The Mao Case

once worked, as well as some other people close to Yang …”
    To be fair, Chen admitted to himself that Song, though pushing for the “tough measure,” had lost no time checking into other
     aspects of the murder.
    Chen listened, lighting another cigarette. If Xie was not the criminal, there was a murderer at large, responsible for Yang’s
     death and for planting her body in the garden. It might not necessarily be part of the Mao Case, but it was nonetheless a
     case for him.
    “People go to Xie Mansion for their own reasons,” Song went on. “Some may go for a sense of elite social status, but others,
     for something real or practical. For instance, in the case of Yang, who had something of her own business network, it was
     for connections. She was also in the business of making herself irresistible to Big Bucks, and possibly she had something
     more substantial in mind — the mansion itself. Xie is in his sixties. Divorced. No heir.”
    “So that’s a possible motive for murder —” Chen said, “at least for those young rivals who’re close to Xie.”
    “But in that scenario,” Song said, contradicting himself, “Yang’s body would have appeared anywhere but in Xie’s garden.”
    Besides, Yang hadn’t been close to Xie, as Chen had noticed. She wasn’t a likely threat to a rival.

    As for someone really close to Xie, it would have to be Jiao. Her consideration for Xie had gone further than Chen had expected,
     not to mention the alibi she had provided for him. Still, Chen couldn’t bring himself to conceive of Jiao as a materialistic
     girl with such a motive. It didn’t fit what he knew of her.
    But for once, Song and Chen seemed to be converging on the same point the possible relation between Xie and Jiao.
    After finishing the phone conversation, Chen lost himself in thought for several minutes before he found the chop suey badly
     burnt on the gas head. He moved to stand by the window, lighting a third cigarette that morning, staring out at the new high-rises
     that had been popping up around the city like bamboo shoots after a spring rain. His left eyelid started twitching. An ominous
     sign, according to the folk superstition Old Hunter believed in. Chen frowned, trying to find a strong tea that might suit
     his mood.
    Searching the drawer again, he saw only a tiny bottle of gin. Possibly a souvenir from an airplane trip. How it could show
     up this morning, like the gargoyle in the dream, he was confounded. The bottle was tiny, smaller than the “small firecracker”
     he had seen in Gang’s hand the day when he first got the assignment.
    A plan for the morning came to mind, abruptly.
    He was going to the eatery near his mother’s place. Gang had said that he would be sitting there, from morning until evening.
     It was a long shot, but Chen wanted to give it a try. A breakfast there wouldn’t be expensive at all. And he might drop in
     at his mother’s place for a short visit afterward.
    At the eatery entrance, Auntie Yao was selling warm rice balls stuffed with fresh fried dough stick to the customers that
     stood waiting in line, yawning or eye-rubbing. She appeared astonished at Chen’s arrival that morning, looking over her shoulder
     while wrapping the sticky balls in her hands. Chen saw Gang sitting at a table inside by himself.
    “Oh, Little Chen. You’re quite early today,” Gang said.

    “This morning I found this bottle of gin by chance, so I thought of you.”
    “When you hear the battle drums and gongs, you think of a general. You are something of a gentleman from ancient times.”
    Gang had only a cup of cold water on the wine-stained table. No rice ball or fried dough stick. No liquor, either. He was
     sitting there perhaps because it was like a home to him.
    “It’s too early for me,” Gang said, taking the tiny bottle. “Two bowls of spicy beef noodles, Auntie Yao,” Chen gave his order.
     “The foreign stuff may be too much for breakfast.” Gang studied the bottle of gin closely, turning it over in his hand.
    “You’re right.” Chen said loudly to Auntie Yao again, “And a bottle of Shaoxing rice wine too.”
    “You have not come here for noodles, I believe,” Gang said, a sharp light flashing in his eyes. “Let me know if there’s anything
     I can do for you.”
    “All right, let’s get to the heart of the matter, Gang. You were a Red Guard leader at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution.
     I have some questions about the campaign of