The Mao Case

definitely need one.”
    “Those people recommended by agencies are not dependable. It takes weeks to find a good one.”
    “Mine is quite reliable,” Chen said, improvising. “I trust her. She
has been working in her field for years. She must know some good people.”
    “That would be fantastic. Could you find one for me? I trust you.”
    “I’ll talk to her about it today.”
    She appeared genuinely relieved. Picking up her coffee cup, she shifted her position on the sofa, resting her feet on the
     sofa arm. It was a pose not becoming for one in a mandarin dress, but she wasn’t exactly a lady like Shang. Actually, she
     struck him as uniquely lively, sitting like that, with a blade of grass from the garden stuck on her sole, a tiny detail that
     actually made her real, close — not an insubstantial echo from the faraway legend of Mao and Shang.
    After what help he had offered, first with the real estate company and then with the Yang murder case, though indirectly,
     both Xie and Jiao had become quite friendly to him. The candlelight dinner with Jiao might have made a subtle difference too.
     There was something in the way she spoke to him. At least she had come to trust him, as she had just said. He wished that
     he could prove to be truly trustworthy.
    She got up again, aware of the wistful expression on his face. “I’ll take a look upstairs and tell him you’re here. You may
     have something to say to him.”
    “No, don’t worry about it. I have to leave now,” he said, rising too, “for a lunch appointment.”
    He was going to find a maid for her. That could be a move crucial to the investigation. The maid had to be someone he himself
     was able to trust, making it out of the question to approach the bureau for help.
    Hardly had he stepped out, however, when he realized that he didn’t have her phone number. So he turned back in haste.
    Jiao was speaking on her cell phone again. She said something hurriedly at the sight of him.
    “Oh, I forgot to ask for your phone number, Jiao.”
    “Sorry, I forgot about that too,” she said, covering the phone with her palm. “I have yours. I’ll call you in a few minutes,
     so you’ll have mine too.”
    Leaving again, closing the door after him, Chen decided to walk
for a while. In the late summer morning, he heard cicadas screeching, sporadically, in the green foliage of French poplars
     that lined along the street. The area had belonged to the French Concession in the early years of the century.
    He took out his phone and started dialing White Cloud, but he halted after pressing only the first three numbers. It wasn’t
     only too much of a risk for her. She was too young and too fashionable. No matter how she tried, she wouldn’t pass as a maid.
     After a minute’s hesitation, he dialed Old Hunter, explaining the situation.
    “So I need to find a maid for Jiao. A reliable one. Not really for her, but for us. Someone who can work inside while you
     patrol outside.”
    “I’ll talk to my old wife about it. She knows quite a lot of people,” Old Hunter said. “I’ll call you back as soon I have
     any news.”
    Putting the phone back into his pants pocket, Chen looked ahead to see a stinking tofu peddler bending over a portable stove
     and wok on a shaded side street. Chen realized he must have smelled it first, the familiar tang strong in a breeze. A typical
     Shanghai snack with a special pungent flavor, which he liked — an unlikely moment for temptation, which he tried to resist.
    Still, he found himself turning down the side street, at the end of which he could take a shortcut to the subway station.
     He had walked this route before. It was also quieter here, better for his thinking.
    If there was anything interesting to the visit this morning, it was the extraordinary concern Jiao had, once again, exhibited
     for Xie. It was perhaps more than what was usual between a student and his teacher, but he couldn’t identify the ulterior
     motive that Song — and Chen himself — had suspected.
    He passed by a wrought-iron gate across the entrance to a lane. In front of it squatted a man wearing a black Chinese-styled
     short-sleeved shirt, smoking, who looked up at the passing Chen from under a white canvas hat pulled low, shading most of
     his face. It was not an uncommon sight in the city, with so many people laid off in the recent years. The smell of the stinking
     tofu floated nearer, more pleasantly pungent…

    But then Chen became