Enigma of China Page 7

  The hours spent in front of his office computer had yielded little. He was worn-out, and his muscles were sore, as at the beginning stages of the flu. He rubbed his eyes, yet felt far from sleepy.

  He opened his notebook to the page he’d been working on, which had a list of details, like a jumble of dots awaiting connection to point in possible directions. But he couldn’t see how to connect those dots.

  Chen hadn’t learned anything new from the interview with Dang that afternoon, though it was possible that Dang was involved in some way that no one was aware of.

  What puzzled Chen wasn’t the fact that Zhou himself gave the picture to his secretary for the press release but rather who had taken the picture and how Zhou had obtained it.

  There was no record of anyone sending him the picture after the meeting. Jiang had checked Zhou’s computer, as Dang had just confirmed.

  Zhou might have downloaded the picture from a camera, his or somebody else’s. Apparently nothing found on his camera either confirmed that possibility or ruled it out.

  A more plausible scenario was that the picture came from a camera that belonged to somebody else. But if so, who could have put it onto Zhou’s computer—or given Zhou a camera or something else for Zhou to save the picture on the computer himself?

  The people in the Housing Development Committee. Dang in the office next door, and others on the same committee. Possibly the secretary, or the “little secretary” too.

  Chen glanced at his watch, felt the beginnings of a throbbing headache in addition to the muscle pain, and dialed Wei’s number.

  “I’ve thought about that, Chief,” Wei responded readily, “I’ve talked to the secretary—her full name is Fang Fang. I’ve also done some research on her.”

  Wei then launched into a detailed narrative about Fang, checking his notes from time to time. Listening, Chen could also hear the occasional rustle of Wei turning pages.

  “Fang started working for Zhou about two years ago. Quite different from the conventional little secretary, she’s middle-aged, already in her early thirties, and a bit too thin to be really considered attractive. An official of Zhou’s rank could easily have hired one prettier and younger. There were stories around the office that Zhou went out of his way to give the position to her. It was considered a fantastic position, secure and well paid, not to mention all of the possible gray money, and more than a hundred candidates applied. Zhou, giving his reasons for choosing her, said he hired her because Fang studied in England for three years, majored in communication, and spoke English well, which would be important in her work for the city of Shanghai, a major international city. Fang was very grateful for the position, having failed to find a job in England after she graduated and having remained unemployed for more than a year after she came back to Shanghai. At the Housing Development Committee, she was soon promoted to the position of director’s assistant, responsible for all the clerical work, including the press releases. On that particular occasion, Zhou reviewed the material before turning it over to her. She declared that she didn’t pay any special attention to either the text or the attached picture. It was merely part of her daily routine, and the photo didn’t stand out. After all, Zhou smoked that particular brand most of the time. As for the other corruption charges, she didn’t know anything. Zhou never really discussed those deals or decisions with her. So far, Jiang and his team don’t consider her a likely suspect, but they seem to have put a lot of pressure on her to speak out against Zhou.

  “As for that Monday night, Fang was at home with her parents. They had a relative from Anhui visiting, so her alibi’s solid,” Wei concluded after checking his notes again. “Now she’s really worried about her job. It’s only a matter of time before she gets sacked. Dang will definitely not keep her in such a crucial position.”

  It was a long conversation. Chen wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Detective Wei had done a good, thorough job, and like Jiang, he didn’t see Fang as a likely suspect. She had no motive.

  Chen wondered whether it would be worthwhile for him to interview Fang. What the Wenhui journalist had said earlier in the day came back to him, echoing ironically in his mind as he sat in the solitary stillness of his room: There’s no evidence whatsoever to suggest that Zhou’s death could be anything other than suicide.

  It was supposed to be a direct quote from Chief Inspector Chen, who hadn’t said anything close to that. Still, it didn’t appear to be that far from the truth. At least, not at the moment.

  He got up to pour himself a small cup of whiskey, from a bottle he had brought back from the United States as a souvenir. He hoped that it would somehow reenergize him a bit, but he wasn’t a drinker. He took just one small sip and began coughing almost uncontrollably.

  Another wasted day. He realized, looking back, that Lianping’s mention of poetry in her phone call was perhaps the only bright spot in a dismal day. That, however, was a fleeting moment: most of the conversation had been about his “statement” about the investigation.

  He felt fatigued. A couplet by Du Fu came to mind: My temples frost-streaked through adversities, / Too worn out even to drink from the shoddy wine cup.

  In his college years, Chen hadn’t liked Du Fu, who seemed to be too much of a Confucianist poet, telling rather showing, too serious and always worrying about the woes of the country in grandiose lines.

  Time really flies. How long had it been since Chen started working as a policeman after graduation? At first, however reluctant to be a cop, he was still idealistic. What about now? Perhaps existentialist at best, like a mythological figure in an ever-repeating process of rolling a boulder uphill, only to watch it roll down. His reveries were interrupted by another call, this one from Detective Yu, who never hesitated to phone, despite the late hour.

  “Look out, Chief. Internal Security has come into the picture.”

  “The ones who police the police. Why are they now involved?”

  “Well, you would know better than me.”

  The fact was that Chen didn’t know, having been away from the bureau for most of the afternoon. Still, the appearance of Internal Security meant things had become too sensitive for the police bureau, or too sinister.

  Or Internal Security had been brought in to watch over the cops.

  Whatever interpretation was correct, it was an ominous sign.

  And he felt really sick.

  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 eigh
t 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?”