When Red is Black

there?”
     
    “I’ve been thinking about that too,” Yu said. “I have checked with Shanghai Literature Publishing House. She did not earn much from her novel. I found a little money in her desk drawers, but also some correspondence with people abroad. I’m not sure whether she was working on another project. Perhaps another controversial book.”
     
    That would really make this a political case. Was she working on something the government—or someone in the government— might have tried to keep from coming out?
     
    “As for her contacts abroad, Internal Security must have a file. They can be quite effective in their own way.” Chen would not say more over the phone.
     
    “They surely can. They beat me to the crime scene and searched her room, but they haven’t told us what they were looking for.”
     
    “It could be just routine practice for Internal Security if a dissident has been killed. If they left those letters in the drawer, there probably was nothing in them to worry about.”
     
    “Another thing. I did not find a checkbook in her room,” Yu said. “If the murderer took it, he would have withdrawn the money from her account immediately. So far, there’s no report of an account in her name from which there have been withdrawals.”
     
    “The murderer might have been too scared to go to the bank, or Yin may have kept all her valuables in a safe deposit box.”
     
    “Safe deposit?” Yu said. “I’ve only read about them in one of the English mysteries you translated.”
     
    “Well, you can find everything in Shanghai now. Pay a certain amount, and the bank will keep valuables in a small safe for you.”
     
    “I’ll check into it. But first I will go to her college this afternoon; there is nothing unusual in her college file though.” Yu added, “I’ll let you know as soon as I find out anything. Thanks, Chief.”
     
    The rest of Chen’s afternoon was uneventful except for several more phone calls. The first was from Gu.
     
    “How is everything, Chief Inspector Chen?”
     
    “It’s going slowly, but steadily. I mean the progress of the translation, if that’s what you are asking about.”
     
    “Oh, I’m not worried about that. The project is in good hands, I know.” Gu said with a chuckle, “What about White Cloud?”
     
    “Quite helpful,” Chen said, “but she should concentrate on her studies. I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to come here every day.”
     
    “If you don’t need her, send her back. I just thought it might be a good idea for her to help you. As for her, she should consider herself lucky to have the opportunity to work with you. There’s a lot she can learn.”
     
    It was not such a bad idea to have a temporary assistant, Chen thought, in spite of his protestations. A young pretty one too. There was no point in his being too prudish about it. If the water is too clear, there will he no fish left in the pond.
     
    “By the way, what about having dinner with me at the Dynasty this weekend?” Gu asked. “You may have heard of our sauna room. Now we have a new dish—sauna shrimp. Live river shrimp, of course.”
     
    “Sauna shrimp! My food finger is already throbbing, but let’s wait until I’ve finished the translation.” For some minutes after Gu’s phone call, Chen tried but failed to figure out what kind of dish sauna shrimp might be.
     
    The next caller was a surprise. It was Peiqin, Yu’s wife, a wonderful hostess with excellent cooking skills, and equally good taste in classical Chinese literature. Chen had not spoken to her since the apartment had been denied to them. He felt he had let the couple down terribly.
     
    “Yu is working on the Yin case, as you know. He does not have much time for reading. So I am going to read Death of a Chinese Professor on his behalf. Not just the novel, but other material related to it as well, like interviews or reviews. It may take time to find these things in libraries. I’m wondering whether you know of a shortcut to getting that material.”
     
    “I have not read Death of a Chinese Professor.” He had heard of it, but, after reading a review, he had not bothered to obtain the book. Those stories of persecuted intellectuals were nothing new. Chen’s father, a Neo-Confucian scholar, had also died a miserable death during the Cultural Revolution. “I’m afraid I cannot help.”
     
    “Yin, too, belonged to the Chinese Writers’ Association, Shanghai Branch. Were you