The Mao Case

silence those people, persecuting them to death
     and destroying any incriminating evidence — like old newspapers or old pictures — old stuff, no question about that. What Madam
     Mao did during the campaign was mentioned as part of her crimes at the trial of the Gang of Four.”
    “That’s a possibility.” Though not much of a possibility in Shang’s case, Chen reflected, raising the cup to his lips without
     tasting it. Shang was much younger, incapable of possessing information or material about Madam Mao’s years as an actress.
    “But I’m not sure about Shang. It’s not a name I remember about those days,” Gang went on, pouring himself another cup. “Perhaps
     I was too busy. But I can try to contact my then assistant about it. I haven’t seen him in years.”
    “It would be great if he could remember something.”
    “You treat me like a man of the state, and as such, I should naturally do something in return.”

    “I really appreciate it,” Chen said, adding his cell phone number to the business card. “Don’t call the office number. I’m
     not usually there.”
    “Oh, you’re a city representative too.” Gang examined the business card closely. “The other day when you condescended to sit
     with me, I knew you were different. You’re somebody, Little Chen. Now, you’re always welcome to drop in here, but you don’t
     have to drink with me. Otherwise Auntie Yao would kill me.”
    “What are you two talking about?” Auntie Yao said, moving over to the table on full alert.
    “About what a gold-hearted woman you are, having tolerated a good-for-nothing drunkard like me for so many years.”
    “Anything else?” she said to Chen without responding to Gang.
    “No, I’m leaving. Thank you,” he said rising. “Don’t worry, Auntie Yao. Gang told me not to drink with him. I’ll have nothing
     but noodles next time.”

FOURTEEN
    IT WAS A WARM and bright morning outside the eatery. Glancing at his watch, Chen changed his mind about the visit to his mother. Next time,
     he told himself. After the Mao Case, perhaps. He should have asked Auntie Yao to deliver some food to her. It was quite close,
     Chen thought belatedly, hurrying to the subway station at the intersection of He’nan and Nanjin Roads.
    Squeezing into the train, he failed to find a seat. He had a hard time even trying to stand firm without being elbowed around.
     During rush hour in the city, taxis crawled like ants, while the subway was at least guaranteed to move. He thought of Gang
     again, a disabled man who would never be able to get in a train like this one. In his college years, the ex-Red Guard must
     have studied the classics, the way he filled his conversation with quotes. People should be responsible for their own actions,
     but Gang had been so young and hot-blooded then, choosing to follow Mao. And a high price Gang had paid for it.
    It was getting hotter in the train. Chen wiped the sweat from his forehead and neck. The train increased its speed with a
     sudden lurch,
and he staggered, stepping on the foot of a young girl, who was seated reading a morning newspaper. He murmured his apology.
     She smiled and went on beating her sandaled feet on the train floor. Wearing a yellow summer dress like a butterfly, she reminded
     Chen of Yang.
    Tapping Gang could be a hopeless long shot, but the chief inspector couldn’t leave any stone unturned. He had a heavy heart,
     holding himself responsible for two cases, rather than one — the two possibly interrelated, though the connection was still
     beyond his grasp.
    Half an hour later, he arrived at Xie Mansion, his shirt sweat-soaked. He felt obliged to comb his damp hair with his fingers
     before pressing the bell.
    As a result of the murder case, the weekend party and class were cancelled. People didn’t believe Xie was involved, but no
     one wanted to be there when the cops were dropping in and out, asking questions and occasionally requesting statements.
    Jiao walked out to open the door for him. “Oh welcome, Chen. You are the only visitor today. Mr. Xie doesn’t feel well this
     morning. After the shock, you know. But he’ll come down shortly.”
    She was wearing a pink and white mandarin dress, sleeveless and almost backless. A fashionable variation of the elegant high-class
     dress, but with a white apron tied over it, her feet in pink satin slippers.
    “I am too early,” he said, wondering what she was doing there, with no class or party