Death of a Red Heroine

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 my self 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