The Mao Case

scheduled that day.
    “Don’t worry about that.” Aware of his curious glance at her apron, she added, “I’ve come to help a little.”
    “That is so considerate of you.”
    “I’m no cook, but he doesn’t know anything about the kitchen. Please be seated,” she said, producing a cut-glass bowl containing
     assorted dried fruit. “What would you like to drink?”
    “Coffee.”
    “Good. I’ve just made a fresh pot for myself.”
    She behaved as though she were the hostess there. After serving him a mug of coffee, she glided back to the sofa close to
     the French
window. There was a cup of coffee beside an antique typewriter on a mahogany corner table. She must have been sitting there,
     by herself.
    There was a small sketch against the wall. It could be hers, just finished. He didn’t start speaking at once. He sat quietly
     sipping at his coffee, seemingly at ease.
    Looking at him, she might be wondering at the purpose for his visit. The high slits of the mandarin dress revealed her shapely
     legs.
    “I’m concerned about Mr. Xie,” he said. “I know a couple of good attorneys. If necessary, I could contact them for him.”
    “Thank you, Chen. Song didn’t bring too much pressure to bear on Mr. Xie, not after he provided his alibi. Song asked me some
     questions too, but not too many. We’ve already talked to an attorney Mr. Xie has known for years — just to be on the safe side.”
    “Yes, it is better to be on the safe side,” he said. “By the way, did you know Yang well?”
    “No, not that well. She was a fashionable girl, flitting around like a butterfly. She seemed to know a lot of people.”
    “I see,” he said, taking “a butterfly” to be a negative metaphor. “She attempted to drag you to another party the other day,
     I remember.”
    “You’re very observant, Mr. Chen.”
    “I couldn’t help noticing you,” he said, smiling. “You’re so different, like an immaculate crane standing out among the chickens.”
    Now it sounded like flirting with an attractive girl — the “approach” Minister Huang had implied. He didn’t push, though, and
     took another sip of the coffee, which tasted strong and bitter. Nor did she respond, sitting there demurely, her eyes downcast.
    The short spell of silence was punctured by the ringing of a cell phone in her dainty purse.
    “Excuse me,” she said, jumping up and hastening out through the French window, leaving her slippers behind. The phone against
     her cheek, she stood framed against the window as if in an oil painting, merging into the verdant background. In her pink
     and white mandarin dress, she looked like a plum blossom, which vaguely reminded him of a poem. Slightly pensive in the morning
     light, she seemed to be nod
ding to that invisible speaker on the phone. She raised her right foot up backward against the window frame, scratching at
     her ankle, her red-painted toes shining like petals.
    Years earlier, Mao could easily have been fascinated by someone like her …
    Chen stood up, walked over to the antique typewriter on the corner table.
Underwood
. There was no paper in it. He struck two or three keys at random, all of which were rusted, stuck together. Worthless junk
     somewhere else, yet a valuable decoration here.
    “Sorry about the phone call, Mr. Chen,” she said, sliding back into the room. “By the way, you have a maid at home, don’t
     you?”
    “A maid?” He wondered why she was asking him about a maid. And it came out more like a statement than a question. Perhaps
     it was something taken for granted given his assumed identity. He responded vaguely. “You must have one too.”
    “I used to, but she quit abruptly, without explanation or notice. Now things are a mess here and I have to come over to help.
     I need someone at home.”
    He didn’t have a maid at home. There was no need for one. His mother had talked about the necessity of having someone to take
     care of things for him, but he knew what she was driving at. It meant anything but a maid.
    Was Jiao really in need of a maid? Only a year ago, she was working as a receptionist, a position that paid little more than
     a maid. She was young, living alone, probably not much house work in her apartment.
    But it presented an opportunity he couldn’t afford to miss. She hadn’t invited him to her home. Nor was that a possibility
     in the near future. Having a maid there, keeping her eyes open for him, could make the difference.
    “Yes, you