When Red is Black

about me, Detective Yu. An old gourmet will do anything but let his stomach down. I’m too old to care for what’s called—oh, conspicuous consumption. The xiao pork I bring with me tastes the same in my mouth. Old Half Place is a good place. I hope I’ll see you here again.”
     
    “We will certainly come back,” Yu said. “When the investigation is over, you will have to tell me more about your gourmet tricks.”
     
    “Come to my restaurant some day, Mr. Ren,” Peiqin said. “Ours is not well-known—it is called Four Seas—but we have some quite good specialties, and they are inexpensive too.”
     
    “Four Seas? I think I’ve heard of it. I will be there. You may count on that. Thank you, Peiqin.”
     
    They rose from their tables, ready to leave.
     
    Near the entrance, Qinqin stopped to look over the counter into a window, behind which two white-clad, white-capped chefs were slicing the chunks of xiao pork deftly on huge stumps. There were rows of chickens, dripping oil, hung on the shining steel hooks overhead.
     
    “It’s like in Zhaungzi,” Qinqin said.
     
    “Really!” Yu said vaguely, without catching the reference. Perhaps Peiqin had.
     
    Then he saw Mr. Ren, who had walked out ahead of them, walking back toward the restaurant.
     
    “Did you forget something, Mr. Ren?”
     
    “No—that is, I forgot to tell you something.”
     
    “What’s that?”
     
    “Maybe it is nothing, but I’d better tell you about it, I think,” Mr. Ren said. “On the morning of February seventh, when I went out of the shikumen building, I saw somebody leaving in front of me.”
     
    “Who?”
     
    “Wan.”
     
    “Really! Do you remember the time?”
     
    “Well, as I have told you, it was around five forty-five.”
     
    “Are you sure it was Wan, and that it was that morning?”
     
    “I’m pretty sure. We may not be close as neighbors, but we have lived in the same building for many years.”
     
    “Did you talk to him?”
     
    “No, I did not. As a rule, I do not talk much to my neighbors— after so many years of being a black capitalist.”
     
    “Neither did my father. He was a black capitalist too, when he was alive,” Peiqin interjected. “He was in the import-export line of business.”
     
    “Yes, it’s understandable only to those who have lived through the years of humiliation. I used to be so black, politically black, and Wan used to be so politically red,” Ren said, his lips hardening into a bitter smile. “Of course it’s possible that Wan, too, came back that morning—earlier than usual—to commit the murder, but isn’t that too far-fetched?”
     
    “You are absolutely right, Mr. Ren. That is a very important point. In his statement, Wan did not mention going out earlier that morning.”
     
    “Now there’s another thing. I’ve heard people talking about a train ticket found in Wan’s room as the piece of evidence that pinned the crime on him, but I happen to know something else about it.”
     
    “What is it, Mr. Ren?”
     
    “Another coincidence,” Mr. Ren said. “As a frugal gourmet, I eat around, not just at Old Half Place. Another of my favorite restaurants is close to the Shanghai railway station. Western Hill is known for its mini soup buns. The soup inside the bun is so juicy and delicious.
     
    “One morning half a year ago, I happened to see Wan standing in a long line in front of the railway ticket window. I did not pay too much attention then. He might have been buying a train ticket for a relative, if not for himself.
     
    “Then one morning several weeks ago, I saw Wan standing in a long line there again.”
     
    “That’s strange,” Yu said. “Wan seems to have lived by himself. I have not heard anything about his making frequent trips out of Shanghai.”
     
    “It’s none of my business. But that morning, Western Hill was so packed with customers that I had to wait for more than an hour and half before a bamboo steamer of mini soup buns appeared on my table. On my way out, I caught sight of Wan again. This time, he was not standing in line; he was selling tickets to some provincials in the railway station square. So Wan earned a little money by selling tickets to those unable to stand for hours in line.”
     
    “That’s the very information I need. Instead of going out for tai chi practice, Wan goes out early every morning to buy and sell train tickets. Now I see.”
     
    “I have never talked to anybody about this. Wan