Qiu Xiaolong - The Mao Case

That morning, she was the only visitor there – apart from Chen.

“Oh you’re here,” he said. “No one else will come today, I’m afraid,” she responded. “How did you get in?”

“I didn’t know anything, so I came over, as usual.”

“You had a long talk with the cop out in the garden. It must have been about the death of Yang. Does he have any clues?”

“No. Nothing so far. According to Officer Song, she couldn’t have gotten in by herself. Someone must have opened the door for her – that is, unless she had her own key.”

“Her own key?” Jiao repeated, a frown creasing her brows. “No, I don’t think so. Yang came only for the class.”

“At her estimated time of death, Mr. Xie was alone in the house, but he knew nothing about it.”

“Oh my god! So is Xie a suspect?”

“Well -” he said, struck by the concern on her face. “I’m no cop. It’s not for me to say.”

“But do you know the policeman? He showed you something.”

“No. I’ve read a lot of mysteries so Officer Song thought he could discuss the case with me a little, and he showed me a picture. He asked me a considerable number of questions too.”

“Xie couldn’t have done anything like that.”

“Does he have any enemies – or people who hate him?”

“I don’t think he has any enemies – except some distant relatives of his, who also lay claim to the house. If he got into trouble, it might be their chance.”

That made him think of another possibility – the real estate company with connections in both black and white ways – but he asked instead, “Do you think Yang could have sneaked into the garden?”

“No, not without a key. Xie always keeps the keys with him – on his key ring.” She then added hesitantly, as if in afterthought, “About three months ago, Xie was sick. We helped him to the hospital, taking care of him there in turns. So Yang could have gotten hold of his key.”

“That’s a possibility, but it won’t help much. Anybody could say that his key was stolen and duplicated.”

“He didn’t do it, that I know. You have to help him. You are so resourceful, Mr. Chen.”

“I don’t think he did it either, but cops think only of evidence or alibis -”

“Alibis?”

“An alibi proves,” he said, looking her in the eyes, “someone was incapable of committing the crime because he was somewhere else, or with somebody else, at the time of the murder.”

“Xie’s incapable of telling a lie!” she exclaimed.

“But you have to prove it.”

“Oh – what’s the exact time the murder took place?”

“Her time of death was estimated as roughly the period from ten o’clock to midnight, according to Officer Song.”

“Alibi – let me think – now I remember, I do remember,” she said. “He was with me at the time. I was posing for him in this room.”

“What! You were posing for him then? Then why didn’t he say so?”

“I posed for him – yes – nude,” she said with an inexplicable glimmer in her eyes. “He couldn’t afford professional models, so I did it for free. He didn’t tell people about it because he was concerned about my reputation. That’s why.”

That was a stunning revelation. Chen had heard stories about Xie’s students posing in the studio, but even if that might not be uncommon for a painting class, he had to wonder: was she posing for “romantic” reasons? Chen suspected that, what with the mansion, the collection, the painting, and the parties, not to mention what Xie had gone through during the Cultural Revolution, the older man had no money or energy left to do more than pose as a Baoyu or Don Juan, but one never knew.

Still, Jiao’s statement made some sense. Even in the nineties, in Shanghai, a nude model was seen as someone shameless. Jiao wasn’t even professional, and stories about it could easily lead to speculation.

Jiao was already running toward the staircase, raising her arms, calling out loud upstairs:

“Xie, you should have told the cops that I was posing for you here last night.”

It was a dramatic development. The officer stationed at the foot of the staircase looked flabbergasted. Chen wondered whether she was shouting for Xie’s benefit upstairs.

But Xie could have told Song about his painting session with her; he didn’t have to say that she was posing nude. There was no need for him to be that overprotective – at such a cost to himself.

If what she said wasn’t true, however, why did she take the risk of making up an alibi for him? That confirmed, if anything, his earlier impression that there might be something between Jiao and Xie.

Chen was lighting a cigarette for himself when Song hurried back into the living room.

“What, Chen?”

“Jiao was with Xie last night.”

Song stared at Chen, who said nothing else. It was a surprise move by Jiao, for which Chen didn’t hold himself responsible, though it served his purpose.

He decided to leave. There was no point staying with Song, who appeared increasingly infuriated with the unexpected development. With Xie and Jiao providing alibis for each other, it would be out of the question for Internal Security to revert to their original plan.

Besides, Chief Inspector Chen was going to make a phone call to Beijing, like a capable and conscientious cop, as the minister had commended.

AGAIN, CHEN WAS LOST in a recurring dream scene – of an ancient gray gargoyle murmuring in the twilight-covered Forbidden City, in the midst of black bats flapping around the somber grottos – when he was awakened.

For several seconds, he lay with his face burrowed in the white pillow, trying to tell whether it could possibly be the sound of water dripping in the palace. It was the phone shrilling through the first gray of the morning. Picking it up, he heard Yong’s voice coming from Beijing.

“She has come back. You know what? He has a little secretary, that heartless bastard. She just found out. So she’s staying with her parents for now.” Yong’s voice was crisp and clear, not at all like the blurred murmuring in the dream. He listened, rubbing his eyes, still disoriented.

“What?” he said. “Who has a little secretary?”

“Who else? The damned bastard she married.”

“Oh.” He reached for a cigarette when the anger in Yong’s voice finally dawned on him. He propped himself up on an elbow.

“Now don’t keep saying oh. Say something else. Do something, Chen.”

But what could he do?

It wasn’t for the police to catch somebody’s “little secretary,” which had become part of the “socialism with Chinese characteristics.” An upstart invariably had a little secretary – his young mistress – as a symbol of his wealth and success. In some cases, even a “little concubine” as well. For Ling’s husband, a businessman and official of an HCC family background, it would actually be surprising for him not to have one.

“Things might not be beyond hope between you two. Come to Beijing, Chen. She isn’t happy. You and Ling should talk. I have a lot of suggestions for you.”

“I’m in the middle of an investigation, Yong,” he said, his mouth inexplicably dry. “An important investigation.”

“You’ve always been busy – thinking of nothing but your police work. That’s really your problem, Chen. She told me she thought of you even on her honeymoon. You may be an exceptional cop, but I’m so disappointed in you.”

Yong hung up in frustration – an echo of his neighbor’s door slamming shut across the corridor.

Chen dug out the ashtray full of cigarette butts and burnt matches from the last couple of days. What he had told Yong was true. This was a Mao Case, he couldn’t explain even to her.