TEN

HIS MIND IN TURMOIL, Chen sat hunched in the bureau car, sweating profusely, making one phone call after another.

He had been sick all weekend and the following Monday, lying miserable and alone in bed most of the time, with the phone shut off.

Then Tuesday started with the news that Detective Wei had died the previous day in a traffic accident.

The chief inspector had no choice but to take a handful of aspirin, put a small packet of them in his pants pocket, and hurry out.

The bureau driver, Skinny Wang, a self-proclaimed fan of the chief inspector, invariably mixed up the real-life man with the one in his imagination, the result of having devoured many mystery novels. Wang had heard of the death of Detective Wei, and with one hand on the wheel, he was having a hard time restraining himself from asking Chen questions.

According to the report from Ruijin Hospital, Wei had been rushed to the emergency room as an unidentified victim of a traffic accident on the corner of Weihai and Shanxi Roads. He wasn’t carrying any ID on him or wearing his uniform. He died there shortly afterward. It wasn’t until after some traffic cops arrived the following morning that one of them noticed among his possessions a tie pin given by the police bureau. The officer believed he saw some resemblance between the corpse and Detective Wei and started making phone calls.

Wei’s wife had called the bureau about his not returning home the previous night approximately fifteen minutes before the homicide squad heard from the traffic cop.

According to Wei’s wife, Wei had left home the previous morning at eight a.m., wearing a beige jacket, a white shirt with a tie, and dress pants—which was too formal for a detective on duty. Still, he would occasionally go out of his way to dress well if an investigation called for it.

“It wasn’t an accident,” Wang managed to interject the moment Chen put down the phone. “Not in the very middle of his investigation.”

“Traffic is terrible and the city is teeming with reckless drivers. There are so many accidents every day. Don’t jump to any conclusions.”

“That’s true. Still—”

But Chen was already dialing Liao, the head of the homicide squad.

“I have no idea what he was up to that morning,” Liao said. “We discussed the case just the day before. He was inclined to believe it was murder, as you know, but he had nothing substantial to support it. So he could have been planning to push on in that direction.”

“That’s possible,” Chen said, thinking of Wei’s attire that day. Wei could have planned another visit to the hotel, this time in disguise. “I think you might be right, Liao. And I’ll discuss it again with you soon.”

As the car turned onto Shanxi Road, Wang started in again. “I heard something about the hotel. Yesterday, when I was driving Party Secretary Li, he got a phone call from someone above him.”

“How do you know?”

“Li has two phones. One white, one black. The first one he seldom uses, except for important or inside calls. Few know the number, I bet.”

“That’s probably true. I know of only one number.”

“I can tell from the immediate change in his tone when he picks up the white phone. To someone with a higher Party position, Li can be so obsequious. I’m afraid that’s why you are still only the deputy Party secretary, Chief Inspector Chen.

“In that conversation, Li mentioned the hotel several times and also something about a Beijing team coming there, which I pieced together from his repetition of the other man’s words. Also, Zhou’s name came up in the middle of it. Li spoke cautiously and most of his responses were simply ‘yes.’ It was difficult for me to follow without knowing the context. Toward the end of the conversation Li said, ‘I understand. I’ll report to you and to you alone.’”

Earlier that morning, after he had been given the news about Wei, Chen had been told about a team from the Central Party Discipline Committee in Beijing. Nobody had contacted Chen about it in advance, and he wasn’t even in a position to inquire into it. Was the arrival of the team connected to the Zhou case?

“Drop me off at the corner near the Writers’ Association,” Chen said, having an abrupt change of mind. “You may go back to the bureau. I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”

“No problem. I can wait. You can just call me whenever you need me.”

“I think I’ll take a taxi from here. Don’t worry about me. But if you hear anything new, let me know.”

“Of course, Chief Inspector Chen.”

Chen got out and walked to the association.

Young Bao, the doorman in the cubicle near the entrance, poked his head out and greeted Chen cordially.

“I have some fresh Maojian tea today, Master Chen. Would you like to have a cup?”

Chen had no particular business at the association that morning, and he liked a cup of good, refreshing tea. Chen’s visit was merely a pretext, a way to keep Wang from knowing what he was really planning to do. The bureau driver could be very talkative.

“Thanks.” Chen said, stepping into the cubicle. “But don’t call me Master Chen. I’ve told you that before.”

“My father told me you’re a master. He’s never wrong.”

Young Bao handed him a cup. Chen savored the unique fragrance rising from the green tea.

“It’s not too busy here?”

“No, not busy at all. In less than a month I knew all the people working here. Of course, they don’t have to sign the register when they arrive. Most of the members who come here from time to time know the rules, and they sign the register without my having to ask them.”

Chen nodded, taking another sip of tea.

“In Old Bao’s days, he said it was quite busy. There were a lot of visitors, especially young visitors—the so-called literature youths. Nowadays it would be idiotic for people to call themselves literature youths.”

“That’s true, unfortunately.”

“So I sit here all day, with not much to do. You can see that from the register. Less than ten pages have been used this month.”

At the Writers’ Association, Chen reflected, there wasn’t much for security to do, but for a time-honored government institution, the presence of Young Bao and the register was still indispensable.

“The other day I was at the Moller Hotel,” Chen said, “and the doorman was busy all the time.”

“That’s a special hotel. Weiming, the doorman there, is a friend of mine. His register is at least three or four times thicker than mine,” Young Bao said, chewing a tea leaf reflectively. “But I have nothing to complain about, Master Chen. Among all the doormen in the city, I’m probably the only one who can read during work without worrying about the consequences. In fact, both An and you have encouraged me to read as much as possible. After all, it is the Writers’ Association, and it has a library of its own.”

“I’m glad to learn that you enjoy reading so much.”

“Weiming, the Moller doorman I just told you about, is another bookworm. He comes to me for books—it’s much more convenient than going to the public library—and in return, he sells me canteen coupons for the hotel. The food there is excellent but still inexpensive due to the government subsidy and the high-ranking cadres who stay there.”

Chen didn’t immediately respond, being reminded of a metaphor: China was turning into a huge cobweb of omnipresent correlations, with every thread connected and interconnected, however thin or insubstantial, visible or invisible.

“Guess what I’ve been reading lately. Detective stories. Some of them were translated by you. That’s another reason I have to call you a master. Not just because of your literary work, but also because of your police work.”

“I have to cut my visit short, Young Bao. The tea is really excellent,” Chen said, draining the cup, “but I have to go now.”

“I’m glad you like it. I’ll keep the tea here for you—it’ll be here anytime you come over.”

Chen walked back to Shanxi Road. He remained depressed, in spite of the refreshing tea, but he no longer felt so exhausted. He headed straight to the hotel, though not without looking over his shoulder a couple of times.

A flower girl standing by the street corner greeted him with an engaging smile.

“Buy a bouquet, sir?” She spoke in a non-Shanghai dialect, a basket of dazzling white jasmine flowers at her feet.

Thinking of Wei, he paid for a budding jasmine blossom as small as a button decoration and put it in his blazer pocket.

Yesterday, Wei could have been on his way to the hotel, turning the same corner, with, or without, the flower girl standing here with her basket.

The scenario of Wei going to the hotel would account for his formal dress that morning. He would have been going on his own, trying to make sure no one recognized him as a cop. Wei would have had to be cautious, since the city team was still stationed there.

Now there were people from the Central Party Discipline Committee from Beijing involved as well, and they were probably not coming just for someone like Zhou. Beijing wouldn’t send a team just for him. Chen had to be more cautious.

Still, he thought he would try not to worry about the Beijing team too much: its work would be considered none of his business, and Chief Inspector Chen had enough on his hands.

He slowed down, strolling at a leisurely pace, like a tourist, and pulled out his cell phone. Chen called a retired cop nicknamed Encyclopedia.

Filling him in briefly, Chen asked, “Why have all these people chosen the Moller Hotel? Can you tell me something about the history of the hotel?”

“Oh, it used to be Moller Villa. After 1949, it was turned into offices of the Shanghai Communist Youth League. It operated both under the city government and under the Central Communist Youth League in Beijing. Quite a few of today’s high-ranking leaders in the Forbidden City started out in the Youth League, which makes them a most powerful faction in the Party power structure.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Encyclopedia,” Chen said. He said his good-byes and hung up.

It occurred to Chen that the current Central Party general secretary had also been a cadre from the Communist Youth League. He and his closest allies were sometimes called the Youth League Gang. There was also a Shanghai Gang, as it was sometimes called, consisting of cadres who rose to the top through the city government. That group was headed by the Shanghai Party boss, Qiangyu, and it was said the Shanghai Gang stood in opposition to Beijing’s Youth League Gang.

The arrival of the Beijing Central Party Discipline Committee team in Shanghai, and at this particular hotel, could be a sign of an intensifying power struggle at the top. Chen couldn’t tell whether or not it was in any way connected to the Zhou case.

Actually, that struggle might have been another factor in Chen’s not being promoted to Party secretary of the Shanghai police bureau. Chen was rumored to be closely connected to major figures in Beijing, such as Comrade Zhao, the ex-secretary of the Central Party Discipline Committee, even though Chen himself knew that it wasn’t true. For one thing, Comrade Zhao had not contacted him in quite a while. For another, no message had been sent to Chen about the Beijing team being dispatched to Shanghai.

The chief inspector decided to take a few extra precautions on this visit to the hotel. Instead of going to Jiang’s room in building B of the hotel, Chen approached the hotel front desk. He didn’t have to sign a register to do that.

“Sorry, but there’s a special meeting going on at the hotel,” the desk clerk said as Chen walked in. “It is no longer open to tourists.”

“What a pity! I’ve heard so much about this legendary hotel,” Chen said. He picked up a brochure, adding, as if an afterthought, “But what about the people already staying here?”

“They will have to move out, and as soon as possible.”

So there was something going on here. Perhaps there wouldn’t be an exception made for Jiang, and he too would have to leave the hotel, but Chen wasn’t sure.

Walking out of the hotel like a disappointed tourist, Chen looked around before he crossed the street and went to a new restaurant. The restaurant was called Northeast Family, and it sported a row of red lanterns in front of its rustic façade. He walked in, and then went up to the second floor, where he was surprised to see several kangs—or table-and-seat units shaped like kangs—by the windows overlooking Shanxi Road. He went over to one out of curiosity.

A waiter hurried to his side, saying apologetically, “Sorry, this is a table for six people.”

Sitting at this table, however, Chen could easily keep the hotel in sight.

“What’s the minimum charge to sit here?” Chen asked.

At some restaurants, a private room had a minimum charge attached: it was possible this restaurant had a minimum for desirable tables.

“Usually, we charge six hundred. Our northeast cuisine is not expensive, so you can have a banquet for that. One person alone wouldn’t be able to finish that much.” The waiter paused. “Well, let’s make an exception for you and waive the minimum expense, sir,” he said considerately. “We have eating girls here. For just one hundred yuan she’ll sit at your table and introduce you to the specialties of our cuisine.”

“Fine. I’ll pay for her company, but I want to sit by myself for a while first.”

“Whatever you want, sir. I’ll brew you a pot of Dragon Well tea first.”

He secured the table against the window. It wasn’t that comfortable to sit on the kang. A real kang was a long earthen bed with coals burning underneath, the people sitting above with their legs comfortably crossed under them, and with a small table in the middle during mealtime. Here he saw only a resemblance of one, but he took off his shoes, climbed on, and started keeping watch on the hotel.

Across the street, the hotel shimmered in the sunlight. It didn’t take long for him to realize that the hotel looked different that morning. For about fifteen minutes, he didn’t see anybody walking in or out. There were only a couple of luxury cars that drove in, their curtains drawn, and not a single taxi. The hotel must have been converted into a “political base.”

A young eating girl came over, dressed not unlike someone from the northeast, and managed to speak with only a slight suggestion of a northeast accent.

“Shark fin is a specialty of our restaurant, sir.”

“Shark fin is advertised as the special in every restaurant. I don’t have to order it here, but I’ll have the rest of the specials on the menu.”

“You certainly know how to order,” she said in agreement. She perched herself on the edge of the kang and kicked off her slippers. He wondered whether she would sit with him like that through the entire meal, as if they were in some movie scene of a couple in the northeast countryside.

“Thank you,” he said, taking out a ten-yuan bill. “Here’s a small tip for you, but I want to sit by myself for the moment.”

“Whatever you like, Big Brother,” she said, standing up, clutching the bill. “Whenever you need anything, just call me. We have all sorts of service available. And service for you afterward in a private room too.”

“I’ll let you know.”

Soon the dishes he’d ordered arrived on the kang table. Northeast cuisine, known for its homely style, was not considered one of the major cuisines in China. He helped himself to a piece of pan-fried tofu, took a sip of tea, and took out a notebook.

Chen started drawing up a timetable in his notebook of the events surrounding Wei’s accident the previous day. One probable scenario was that Wei—dressed like a tourist—was going to check into the hotel, incognito, in the hope of learning something that had eluded him in his official capacity. But was the hotel already closed that day due to the arrival of the mysterious Beijing team?

Whether the hotel was closed or not, Wei, leaving home around eight that morning, should have been somewhere near this location around nine. He made his way to the scene of the accident three or four hours later, though it was no more than a five-minute walk from the hotel. So, where had Wei been during the interval?

Wei could have sat here by the window, just as Chen was doing today, keeping an eye on the hotel. It was eerie to imagine—to imagine himself turning into Wei—

“Big Brother, the dishes are getting cold,” the eating girl said, returning to the table.

It was true. He hadn’t even touched some of them. He wondered how long he’d been sitting here, lost in thought.

“They are quite good, but I’ve somehow lost my appetite,” he said apologetically. He pointed at several dishes. “Sorry, these are not even touched.”

“Don’t worry. I was supposed to eat with you, and now I’ll have to finish it all by myself.”

He asked for the bill, which came to a little more than three hundred, including the fee for her. She added her name and number to the receipt.

“Next time, call me directly.”

On his way out, he looked at his watch. It was almost twelve thirty.

It wasn’t pleasant to climb the steel steps of the overpass, but he did. He’d hardly done anything all day, yet he couldn’t shake off a feeling that he was burning up. He wiped his sweat-covered forehead with the back of his hand. Passing under him, the traffic flowed like a turgid river.

It reminded him of a stone bridge he’d crossed long ago, the fallen leaves crunching under his feet, the water murmuring under the arch… It was an elusive scene in his memory, flashing into his consciousness for a split second, and then fading into confusion.

He labored down to the other side of Yan’an Road. A high-rise loomed in the afternoon sunlight—the Wenhui Office Building on Weihai Road. It housed not only the Wenhui Daily newspaper but also the Xinmin evening newspaper and Shanghai Daily, an English-language newspaper, along with several smaller newspapers, all under the umbrella organization of the Wenhui-Xinmin Group, or Wenxin Group, for short.

The scene of the accident was near the intersection of Shanxi and Weihai Roads. Because of the constant flow of traffic at that location, there was no yellow tape cordoning off the area. Nor was there any sign of a policeman on duty.

Chen decided to take a walk around the area first. As if in mysterious correspondence, his cell phone rang: the traffic cop who had dealt with the accident was calling him back.

“Detective Wei was run down on Weihai Road as he turned in from Shanxi Road, heading east. Several witnesses claimed that’s what they saw. There’s no ruling out the possibility that he had walked past the Wenhui Office Building first and then was turning back, but it’s not likely. As for the vehicle that hit him, it was a brown SUV that was parked one block down on Weihai Road. Apparently it started up suddenly, sped west, hit him, and took off. It happened so fast that nobody saw anything clearly. According to one witness, the SUV seemed to slow down after hitting Wei, but only for a second, then it sped away and turned onto Shanxi Road. The driver might have slowed to take a look, but must have realized it was too late.”

“The SUV hit him head-on?” Chen asked.

“Yes. At a high speed.”

“But that means the SUV was in the wrong lane.”

“Drunk driving, Chief Inspector Chen. Luckily, it wasn’t right after school had let out, or it could have been much worse.”

“Thank you. Would you fax a report to my office? Provide as many details as possible. I’ll be back there soon.”

For the next half an hour, however, Chen continued to walk back and forth along Weihai Road, his phone clutched in his hand. There was something not right about the accident.

Weihai was a two-lane street. A westbound car wouldn’t have ended up in the lane alongside the Wenhui Building, unless the driver was drunk or someone’s car spun out of control during a too-swift left turn. Chen thought the chances of such a dramatic, disastrous turn of events were slim.

Once again, he walked past the Wenhui Office Building, this time catching sight of a makeshift noodle stall on the sidewalk. The stall consisted of two pots of boiling water and soup on portable propane gas heads, along with a variety of meat and vegetable toppings on display in a glass case. The chef-proprietor appeared to be a local resident, cooking and hawking his wares with a flourish as if he was in a Hong Kong gourmet documentary. He dipped a ladle of noodles into the water, took it out almost immediately, and added the topping.

Chen went over to the stall and sat at a rough wood table. He noticed there were two or three beers in an almost empty crate nearby.

“A bottle of beer, the roast duck as a cross-bridge dish first, and then the noodles.”

“We don’t serve beer at lunchtime. Those are for myself. But if you really want one, twenty yuan. It’s normally served Hong Kong style, but I’ll make an exception for you and serve the topping separately.”

“That’s great. That you serve cross-bridge, I mean,” Chen said.

“Do you know the story about it?” the proprietor asked good-naturedly and went on without waiting for an answer. “In the old days, a scholar was preparing for the civil service examination on a secluded island in Yunnan. His capable wife had to carry his meals across the bridge to him. Among his favorite foods was a bowl of rice noodle soup with assorted toppings. But because of the time it took to deliver them, the noodles lost their flavor, having sat too long in the soup. So she put the steaming hot chicken soup in a special container, the toppings and noodles in two others, and then mixed them after arriving at her husband’s place. That way, the noodles and the toppings still tasted fresh. Revitalized by the delicious noodles, the scholar threw himself back into his preparations and eventually passed the examination. So it’s called cross-bridge—”

“How interesting!” Chen nodded, though he already knew the story.

“And here is my modification. Instead of putting the toppings on the noodles, I serve them separately, so the customer can have the topping as a cross-bridge dish.”

“Good idea,” Chen said, producing a pack and handing the chef a cigarette.

“Wow—Panda.”

Chen wanted to talk with him or, failing that, to sit and observe from the stall. A bowl of noodles wouldn’t give him much time, but a bottle of beer could make the difference.

“So business is pretty good here,” Chen said, slowly pouring himself a cup from the beer bottle.

“Not at this time of day. But during lunchtime, quite a number of journalists come here from across the street. Or in a couple of hours, it’s kindergarten time. It’s not the rich parents who wait in the cars for their kids, but drivers and maids.”

“I see. The roast duck is really fresh and nice. I’d love to have another portion, but I’m full today.” The compliment was true. The duck tasted delectable, its succulent skin crisp, its meat juicy. It wasn’t placed on top of the noodles but in a separate white saucer, its scarlet color making a pleasant contrast to the green vegetable in the soup. “So, are you here all day?”

“Seven in the morning to eight or nine at night. I live in the lane just behind this street. My wife prepares all the toppings at home and delivers them here every two or three hours. They are guaranteed fresh. Those young journalist girls can be fastidious, and they won’t come back if they’re even slightly unsatisfied.”

Chen noticed that several people were now walking around the scene of the accident near that intersection, pointing, commenting, and shooting pictures. They could be journalists, or maybe cops in plainclothes. Chen turned to the proprietor.

“What are they doing over there?”

“There was a hit-and-run accident yesterday.”

“There?”

“Yes, I saw it with my own eyes.”

“That’s something. Tell me about it. And another bottle of Qingdao, please.”

The proprietor eyed him in mild surprise. Presumably he thought Chen was one of those eccentric Big Bucks who would choose to hang out and talk at a plain sidewalk noodle stall, passing out Panda cigarettes, willing to pay twenty yuan for a bottle of Qingdao, which he promptly knocked open on the edge of the table.

“It happened shortly after lunchtime, I remember. The street was relatively quiet. But all of a sudden, I heard a car roaring down the street. It was a brown SUV, and it hit the man right on the corner—”

“Hold on a minute,” Chen said. “The man was walking on the same side as the Wenhui Office Building, right?”

“Yes, it’s the driver’s fault. He must have been dead drunk.”

“Didn’t he stop?”

“He slowed down and reached out, but he saw the victim was beyond hope. So he fled the scene like a wisp of smoke.”

“So the driver can’t have been that drunk.”

“Now that you mention it, there was something strange about it. The brown car was parked not too far away. No more than a hundred meters or so. It was the only car in the neighborhood at the time, of that much I’m sure. I don’t know how long it had been parked there, but at least a couple of hours. I first noticed it when I took a break around ten thirty. It was an expensive SUV, and the driver appeared to be dozing inside. So how could he be that dead drunk after dozing there for a couple of hours?”

A group of young people walked up and interrupted their talk.

Chen took out his wallet and counted sixty yuan. “Keep the change. I’ll be back. The noodles are excellent.”

“My name is Xiahou. I’m here, seven days a week.”

“Thanks.”

As Chen headed back to the corner where the accident occurred, he dialed the number for Party Secretary Li. He didn’t have to report in to the Party boss daily, but he decided to do so that afternoon.

“Any new discoveries, Chen?” Li asked, after he picked up.

“Nothing from me. How about Wei?” he said. “Did Wei talk to you yesterday?”

“He may have called me that day or the day before, but he didn’t have anything important to say. Wei was a good comrade.”

“Did he talk to you about taking a special approach to his investigation?”

“Not that I remember. It was just a routine briefing.”

“Did he mention his plans for the day?”

“No, nothing like that. He was just bringing me up to date. You’re the special consultant on the investigation, not me.”

Li sounded vague, cautious, and irritated.

“This case is directly under your supervision, Party Secretary Li, just as you said that first day. Like Detective Wei, I have to report in to you regularly.”

Another thought crossed Chen’s mind. If Wei had called Li that morning, Wei must have had his cell phone with him. But in the report submitted by the hospital, there was nothing on Wei’s body to identify him. If they had found his cell on him, they could have identified him easily.

Was Wei making a call when he was run down? Was his cell phone knocked out of his hand and out of sight?

There was something else Chen had to do. He took a deep breath, then pulled the tiny jasmine blossom out of his blazer pocket and tossed it toward the accident scene.

A gray pigeon was flying by, its whistle trailing in the air. Chen looked up, but it was already out of sight.

He was reminded of a couple of lines in a Song dynasty poem, which he had thought about not too long ago, in the garden of the Writers’ Association.

But what made him think of those lines here and now was something else. Another person and another life. In the days when he’d just been assigned to the bureau, Wenhui Daily was in another building, one near the Bund. There Chen met with a journalist who later went to Japan.

How far you have traveled, / I don’t know. Whatever I see / fills my heart with melancholy. / The further you go, the fewer / your letters for me. The expanse / of the water so wide, no message-carrying / fish in sight, where and whom / can I ask for your news?

That was the first stanza of a poem composed by Ouyang Xiu in the eleventh century. At that time, people still liked the romantic legend of fish carrying messages across rivers and seas for lovers. Having to wait weeks or months for communication was something almost unimaginable now, in the age of e-mail.

Chief Inspector Chen turned and walked into the newspaper’s current office building, trying to pull himself together. It was a most magnificent lobby, like that of a five-star hotel. In the middle of the hall, he noticed a black and white photo exhibition, and past it, a small café, which seemed to be a convenient place for journalists to relax or meet with their visitors.