The Mao Case

different party.
    Here, the game of the palm-hidden hook / between the seats, the spring wine warm, / the candlelight red, and the game / of
     the napkin-cover surprise in groups.

    When the Tang-dynasty poet felt like a total outsider in spite of being around others enjoying a happy night, he composed
     those lines, lamenting about “lacking the soaring wings of a colorful phoenix” to fly to his love far away, and comparing
     himself to “a tumbleweed turning and turning around” for no purpose. At least he had written some wonderful lines out of the
     experience. What about Chen himself?
    The night went on, one dance after another, one cup after another, one melody after another …
    Chen did not dance much. He talked to some others, including the silver-haired man with the gold spectacles and the gold pocket
     watch — Mr. Zhou, from the illustrious Zhou family that had monopolized the importation of red wine in the thirties. Zhou proved
     to be friendly after learning of Chen’s connection to Mr. Shen.
    “Xie is an embroidered pillow stuffed with straw,” Zhou commented. “What a joke! But Mr. Shen is of the real old class, from
     a prominent banker family and himself a man of great learning too.”
    Chen was surprised at the harsh criticism of the host. He murmured something vague in response. There were Old Dicks and Old
     Dicks.
    Alternating between talking and dancing, Chen managed to stay to the end of the party. With the melody of “Auld Lang Syne”
     falling in the half-deserted room and Xie rubbing his sleepy eyes, Chen left along with Jiao and several other girls.
    They parted outside the mansion. He saw a luxurious car waiting for one of the girls. Jiao and another girl nicknamed Golden
     Oriole shared a taxi, for they lived not far from each other. Jiao since waved out at him under the starry night. Chen waited
     for a second taxi.
    Standing on the curb, alone, he thought he heard a piano from an open window somewhere along the quiet street. He decided
     to walk along Ruijin Road to the subway station. It hadn’t been too bad a start, he reflected, strolling along.
    There was no judging Jiao from just one meeting. He couldn’t rule out the possibility of her being a kept girl, but at least
     there was no car waiting for her at the end of the party. A Big Buck would have arranged for her to be picked up. Nor did
     she get any phone call during the
party, either. A clever, vivacious girl, she didn’t strike him as being involved in some “little concubine” arrangement.
    As for Xie, Chen did not see him as a straw-stuffed pillow. Rather, he seemed to be playing a role, one designed to create
     some meaning missing in his life. Perhaps having played the role for so many years, Xie found the role had taken him over.
    Chen caught himself humming a snippet from “When Can You Come Again?” one of the nostalgic pieces Xie had played at the party.
    The chief inspector, too, was playing a role, though for two weeks only, as a would-be romantic writer. Which Internal Security
     would probably already have reported, having witnessed him dancing with Jiao.

SIX
    OLD HUNTER WAS GREATLY intrigued by Chen’s invitation to a tea house on Hengshan Road.
    The chief inspector knew about his passion for tea but didn’t know much about tea itself, Old Hunter contemplated as he caught
     sight of the magnificent tea house Tang Flavor. Such a fashionable place would charge for service, for atmosphere, for so-called
     culture, but not for tea itself.
    A slender waitress in a florid mandarin dress with high slits hurried over in her high heels, leading him to an antique-looking
     private room where a mahogany table was already set up with an array of delicate tea cups, as small and exquisite as peeled
     lychee.
    Chen hadn’t arrived yet, so Old Hunter had a cup for himself. The tea tasted watery, disappointingly ordinary.
    As the old saying goes, one does not come to the Three-Treasure Temple without praying for something. So what was Chen going
     to talk to him about? A special case, presumably. If so, Chen shouldn’t discuss
it with him but with his son, Detective Yu, who had been Chen’s partner for years. The two were good friends.
    Old Hunter had also been in close contact with Chen, of whom he had a high opinion. A capable and honest cop, Chen was a rarity
     in an age of wide-spread corruption. Yu was really lucky to work with a boss and partner like him.
    Still, there was something elusive about