it. Go to Tian’s steel mill and gather as much information as possible about him, particularly about his activity as a member of the Mao Zedong Thought Propaganda Team. Call me with anything you get-”

“Hold on, Chief. Party Secretary Li is having another emergency meeting this morning. It’s Thursday morning.”

“Forget about Party Secretary Li and his political meeting. If he says anything, tell him it’s my order.”

“I’ll do that,” Yu said. “Anything else?”

“Oh, ask Old Hunter to give me a call.” He added, “It’s important. As you have said, it’s Thursday.”

The waiter brought them a small dish of peeled garlic, a sort of appetizer for the mo in the mutton soup.

“Oh, do you know Old Hunter?” Fan asked as Chen turned off his phone.

“Yes, his son Yu Guangming is my longtime partner. Old comrades like you, like Old Hunter, are so resourceful. He is doing a great job at the traffic control committee.”

“Now I remember, Chief Inspector Chen. You were the acting head of the traffic office, and you recommended him for the position. Old Hunter mentioned it to me,” Fan said, putting down his chopsticks. “You also mentioned someone in a steel mill?”

“Yes, Tian of Shanghai Number One Steel Mill,” Chen said. “About the investigation, let me put it this way. Mei passed away a long time ago, but the exact circumstances of her death may throw light on another case involving people still alive, including Tian.”

“But what can you do about something that happened during the Cultural Revolution? It’s a can of worms the government doesn’t want to open up.”

“Confucius says, ‘You know that it is impossible to do, but as long as it is something you should do, you have to do it.’ ”

“It’s not common for a young chief inspector to quote Confucius like that,” Fan said. “Do you really mean-”

The phone rang again. This time, it was Old Hunter.

“What’s up, Chief Inspector Chen?”

“I have to ask another favor of you, Uncle Yu,” Chen said. “We are going to play our old trick again-like in the national model case, remember? I hate to bother you like that, but I can’t rely on those people in the bureau.”

“A new case?”

“I’ll explain the case to you later, but any responsibility for it will be mine.”

“Come on. You don’t have to explain anything, Chief Inspector Chen. Whatever you want me to do, it’s not something against the conscience of a retired cop, that much I know. So go ahead and tell me: when and where?”

“At this moment, I want you to hold yourself ready with a traffic violation ticket and a tow truck. Also, you’d better stay in the office for the day, so I can reach you there at any time.” He changed the topic abruptly. “Oh, I am talking with someone you know: Comrade Fan. Do you want to say hi to him?”

“Hi, Old Hunter,” Fan said, taking the phone. “Yes, I’m talking with Chief Inspector Chen. You have worked with him, haven’t you?”

For the next two or three minutes, Fan listened carefully, barely interrupting except for saying “yes” and nodding. With the phone volume turned up to the maximum, some words in Old Hunter’s excited voice were indistinctly audible, possibly telling Fan his opinion of the chief inspector. Possibly positive. But Fan remained cautious, speaking only single words or fragmented phrases instead of sentences.

Fan finally said, “I will, of course. I owe you a big one, Old Hunter.”

The waiter came back to the table, carrying over two big bowls of mo in the steaming hot mutton soup, the mo golden against red soup with chopped green onion. The sight of it drove away the lingering chill of the night.

“Old Hunter and I have been cops all our lives,” Fan said, raising his chopsticks. “After over thirty years on the force, we remain at the bottom. You know Old Hunter well. An able, conscientious cop. Just because he’s incapable of doing things against his conscience, he’s a failure professionally. I may not be as able, but I, too, have held to my principles.”

“Confucius says,” Chen said, “‘There are things you do, and things you do not do.’ It’s not easy to be a cop.”

“Your father was a Confucian scholar, Old Hunter just told me. No wonder,” Fan said, putting down his chopsticks. “Many years ago, I worked with Old Hunter on a homicide case. I got into big trouble, and he saved me. Suffice it to say that it was something I did on principle, which I never regretted. As a result, I was reassigned as a neighborhood cop. It was a huge setback for a young officer, but without his help, I could have ended up in one of those labor camps. Now that he’s told me what kind of a man you are, I don’t think I need to be concerned anymore.”

“Thank you for telling me all this. But what are you concerned about, Comrade Fan?”