The Mao Case

windows with an almost fierce expression.
    More people came crowding in at Tianjin, rushing and squeezing with luggage on their shoulders and in their hands, jumping
     at any vacant seat they could find. According to railway regulations, only passengers boarding at the first stop could be
     guaranteed a seat.
    The train started moving again, the green banner waving on the platform in the growing dark.
    He leaned against the window, trying to focus on the new development in Shanghai, the wind ruffling his hair as the train
     gained speed.
Looking over the scant information available so far, Chen soon concluded it was pointless to speculate. But Song’s death was
     not from a random mugging on the street, of that much he was sure.
    A train conductor began pushing a dining cart through the aisle, selling snacks, instant noodles, teas, and beer. Squatting
     at the bottom rack of the cart were long-billed brass kettles. Chen chose fried beef and scallion instant noodles in a plastic
     bowl, into which the conductor adroitly poured out an arch of hot water. In addition, Chen had a tea-leaf egg soaked in it.
     It wouldn’t be pleasant to squeeze all the way through the train to the dining car and then back.
    He waited two or three minutes before taking out the egg, and he put a package of seasoning into the soup. The instant noodles
     tasted palpable, with the green specks afloat on the soup remotely redolent of chopped scallion. Just like in his college
     years, except that instant noodles then didn’t come in plastic containers.
    The couple opposite produced a stainless-steel container of fried steak and smoked fish, along with paper-wrapped chopsticks
     and spoons. They must have prepared well for the trip. The woman started peeling an orange and feeding her partner, segment
     by segment.
    Chen finished his egg, thinking he might as well have bought a couple of Dogs Won’t Leave buns. And he was surprised by the
     thought. He hadn’t lost his appetite even during such a trip. He fished for a cigarette in his pocket but did not take it
     out. The air was bad enough in the train.
    Beside him, the girl started reading her book without eating anything. She must have felt uncomfortable, sitting so long in
     the one position, so she kicked off her slippers and put a bare foot on the edge of the seat opposite. She highlighted paragraphs
     with a pen, her fingers tapping on the seat. Young, yet serious, her way with the book might just be like her way with the
     world. He tried to stretch his legs without disturbing his neighbors, but it was difficult. He nearly tipped over the noodle
     bowl onto the table. The woman opposite glared at him.
    What he had read about Mao’s special train came back to mind. The sleeping car was equipped with all the modern conveniences,
     the
special bed with the wooden-board mattress, and those pretty conductors and nurses who waited on Mao hand and foot …
    Chen was massaging his brows, half closing his eyes, in an effort to ward off an onslaught of headache, when his cell phone
     rang. It was Detective Yu again.
    “Hold on,” Chen said into the phone.
    He excused himself and squeezed out into the aisle, heading to the door. To his surprise, several people stood leaning against
     the door. Apparently, they were the seatless passengers. Behind them, he saw a toilet marked “unoccupied.” So he hurried in
     and locked the door behind him.
    “Now, tell me what you’ve found,” he said, opening the small window. It was stuffy and smelly in the toilet.
    “I went to the neighborhood committee. Hong wasn’t a neighborhood cop at the time, but he talked to Huang Dexing, the one
     before him. There was a group of people who came in from Beijing. The local government called Huang, telling him to cooperate
     in whatever way requested. It sounded like a highly confidential assignment. The team searched through both Tan’s and Qian’s
     places. And they wanted to talk to the people close to them.”
    “Did they find anything?”
    “No. Huang helped make up an interview list, but it wasn’t used. Tan died, and Qian almost died, lying delirious in a hospital
     bed for days. So the group gave up and went back to Beijing.”
    It was now like an oven in the train toilet, though the sun had long gone down.
    “Huang tried to remember the interview list, but with no success,” Yu went on. “It happened so many years ago, and there is
     no record of it anywhere. As far as he could remember, the