Qiu Xiaolong - The Mao Case

“Oh, your receipt,” the taxi driver said with evident concern in his voice. “Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m fine,” he said, taking the receipt, which showed a large amount. The taxi driver must have been driving him around for quite a while before asking him for his destination.

He moved out of the car groggily, his head aching like the Monkey in Journey to the West, wearing a cursed hoop around his forehead.

TWO HOURS LATER, DR. XIA was writing out a prescription in his office, his silver brows knitted in a frown, after having taken both a CT scan and X-rays of Chen.

Dr. Xia had been on the forensic staff of the police bureau. After retirement, he started working part-time as an “expert” at a clinic close to his home. He and Chen had known each other well in the bureau.

“Really touch and go,” Dr. Xia said seriously, examining the X-rays one more time. “Your shoulder injury isn’t too bad. No bone was broken. But I’m worried about the impact on your head. You have to rest for a week. Keep away from work and take good care of yourself. Don’t forget your breakdown not too long ago.”

“You know the work at the bureau -”

His cell phone rang before he could finish the sentence. It was Gang. Chen had to speak under the glare of Dr. Xia.

“I have already contacted Feng, my assistant during the Cultural Revolution. A Big Buck now, he still calls me Commander in Chief.”

“That’s good,” Chen said. “Did he recall anything about the special team from Beijing?”

“They came to get something Shang might have had, but were unsuccessful. She committed suicide.”

“Did Feng know what they were looking for?”

“No, he didn’t. The special team probably didn’t either, but they wanted to prevent any local Red Guards from coming near her, so that was why they contacted Feng for cooperation. It could have been top secret. Also, it seemed to be a different group from those sent by Madam Mao from Beijing. Feng had met with some of those other teams.”

“What was the difference?”

“Those other teams knew what they were looking for. Newspaper clippings and pictures concerning Madam Mao in the thirties. They were not that secretive or stealthy, either. In fact, Feng went in with them, helping to turn everything upside down in the houses of those target families. But the special team for Shang didn’t request any help like that, nor were they interested in those things from the thirties.”

“That is surely different. Did Feng recall any team member’s name or keep in touch?”

“One of them was surnamed Sima. A rare surname, that’s why Feng remembered it. Probably from a cadre family, that Sima, and he spoke with an authentic Beijing accent.” Gang added, “Among other things, Sima mentioned Shang’s dresses and shoes, two closets full of them, and the cameras and film-developing equipment at her home, which were rare in those years. So he was impressed. That’s about all Feng could remember.”

After so many years, that was probably about all anyone could have remembered. Still, it was a sort of random harvest to Chen, particularly the part about the special team looking for something at the request of someone other than Madam Mao. That explained the urgency after so many years. Madam Mao had long turned into “dog shit,” and some additional “shit” on her head wouldn’t have mattered to the Beijing authorities. So it had to be, as they had said, something directly concerning Mao.

“Thank you so much, Gang. That’s very important to my book. And I’ll come back to the eatery soon.”

But how could he get in touch with Sima, or any other member of the special team? It would be futile to contact the minister or anybody in Beijing for help. On the contrary, the moment his investigation into “the Mao Case” was revealed, the chief inspector would be suspended.

Dr. Xia had been shaking his head the whole time.

“Sorry about the interruption, Dr. Xia. Police work, you know -”

“Tell your ‘police work’ to others, Chief Inspector, not to me. Now, listen to me carefully. If you suffer continuing giddiness or sickness, you have to come back to me. You must stay completely off work for one week.”

“For a week,” Chen echoed, wondering if he would be lucky enough to take off one day. Still, given the outcome of his skirmish with the gangsters, he should consider himself lucky – only his luck might not hold the next time. “Not a single word about my visit here to the bureau people, Dr. Xia,” he said, rising to leave, when his cell phone shrilled out again.

The number indicated it was a long distance call from Beijing. It was Wang, the head of the Writers’ Association there, whom Chen had touched for information about Diao, the author of Cloud and Rain in Shanghai.

“Diao has just come to Beijing, staying with his daughter.”

“Is he coming back to Shanghai soon?”

“I don’t know. He’s taking care of his grandson at her place, I’ve heard.”

“Well,” Chen said, realizing that could be a job taking weeks or months. “Thank you so much, Chairman Wang. That’s what I need to know. I appreciate it.”

“Can’t you forget about your work for one minute, Chief Inspector Chen?” Dr. Xia said in mounting exasperation. “Take a vacation somewhere where no one can find you. I insist. Get rid of your cell phone too.”

“A vacation – where no one knows me. And no cell phone. Thank you for your suggestion. I’ll think about it, Dr. Xia. I give you my word.”

Indeed, he could use a vacation. In Beijing. To do something about the Mao Case while there under the disguise of a vacation. He left the clinic.

At this stage, Diao could be crucial to the investigation, capable of providing information not only about Shang’s death but also about the special team from Beijing. More importantly, about what they had been looking for at the time. Diao must have done a lot of research for his book, not all of which might have been included in Cloud and Rain in Shanghai.

But the “vacation” meant the chief inspector had to leave the situation here unattended for days. In the face of the new developments, however, Chen considered the trip a worthy gamble.

He had a feeling that Mao was at the center of all the confusion and complications. Instead of focusing on his encounter with the gangsters, or on Yang’s murder case, he would cope, as in a proverb, by taking the firewood out from under the cauldron.

If his attackers took his vacation as being the result of their warning, so be it. They would come to know Chief Inspector Chen better, sooner or later.

Last but not least, there was something else for him in Beijing, he contemplated with a twinge of conscience.

So he turned onto Chengdu Road, from which he might be able to hail a taxi.

On the street corner, an elderly man was dozing in his wheelchair parked on the sidewalk, wearing a pair of sunglasses, with his feet placed high on the handle bar. Not a comfortable position. Chen couldn’t make out why he wanted to take a break like that in his wheel-chair. But then a lot of things made sense to one person, but not at all to others – like his vacation plan.

Chen pulled out his cell phone.

The first call went to Gu. Chen told him about his clash with the gangsters.

“What?” Gu exclaimed in a voice of combined shock and indignation. “Some bastards beat you up in broad daylight? Where are you? I’m coming over this minute.”

“Don’t worry. No broken bones. I’ve seen a doctor. He wants me to take a couple of days off. So I’m thinking of a short vacation,” Chen said. “I’m not sure if the attack is Triad-related, but their weapons and jargon were suspicious.”