Red Mandarin Dress

every way,” Lu said exultantly. “He’ll let me take care of your room. So I’ll stay here and prepare an unbelievable feast for you.”
    “Thank you, Lu,” he said, turning to White Cloud, handing her an envelope. “Thank you so much, White Cloud. Change into a different outfit for now, just like one of the waitresses here. You’ll serve in the private room. Of course, you don’t have to stay there all the time. Bring in whatever Mr. Lu prepares for the evening. At my signal, come in dressed like the woman in the picture.”
    “The red mandarin dress,” she said, opening the envelope and examining the pictures inside. “Barefoot, the bosom buttons unbuttoned, and the side slits torn?”
    “Yes, exactly like that. Go ahead and tear the side slits.” Chen added, “I’ll buy you another one.”
    “Old Heaven,” Lu exclaimed, stealing a glance at the picture in her hand.
    Chen then left and moved on to the hotel, which was only a two-or three-minute walk away.
    Standing under the hotel arch, he didn’t wait long. In less than five minutes, he saw a white Camry rolling into the driveway. Another car, possibly Yu’s, pulled up behind it, at a distance.
    Chen strode out and extended his hand to Jia, who was getting out of the car. He was a tall man in his late thirties, wearing a black suit, his face pale and troubled under the dancing neon light.
    “Thank you for coming on such short notice, Mr. Jia. My secretary has reserved a room for us at the Old Mansion. It’s very close. You have heard of the restaurant, haven’t you?”
    “The Old Mansion! You’ve spent some time choosing this restaurant for tonight, Chief Inspector Chen.”
    It wasn’t a direct answer, but it bespoke his awareness that Chen had made a thorough study of his background.
    At the gate of the restaurant, the hostess bowed to them gracefully, like a flower blossoming out of the old painting behind her. “Welcome. You’ll be at home tonight.”
    The arrival of several beer girls in the lobby, however, served to highlight the changed times.
    “At home,” Jia said sarcastically, observing the sashlike streamers flung slantingly across their shoulders. “Tiger Girl, Qingdao Girl, Baiwei Girl, Sakura Girl.”
    The hostess led them across the hall, into an elegant room—possibly a sunroom in its original design, now converted into a private room for special customers. It overlooked the back garden, which appeared enticingly well kept, even in the depths of winter. The table was set for two, the silverware shining under the crystal chandelier like a lost dream. There was also a dainty silver bell placed on the table. Eight miniature dishes were already set on the lazy susan.
    White Cloud came in and poured each of them a cup of tea, opening a menu for them. She wore a sleeveless, backless black dress.
    “For our most extraordinary story, Mr. Jia,” Chen said, raising the cup.
    “A story,” Jia said. “Do you really believe it to be more meaningful than your police work?”
    “Meaning exists in your thinking. In my college years, as you may not know, poetry was the only thing meaningful for me.”
    “Well, I’m an attorney, one-track-minded.”
    “An attorney serves as a good example of this point. What is so meaningful to you in a case may be totally meaningless to others. In our age, meaning depends on an individual perspective.”
    “It sounds like a lecture, Chief Inspector Chen.”
    “For me, the story has reached a critical point, a matter of life and death,” Chen said. “So I think that the view of the garden may provide a peaceful background.”
    “You seem to have a reason for everything.” Jia’s expression didn’t show any change as he cast a sidelong glance out to the garden. “It’s an honor to be invited by you, whether as a writer or a chief inspector.”
    “I’m not that hungry yet,” Chen said. “Perhaps we might talk a little first.”
    “Fine with me.”
    “Great.” Chen said, turning to White Cloud, “we’ll go with the house specials for two. You may leave now.”
    “If you need me, ring the silver bell,” she said. “I’ll be standing outside.”
    “Now for the story,” Chen said, looking at her retreating figure, her black hair streaming over her bare back. “Let me say this first: it is not finished. For several characters in the story, I haven’t decided their names yet. In the mysteries I have translated, an unidentified person is conveniently called John Doe. For