Death of a Red Heroine

Chapter 14

Saturday morning, Chief Inspector Chen had arrived at the bureau earlier than usual, when the old doorman, Comrade Liang, called out of his cubicle by the iron gate, “Something for you, Chief Inspector Chen.”

It was an electronic money order, 3,000 Yuan, a substantial advance for his translation from Lijiang Publishing House. After the loan to Overseas Chinese Lu, Chen had written to Su Liang, the editor in chief, mentioning his new position and apartment as causing him extra expense, but 3,000 Yuan was still a surprise. Enclosed was also a short note from Su:

Congratulations.

With the current inflation, we believe it is fair to give an author the largest advance possible. Especially you.

As for your new position, don’t worry about it. If you don’t take it, those turtle eggs would jump at it. Which is the worse scenario? That’s what I told myself when I took my job.

I like your poem in the Wenhui Daily. You are enjoying the “fragrance from the red sleeves that imbues your reading at night,” I have heard.

Su Liang

Su was not only a senior editor who had helped him, but also an old friend who had known him well in the past.

He phoned Wang, but she was not in her office. After he put down the phone, he realized that he did not have any specific topic. He’d just had an impulse to speak to her after he had read the note. The reference to “the fragrance of the red sleeves” could have caused it, though he would probably not talk about it. Wang would guess his mind was on the case again. But that was not true.

Detective Yu was having the day off. Chen was resolved to do something about the routine work of the squad. He had been giving too much time to Guan. Now he found it necessary to make a wholehearted effort, at least for half a day, to clear off the arrears of paperwork piling up on his desk before he gave the case another thought. He took a perverse delight in shutting himself up, polishing off a mass of boring administrative work, signing his name on Party documents without reading them, and going through all the mail accumulated during the week.

The effort lasted for only a couple of hours. He did not have his heart in it. It was a beautiful, sunny morning outside. Chen went to Guan’s dorm again. He had not yet received a phone call from Uncle Bao, but he was eager to know if there was anything new for him.

The early summer heat, with no air conditioning, dictated a sidewalk life. At the lane entrance, several retired old men were playing a game of mahjongg on a bamboo table. Kids were gathered around a small earthen pot that contained two crickets fighting each other, the crickets chirping, the children cheering. Close to the dorm building, a middle-aged woman was leaning over a public sink, scrubbing a pan.

In the phone booth, a young girl was serving as the operator. Chen recognized her, Xiuxiu. Uncle Bao was not there. He thought about asking for Uncle Bao’s address, but reconsidered. The old man deserved a Saturday off with his grandchildren. So he decided to take yet another look at Guan’s room.

Once more he went through all the albums. This time he discovered something else tucked inside the backcover of the most recent one. It was not the picture of Guan in the mountains, but a Polaroid of a gray-haired lady standing underneath the famous Guest-Welcome pine.

He took out the picture, and turned it over. On the back he saw a small line: To Comrade Zhaodi, Wei Hong October 1989.

Comrade Zhaodi. Who was that?

Could Zhaodi be another name for Guan?

Zhaodi was a sort of common pet name, meaning “to bring a young brother into the world.” A likely wish to have been cherished by Guan’s parents, who had only one daughter. Some Chinese parents believed in such a superstitious name-giving practice. As Confucius once said, “Naming is the most important thing in the world.”

The date seemed to fit. It was the very month that Guan had made the trip to the mountains. Also fitting was the unmistakable Guest-Welcoming pine in the background. If it had been meant for somebody else, why should Guan have kept the picture in her album?

He lit a cigarette under the portrait of Comrade Deng Xiaoping before he put the photo into his briefcase. Downstairs, he looked into the small window of the phone station again. Still no Uncle Bao.

“Is Uncle Bao off today?” he asked.

“You must be Comrade Chief Inspector,” the girl said, eyeing his uniform. “Comrade Bao has been waiting for you. He wants me to tell him as soon as you are here.”

In less than three minutes, Uncle Bao came trotting in with a big envelope in his hand.

“I have something for you, Comrade Chief Inspector.”

“Thank you, Uncle Bao.”

“I’ve called you a couple of times, but the line was busy.”

“Sorry, I should have given you my home phone number.”

“Let’s have a talk. My place is quite close, you know, but it’s a bit small.”

“Well, we may talk over a pot of tea in the restaurant across the street.”

“Good idea.”

The restaurant was not crowded on Saturday morning. They chose a table inside. The waiter seemed to know Uncle Bao well, and he brought over a pot of Dragon Well tea immediately.

The old man produced several stub books, which covered the period from February to early May. Altogether, there were more than thirty stubs showing that Guan had received calls from the number 867-831, quite a few of them after nine o’clock. The caller’s surname was Wu.

“So all are from the same number,” Chen said.

“And from the same man, too,” Uncle Bao said. “I’m positive.”

“Do you know anything about the number, or the man?”

“No, I don’t know anything about the number. As for the man, I think I told you already, he’s middle-aged, speaking with a clear Beijing accent, but he is not from Beijing. More likely a Shanghainer who speaks the Beijing dialect a lot. He’s rather polite, too, calling me Old Uncle. That’s why I remember that the most calls came from him, and the records prove it.”

“You’re doing a great job for us, Uncle Bao. We’ll check the number today.”

“Another thing. I don’t know who Guan called, but that person did not use the public phone service. Most likely it was a home phone. Every time she dialed, she got through immediately. And she made a number of calls after nine or ten o’clock at night.”

“Yes, that is another important point,” he said. “Now what about the night of May tenth?”

“I’ve found something.”

Uncle Bao produced a small envelope, which contained just one stub.

It was just a simple message: We’ll meet as scheduled. And it was from a caller surnamed Wu, though with no phone number written underneath it.

“These may not be his words exactly,” Uncle Bao said, “but they were to that effect.”

So a couple of hours before her trip, Guan had received a call from a man surnamed Wu, evidently the same one who had called more than thirty times in the period from February to May.

“Why is no phone number recorded on the stub of May tenth?”

“Because the caller did not request a call back,” Uncle Bao explained. “In such cases, we just put down the message for the recipient.”

“Do you remember anything else he said that evening?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Well, you’ve already helped us such a lot,” he said. “It is definitely a lead for our investigation. I don’t know how we can ever thank you enough.”

“When the case is solved,” Uncle Bao said, “give a me call.”

“I will. And a long call, you bet.”

“And we’ll have another pot of tea. At Mid-Lake Teahouse, my treat.”

“Yes, we will. So see you soon-” Chen said, standing up, “at Mid-Lake Teahouse.”