Death of a Red Heroine

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    There were only a few tea drinkers on the first floor. Chen looked around without catching sight of Old Hunter, so he walked up the vermilion-railed stairs. On the second floor there were even fewer customers, and he saw the old man sitting by the window with a teapot.
    “Come and sit with me, Comrade Chief Inspector,” the old man said, waving his hand, as Chen moved toward a seat beside him.
    “Thank you,” Chen said. “It’s so elegant here.”
    Their table overlooked the lake filled with lotuses. The view was serene.
    “On the second floor everything costs twice as much. But it’s worth it. A cup of tea here is the only indulgence I’ve permitted myself since retirement.”
    Chen nodded. A cup of tea here was different from one in the crowded, stuffy room that contained the retired old man’s daily life since he had relinquished the front room to his son.
    There was a whisper of southern bamboo music in the teahouse, perhaps from a tape player somewhere. A silver-haired waiter carrying a heavy shining brass kettle poured the water in a graceful arc into the tiny cup before Chen. There was lore to this. In ancient China, teahouse waiters had been called Doctors of Tea, and the teahouse was a place of spiritual cultivation, as well as where people exchanged daily information.
    “I know you also like good tea,” Old Hunter said. “I do not know how to say this without sounding too condescending, Comrade Chief Inspector. There are not too many people I’m willing to drink tea with.”
    “Thank you,” he said.
    That’s true, he thought. The old man had always been proud in his way, but nice. And helpful to him.
    “I’ve something for you, Comrade Chief Inspector. Since I cannot get hold of Guangming, I may as well tell you.”
    “He’s so busy,” Chen said. “I have not seen him today, either.”
    “Working on that model worker case?”
    “Yes, but what’s the problem?”
    “It’s not really about Guangming, but about the case.
    Guangming has discussed it with me. I’m no outsider, you know. I have some information about it.”
    “Really, older ginger is spicier than young, Uncle Yu,” Chen said, resorting to a cliché. “You surely have the knack of digging out information.”
    “A woman called Jiao Nanhua told me that Guan was having an affair shortly before her death.”
    “Who is Jiao Nanhua?”
    “She’s a dumpling vendor on Guan’s street, on the corner, in front of the grocery shop. A night vendor with a miniature kitchen on her shoulder. She literally carries everything on a bamboo pole. On one end of the pole, a stove, and a pot of steaming water, and on the other, a shelf with dumpling skins, ground pork, vegetables, bowls, spoons, and chopsticks. She does her business when restaurants are closed, making dumplings then and there for the customer on the street. In three minutes, she’ll have a steaming bowl in your hands.”
    “That’s nice! I wish there was one like that in our neighborhood, too,” Chen said, aware of Old Hunter’s other nickname, “Suzhou Opera Singer,” a reference to a popular southern dialect opera known for its performers’ tactics of prolonging a story through endless digression. “So what did she say?”
    “I am just coming round to it.” Old Hunter was sipping at his tea with a leisured show of enjoyment. “A story must be told from the very beginning. Don’t get impatient, Comrade Chief Inspector. Now on several occasions, very late in the night, Jiao saw a car pulling up across the street. Just about ten feet away. A young woman would emerge, hurrying toward the dorm building at the entrance of Qinghe Lane. The dorm was at some distance from where Jiao stood, so she could not see clearly, and she did not pay much attention at first. It was not her business. Still, she grew more and more curious. Why didn’t the car pull up just in front of the lane? It’s really easy to do so. It was not pleasant for a young woman to walk the distance, alone, in the depth of the night. Jiao was also a bit upset, I believe, because the mysterious woman never came over to buy a bowl of dumplings from her. One night, she moved her mini-kitchen over to the other side of the street. She was licensed to do business on Hubei Street, so it did not matter where she positioned herself. And the car appeared again—”
    “Then who did she see?” Chen was growing impatient.
    “Guan Hongying. None other! The well-known national model worker.