Death of a Red Heroine

Committee had actually helped the police solve crimes and capture criminals.
    “Sorry, I did not know that you’re a member of the committee,” Chen said. “I should have consulted you earlier.”
    “Well, I retired three years ago from Shanghai Number Four Steel Factory, but my old bones would have rusted if I did nothing all day. So I started working here. Besides, the committee pays a little, too.”
    While a few officials of the committee were full-time cadres, most members were retired workers on pensions, receiving a little extra pay in return for their community service. In view of the high inflation in the early nineties, an additional stipend was most welcome.
    “You’re doing something important for the neighborhood,” Chen said.
    “Well, in addition to the public telephone services here, I also keep an eye on the dorm building security,” Uncle Bao said, “and on the whole lane, too. People cannot be too careful these days.”
    “Yes, you’re right,” Chen said, noticing two phones ringing at the same time. “And it keeps you pretty busy.”
    There were four phones on a wooden shelf behind the small windows. One phone was labeled “FOR INCOMING CALLS ONLY.” According to Uncle Bao, the public phone service had been originally put in for the convenience of the dorm residents only, but now people in the lane could also use the phones for just ten cents.
    “When a call comes in, I write down the name and call-back number on a pad, tear off that page, and give the message to the intended recipient. If it happens to be a dorm resident, I just need to shout the name at the foot of the stairs with a loudspeaker.”
    “What about the people who don’t live in the building?”
    “I’ve got an assistant. She goes out to inform them, shouting with her loudspeaker under their windows.”
    “So they come here to return the call, right?”
    “Yes,” Uncle Bao said. “By the time everyone gets a phone at home, I will really be retired.”
    “Uncle Bao.” A young girl burst into the cubicle with a gray loudspeaker in her hand.
    “This is the assistant I’m talking about,” Uncle Bao said. “She’s responsible for delivering the messages to the lane residents.”
    “I see.”
    “Xiuxiu, this is Comrade Chief Inspector Chen,” Uncle Bao said. “Chief Inspector Chen and I need to talk about something. So take care of things here for a while, will you?”
    “Sure, no problem.”
    “It’s not much of a job for her,” Uncle Bao sighed, moving across the street to the table where Chen had been waiting. “But that’s all she can find nowadays.”
    The fried buns had not arrived yet, but the soup was already cold. Chen ordered another bowl for Uncle Bao.
    “So, any progress with your investigation?”
    “Not much. Your help may be really important to us.”
    “You’re welcome to whatever I know.”
    “Since you’re here every day, you probably know who has a lot of visitors. What about Comrade Guan?”
    “Some friends or colleagues might have visited, but not too many. On one or two occasions I noticed her with people. That’s about all I saw—during my three years here.”
    “What kind of people were they?”
    “I cannot really remember. Sorry.”
    “Did she make a lot of calls?”
    “Well, yes, more than other residents here.”
    “And received a lot?”
    “Yes, quite a lot, too, I would say,” Uncle Bao said reflectively. “But then it’s little wonder, for a national model worker, with her meetings and conferences.”
    “Anything unusual about those phone calls?”
    “No, nothing that I noticed. There’re so many calls, and I am always busy.”
    “Anything you happened to have overheard?”
    “It’s not proper and right, Comrade Chief Inspector,” Uncle Bao said, “for me to listen to what other people say.”
    “You’re right, Uncle Bao. Forgive me for this improper question. It’s just because the case is so important to us.”
    The arrival of the fried buns interrupted their discussion.
    “But—as for anything unusual—now that you mention it, there might be something, I think,” Uncle Bao said, nibbling at a tiny bun. “The working hours for a public phone service station are, generally, from seven A.M. to seven P.M. For the benefit of the residents here, several of whom work the night shift, we extend our service hours— from seven A.M. to eleven P.M. Guan made quite a number of calls, I remember, after nine or ten P.M. Especially during the