Death of a Red Heroine

Chen’s criticism of model myths the previous day.
    He decided not to have a confrontation with Chen. A futile investigation would probably take two or three weeks. And if the case could be solved through their efforts, so much the better, of course.
    The air grew more and more stuffy in the bus. Looking out the window, he realized that he was sitting there like a sentimental fool, feeling sorry for himself. When the bus arrived at Xizhuang Road, Detective Yu was the first one out the door. He took a shortcut through the People’s Park. One of its gates opened out to Nanjing Road, Shanghai’s main thoroughfare, almost an extended shopping center in itself, stretching from the Bund to the Jian’an Temple area. The people were all in high spirits. Shoppers. Tourists. Peddlers. Messengers. A singing group was performing in front of the Helen Hotel, a young girl playing an ancient zither in the middle. A billboard in big Chinese characters exhorted Shanghai residents to promote good hygiene and preserve the environment by refraining from littering and spitting. Retired workers were waving red flags at corners, directing traffic and admonishing offenders. The sun was out, gleaming on the grated spittoons built into the sidewalks.
    Detective Yu thought that he was merging with all of them. And he was their protector, too. But that, he admitted, was wishful thinking.
    The First Department Store stood in the middle of Nanjing Road, facing the People’s Park across Xizhuang Road. As always, the store was crowded, not only with local people, but also with people from other cities. Yu had to squeeze through the throng at the entrance. The cosmetics section was on the first floor. He stood close to it, with his back against a column, watching for a while. A lot of people flocked around the counters. Large pictures of beautiful models greeted the young shoppers, their varied body language all the more alluring under the bright lights. The youthful saleswomen were demonstrating the use of the cosmetics. They, too, looked quite attractive in green-and-white-striped uniforms, the ceaseless play of the neon lights shimmering around them.
    He took the elevator up to General Manager Xiao Chi’s office on the third floor.
    General Manager Xiao greeted him in a spacious office, where the walls displayed an impressive assortment of awards and gold-framed pictures. One of them, Yu noticed, was Guan shaking hands with Comrade Deng Xiaoping at the Tenth Conference of the Party Central Committee.
    “Comrade Guan was an important cadre of our department store. A loyal Party member,” Xiao said. “A big loss to the Party, her tragic death. We will do whatever possible to assist your investigation.”
    “Thank you, Comrade General Manager,” Yu said. “You may start by telling me what you know about her work in the store.”
    “She was a manager of the cosmetics section. She had worked at the store for twelve years. She did her job conscientiously, attended every Party group meeting, and helped other people in whatever way she could. A role model in every aspect of her life. Last year, for instance, she donated three hundred Yuan to Jiangshu flood victims. In response to the government’s call, she also bought a large sum of government bonds every year.”
    “What about people’s opinion of her work?”
    “She was very efficient. A competent, methodical, and highly conscientious manager. People always had a high opinion of her work.”
    “A model worker indeed,” Yu said, knowing that most of General Manager Xiao’s information could have been obtained from her official file. “Well, I’ve got to ask you questions about something else.”
    “Yes, any question you want to ask.”
    “Was she popular—with the other staff?”
    “I think so, but you’ll have to ask them. I can’t think of any reason why she should not be.”
    “And as far as you are aware, Guan had no enemies in the store?”
    “Enemies? Now Comrade Detective Yu, that’s a strong word. She might have had some people who didn’t like her so much. So has everybody. You, too, perhaps. But you don’t go in fear of being murdered, right? No, I wouldn’t say she had enemies.”
    “What about the people in her private life?”
    “That I don’t know,” the general manager said, slowly tracing the line of his left eyebrow with his middle finger. “She was a young woman, she never talked to me about her personal life. What we talked about was work, work,