The Mao Case

list included some people from the circle Qian moved in, before
     the outbreak of the Cultural Revolution, and from the middle school Tan graduated from. One of them seen with him shortly
     before his attempt to flee to Hong Kong, and another one was also from a black family background. I went one step further
     and checked into the Great Leap Forward Middle School.
I talked to a retired teacher who had taught Tan. According to him, one of Tan’s close friends was Xie —”
    “What do you know about Xie, Detective Yu?”
    “Well, Old Hunter followed Jiao to Xie Mansion. So he must be connected to the case, I guess.”
    In spite of his warning, Detective Yu had moved ahead on his own, which Chen should have anticipated. But the information
     just obtained by his capable partner could prove to be crucial. It put Xie into the perspective, as someone who, to say the
     least, had been withholding information.
    “The information about Xie is important. But remember, you and Old Hunter keep your hands off him. I’m on my way back to Shanghai.
     We have to discuss Xie before anyone makes a move. Now, have you found anything else out about Song’s death?”
    The door handle started rattling. Someone waiting outside was impatient.
    “Nothing. But I got the name of his replacement, Liu, and Liu’s cell number, Chief.”
    “That’s great.” Chen put the number into his phone. “I’ll call you when I’m back in Shanghai.”
    Chen decided to make a phone call to Liu, in spite of the raging door handle. A short call.
    “Liu, I’m Chen Cao.”
    “Oh, Chief Inspector Chen! Where have you been?”
    “I’m on the train back to Shanghai. Meet me in the train station around eight in the morning,” he said without answering Liu’s
     question, and then added, “I was sick.”
    Hanging up, he finally walked out of the toilet. A giant of a man with a large beard glared at him, hurried in, and slammed
     the door behind him.
    There was a pleasant breath of wind streaming in from the crevice of the door. But he had to squeeze back to his seat. A middle-aged,
     stout woman was sitting on the floor with her legs stretched out in front, and her small daughter, behind her in a similar
     position, their
backs supporting each other. Chen had to step carefully, high lifting his feet.
    Edging near to his seat, he was surprised to see an elderly woman seated there, with her face resting flat on the small table.
     She had to be in her seventies or eighties, dressed in black homespun, her silver hair shining. Possibly one of the passengers
     from Tianjin, who had taken the seat during his phone call.
    “She didn’t understand my words,” the young girl murmured apologetically, who might have tried to speak up for Chen, but to
     no avail.
    “Call the conductor over,” the man sitting opposite said. “That’s against the rules.”
    The conductor was supposed to drag the black-attired woman away, who mumbled something indistinct in response to him, sitting
     there without budging, like a rock.
    “It would be hard for her to stand throughout the night,” a passenger across the aisle said.
    “That can’t be helped,” the conductor said, beginning to push at the old woman. “Rules are rules. There’s a sleeping berth
     available. An upper berth. One can go there by paying the extra.”
    “A sleeping berth,” Chen said. It could have become available when someone got off in Tianjin. “I’ll take it.”
    “Two hundred yuan extra,” the conductor said. “Far more comfortable. That will solve the problem for a Big Buck like you.
     You don’t have too much luggage, do you?”
    “No, I don’t have much luggage, but you may take the old woman there. I’ll pay for it. I like the seat here.”
    The couple opposite eyed him in surprise. Chen took out two one-hundred-yuan bills. The old woman turned out not to be that
     hard of hearing. She rose without further invitation. The conductor, relieved to get the matter over with, led her away without
     further ado.
    “Not too many people want to learn from Comrade Lei Feng anymore,” the man across the aisle commented. “It’s not Mao’s time.”
    Chen took his seat against the window without response. With an
upper berth in a sleeping car, it would be more difficult for him to climb up and down in case of another phone call. His
     decision had nothing to do with a model of selflessness like Lei Feng during Mao’s time. Even though he was burdened with
     a Mao case.
    “You