The Mao Case

been about the death of Yang. Does he have any clues?”
    “No. Nothing so far. According to Officer Song, she couldn’t have gotten in by herself. Someone must have opened the door
     for her — that is, unless she had her own key.”
    “Her own key?” Jiao repeated, a frown creasing her brows. “No, I don’t think so. Yang came only for the class.”
    “At her estimated time of death, Mr. Xie was alone in the house, but he knew nothing about it.”
    “Oh my god! So is Xie a suspect?”
    “Well —” he said, struck by the concern on her face. “I’m no cop. It’s not for me to say.”
    “But do you know the policeman? He showed you something.”
    “No. I’ve read a lot of mysteries so Officer Song thought he could discuss the case with me a little, and he showed me a picture.
     He asked me a considerable number of questions too.”
    “Xie couldn’t have done anything like that.”
    “Does he have any enemies — or people who hate him?”
    “I don’t think he has any enemies — except some distant relatives of his, who also lay claim to the house. If he got into trouble,
     it might be their chance.”
    That made him think of another possibility — the real estate company with connections in both black and white ways — but he asked
     instead, “Do you think Yang could have sneaked into the garden?”
    “No, not without a key. Xie always keeps the keys with him — on his key ring.” She then added hesitantly, as if in afterthought,
     “About three months ago, Xie was sick. We helped him to the hospital, taking care of him there in turns. So Yang could have
     gotten hold of his key.”

    “That’s a possibility, but it won’t help much. Anybody could say that his key was stolen and duplicated.”
    “He didn’t do it, that I know. You have to help him. You are so resourceful, Mr. Chen.”
    “I don’t think he did it either, but cops think only of evidence or alibis —”
    “Alibis?”
    “An alibi proves,” he said, looking her in the eyes, “someone was incapable of committing the crime because he was somewhere
     else, or with somebody else, at the time of the murder.”
    “Xie’s incapable of telling a lie!” she exclaimed.
    “But you have to prove it.”
    “Oh — what’s the exact time the murder took place?”
    “Her time of death was estimated as roughly the period from ten o’clock to midnight, according to Officer Song.”
    “Alibi — let me think — now I remember, I do remember,” she said. “He was with me at the time. I was posing for him in this room.”
    “What! You were posing for him then? Then why didn’t he say so?”
    “I posed for him — yes — nude,” she said with an inexplicable glimmer in her eyes. “He couldn’t afford professional models, so
     I did it for free. He didn’t tell people about it because he was concerned about my reputation. That’s why.”
    That was a stunning revelation. Chen had heard stories about Xie’s students posing in the studio, but even if that might not
     be uncommon for a painting class, he had to wonder: was she posing for “romantic” reasons? Chen suspected that, what with
     the mansion, the collection, the painting, and the parties, not to mention what Xie had gone through during the Cultural Revolution,
     the older man had no money or energy left to do more than pose as a Baoyu or Don Juan, but one never knew.
    Still, Jiao’s statement made some sense. Even in the nineties, in Shanghai, a nude model was seen as someone shameless. Jiao
     wasn’t even professional, and stories about it could easily lead to speculation.
    Jiao was already running toward the staircase, raising her arms, calling out loud upstairs:

    “Xie, you should have told the cops that I was posing for you here last night.”
    It was a dramatic development. The officer stationed at the foot of the staircase looked flabbergasted. Chen wondered whether
     she was shouting for Xie’s benefit upstairs.
    But Xie could have told Song about his painting session with her; he didn’t have to say that she was posing nude. There was
     no need for him to be that overprotective — at such a cost to himself.
    If what she said wasn’t true, however, why did she take the risk of making up an alibi for him? That confirmed, if anything,
     his earlier impression that there might be something between Jiao and Xie.
    Chen was lighting a cigarette for himself when Song hurried back into the living room.
    “What, Chen?”
    “Jiao was with Xie