A Case of Two Cities

his work as an investigator.
     
    In that morning’s session about Chinese drama, Chen said little. It was not his field. Sitting in the conference room, he took the opportunity to mentally reexamine the developments in the Xing case.
     
    Detective Yu had gotten hold of An’s cell phone record and transcripts of her calls—with the help of Old Hunter. An had talked to several men, asking about the whereabouts of Ming, but none seemed to know. So those phone calls, while valuable in tracing those possibly connected to Ming, failed to produce a breakthrough at the moment. Yu said that he would go on exploring in that direction and that there were several names he hadn’t known before. Yu didn’t exactly go into detail, and there was no point in mentioning all the names on the phone. No matter how hard they tried to keep to their weather terminology, those names had to be real names.
     
    For the same reason, Chen did not tell Yu about his fortune-telling experience in the temple. It took too much explanation on the phone, but he did ask Yu to check into a company under Little Tiger’s name, which had its offices in Beijing.
     
    The morning session went on. Chen rose to get himself a cup of coffee. Leaning back against the chair, he reviewed the temple scene. Xing’s talk about Jiang and Dong was crucial. So Chen had some more cards to play, though he was not in a hurry to do so. As for Little Tiger’s involvement, it was like a random harvest, and it could be a possible new direction for him.
     
    During the intermission, he excused himself and went to the university library. He knew no one would miss him during the remaining session. Both Shasha and Bao were absent. Chen threw himself into research on the library computer. It was really convenient here.
     
    At the Shanghai Police Bureau, there were only two computers, and many people waiting for access. What was worse, most of the search engines were blocked by the government. What information came up was that available in official newspapers, which helped little. Besides, Chen did not want to do the job in the bureau with all his colleagues moving around. Here on the campus, he worked on the computer without worrying about the possible consequences. The information gathered about Xing was far more detailed, and analytical too. He was beginning to obtain a comprehensive picture of the whole matter.
     
    He worked on for hours, skipping his lunch.
     
    Later in the afternoon, he had a discussion with the American host about the delegation’s activities after they left L.A. Their visits to various cities had been scheduled long in advance. According to Professor Reed, however, Perry Turner, the American playwright in charge of their activities in Chicago, had been injured in a car accident. Reed suggested that instead of going to Chicago as scheduled, they might choose a different city.
     
    “Let’s go to that city. I have forgotten the name of it,” Bao, who made a point of presenting himself at such meetings, suggested in high spirits. “Master Ma used to draw his inspiration from it.”
     
    “Master Ma—” Little Huang was totally lost.
     
    “Which Master Ma?” Chen cut in.
     
    “How many Master Mas are there in American literature?” Bao asked back. “Of course, the master who wrote about—em, the corruption of the American election system.”
     
    “The election system—” The interpreter remained puzzled as before.
     
    “Oh, ‘Running for Governor’,” Chen said, turning to Huang. “I have read the story. Let me interpret for Mr. Bao.”
     
    In the sixties, translation of Western literature into Chinese had been subject to the political criterion. Mark Twain was one of the few chosen because of his “anticapitalist stance,” and the hilarious “Running for Governor” was included in Chinese textbooks as a lampoon against hypocritical American democracy. Bao must have read the story, but the interpreter, born in the seventies, had used different textbooks.
     
    Chen took over the interpretation. Bao’s idea was not bad, and his constant unhappiness would be appeased by Chen’s choosing to second the proposal and even to interpret it for him.
     
    “According to Mr. Bao, the hometown of Mark Twain will be a point of interest to us.” Chen continued. “He has been very popular in China.”
     
    “Yes, Hannibal. That’s not far away from St. Louis. You might spend a day or two there, too.”
     
    “St. Louis,” Chen