The Mao Case

Mao being dead such a long time.
    Beside him, the fax machine reeled out a piece of paper.

TWENTY-SEVEN
    WHEN CHEN ARRIVED AT Jiao’s apartment complex, it was almost five in the afternoon.
    He sat in the car backseat without even bothering to roll down the window to speak to the security guard. In his experience,
     they would browbeat an ordinary-looking person lingering in front of the gate, but at the sight of a brand new Mercedes, they
     would bow and open the gate wide.
    As he anticipated, an elderly security man let the car in without asking any questions.
    “Pull up at the end of the subdivision,” Chen said to the driver. It was a high-end subdivision, with luxurious cars parked
     here and there. Security might have taken him for one of the new residents. “You may leave if I don’t come back in fifteen
     minutes.”
    The driver, who must have been instructed by Gu to follow Chen’s orders unconditionally, nodded vigorously like a robot.
    He stepped out and started back to the building in which Jiao lived, strolling like a resident.

    Walking into the building with its door open, he took the elevator to the sixth floor, one floor above Jiao’s. Seeing no one
     along the corridor, he put on a hat and a pair of sunglasses he had purchased at the park. Then he headed to the stairs. He
     had no idea where Internal Security had installed their video camera, possibly it was hidden somewhere over the landing, but
     they wouldn’t easily recognize him in this disguise. Nor probably would they be watching the camera twenty-four hours a day.
     whatever happened tomorrow, he didn’t want to worry about it now.
    In front of Jiao’s door, he squatted down, pretending to tie his shoelace, his back to the staircase and his body covering
     the view of the doormat, under which he fumbled until he touched the key.
    In his college years, he’d read a story about Sherlock Holmes breaking into a criminal’s room with the help of a maid working
     there. If Holmes could justify the means by the end, so could Chief Inspector Chen.
    It was no longer just a matter of damage to Mao’s image — whatever the Mao material there might be. He was simply making one
     more effort, so he wouldn’t end up like Old Hunter, forever plagued by the thought of what he should have done.
    Inserting the key into the lock, he let himself into a large, luxurious apartment. Thanks to the observations made by Peiqin,
     the basic layout was already familiar to him.
    He didn’t start searching the place like a cop, though. There was no point in turning it upside down. Internal Security would
     already have done a thorough job — he had little doubt about who was behind the mysterious burglary here — and he wouldn’t have
     better luck. Nor did he have the time. So he tried to focus instead on the list of the “unusual” items Peiqin had faxed him.
    The studiolike appearance of the living room was no surprise. Jiao was a hard-working girl, and she was free to use the room
     whatever way she liked. The first object that caught his attention there was a long scroll of poetry on the wall. He recognized
     the poem as one enti
tled “An Imperial Concubine Waiting at Night” by the Tang-dynasty poet Li Bai.
    Waiting, she finds her silk stockings
    soaked with the dewdrops
    glistening on the marble palace steps.
    Finally, she is moving
    to let the crystal-woven curtain fall
    when she casts one more glance
    at the glamorous autumn moon.
    Chen was confused. Diao had told him about a scroll of classical Chinese poetry in Shang’s room. Not by Li Bai, but by somebody
     else, though alike in that they were on the persona of a neglected imperial concubine. What he had discussed with Diao wasn’t
     top secret, and as Shang’s granddaughter, Jiao might have heard or read similar versions. Why she should have chosen to hang
     the scroll here, however, was another mystery. The poem would have made sense for Shang, but not for a young girl like Jiao.
    Not far from the scroll, he saw several paintings, finished and unfinished, stacked against the wall. Among them, he picked
     out a sketch of the flying witch. Possibly a draft containing some details Xie hadn’t mentioned. The witch was flying on a
     short-shafted broom over the Forbidden City. There were also two lines written underneath the picture.
Oh to sweep away all
     the bugs, / I’m invincible!
Chen recognized them as by Mao. Was the painting meant to be a parody?
    Moving into the bedroom, he