Qiu Xiaolong - The Mao Case

“What happened?”

“Can you come to the Moon on the Bund this afternoon? There’s a cocktail party there. I’ve something important to tell you.”

“Can’t you tell me now, Gu?”

“I’m on my way there. It’s urgent, involving both the black way and the white way. I’d better tell you in person. You’ll meet some people there too.”

Gu could occasionally be overdramatic, but Chen had no doubt about his connections with the black way – the Triad world.

“I’ll see you there, Gu.” Chen turned to Xie, turning off the phone. “I have to go, Mr. Xie. I’ll contact you again. Not a single word to anyone about our talk today, not even to Jiao.”

“No, not a single word.” Xie rose, grasping his hand, “Please do something for her, Mr. – Chief Inspector Chen.”

CHEN STEPPED OUT OF the elevator and into the corridor that joined the two wings of the Moon on the Bund on the seventh floor, just as the big clock atop the Custom Building near the restaurant started striking out its melody. He was startled, looking up out of a corridor window, as if he had heard a cannonball. Perhaps he was too strung out, he thought, remembering the warning Dr. Xia had given him.

For several years after the Cultural Revolution, the melody played by the big clock had been a nameless one, light, pleasant, but it had been changed back to “The East Is Red,” the same tune it played during the Cultural Revolution, as hummed by Comrade Bi in the Central South Sea.

The restaurant was built like the converted top floor of an office building on the corner of Yan’an and Guangdong Roads, with a rooftop garden that commanded a magnificent view of the Bund, the Huang River, and the new skyscrapers east of the river. The business was run by a Canadian entrepreneur, who enlisted her chefs and managers from overseas, adding a suggestion of authenticity to the restaurant’s upscale image. The price was high, but the restaurant was a huge success among the newly rich, who came here not just for the food or the view but also for a sense of being among the successful elite of the city.

In the Glamorous Bar, Chen greeted several people, talking to them briefly, before he spotted Gu shaking hands with others, holding a glass of sparkling wine.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Gu greeted Chen aloud, striding over with a smile, as though overjoyed at a chance encounter.

“What a pleasant surprise,” Chen said, responding in the same fashion.

“I’ve checked and double-checked,” Gu whispered, drawing Chen aside into a recess behind the mahogany coat check. “The thugs that attacked you are professionals, but they don’t belong to an organization. So it was difficult to find out. A couple of days ago, however, I heard that someone was looking for professional help again, with an emphasis on competence and reliability – payable after delivery.”

“A few days ago -” Chen repeated. “Competence and reliability!”

“Yes, when you were away on vacation. So I followed the lead. From what I learned, it might have something to do with a real estate company. For development opportunities in the city, land in a premium location is as good as gold.”

“Well, that’s possible.” Chen could have ruffled feathers with the real estate company that was trying to take over Xie’s house. Was it possible that they had targeted Song as well? The emphasis on competence and reliability made sense in that they hadn’t delivered on the job with Chen. But Song had done nothing against the interests of the company, not unless he had done something in the last few days, of which Chen had no knowledge. “But why did you want me to come here?”

“Hua Feng, the major shareholder of the company, is here this afternoon,” Gu said, shifting his glance to a tall, stout man at the other end of the room. “Connected with the black way.”

It was a clue to follow, but perhaps too much of a long shot at the moment. With Internal Security ready for “tough measures” as early as the next day, Chen might not have the time to start exploring that direction. Still, he followed Gu over to Hua, who had a round face and flabby cheeks and was sporting an extensive grin.

“So you are Gu’s friend. My name is Hua,” Hua said, extending his hand. “Are you also in the entertainment business?”

“My name is Chen. I’m not a businessman,” Chen said guardedly. “A writer, an entertaining one.”

“Ah, a writer, I see,” Hua said, a light flicking in his eyes. “There are so many fashionable writers moving around the city.”

“With the city changing so fast,” Chen said, not knowing what Hua was driving at, “and so many new buildings replacing old buildings, writers can’t help moving around.”

“I admire writers, Mr. Chen. You build houses with your words, but we have to build them with concrete and steel.”

Chen sensed a subtle shift in Hua’s repartee, to something like hostility, though it was fleeting, only a quick flash. He debated with himself as to how much time he should spend talking here. It probably wasn’t leading anywhere – not anytime soon.

A blond waitress approached them light-footedly, carrying a glass tray. Hua picked up a tiny roast duck pancake pierced by a toothpick. An exceedingly slender woman in a white summer dress sidled up to Hua, and Chen excused himself.

He saw that Gu was busy talking to others, so Chen left without talking to anybody else. Outside, it was a glorious afternoon on the Bund. He took a deep breath and walked on, trying to think about the latest developments. It might be too late, he admitted to himself. Too late in spite of his efforts and all the help from Old Hunter, Detective Yu, and Peiqin. What he had earned so far concerning the Mao Case were nothing but scenarios without substance. Nothing to prevent Internal Security from taking action the next day.

He took out his cell phone, yet didn’t dial. The sound of a siren came trailing over from the river, reverberating into the imagined signal.

It hadn’t been his case to begin with. So why not let them take it off his hands? He would have no responsibility or involvement. No worry about the black or white way.

Nor about Mao.

It would not be realistic for an investigation to expect a breakthrough each and every time. There was no point in him being stuck with one particular case. And an absurd case too, for that matter.

Following a flight of stone steps to the raised waterfront, he looked out over the expanse of the shimmering water. Several gulls glided above, their white wings flashing in the afternoon sunlight, as in a dream.

Chen headed toward Bund Park, with a cruise ship sailing into the view, its colorful banners streaming in the breeze. “Confucius says on the bank, / ‘Like water, time flows on and on.’ ” Those were the lines Mao had written after swimming in the Yangtze River before the outbreak of the Cultural Revolution. When Chen had read the lines for the first time, he was still a middle school student, walking along the Bund, before or after school. There weren’t many classes at school in those years.

It took him only a few minutes to get to the park. Entering through the vine-wreathed gate, he strolled along the bank, which had been recently expanded with colored bricks along the borders.

To his frustration, he failed to find a seat there. A row of cafés and bars seemed to have sprung up overnight along the embankment, like gigantic matchboxes with shining glass walls. It wasn’t a bad idea for the park to have a café with a view to the river, but was it necessary to have so many of them that they left no space for the green benches once so familiar to him? Looking in through the glass, he saw only a couple of Westerners sitting and talking inside. The price marked on a pink menu standing outside was staggering. He could afford it, but what about the people who couldn’t?